Explanation/Don't Call it a Comeback

It's been a while since I've written anything here, but I've been busy, and I've been doing a lot of thinking, as I will explain. I've had some life changes (scientology, sobriety, celibacy [fuck, I love alliteration, it's my one of my favorites]) and then I woke up and realized that nope, it's still the same ol' me.

To make long, boring stories less long and less boring, I'll just sum things up quickly: I believe that me writing this blog has hurt my career in porn and as a performer. I have mentioned names in this blog and given my opinions about things that other people have taken out of context and used against me. I read an article about a woman who worked as a beauty editor at a magazine and had a blog (anonymous, mind you, not like this one where my name [name?] is all over it) where she wrote some things about the beauty/fashion/magazine industry, and when people found out who she was, guess what happened? That's right folks, she was fired! Fortunately, for me, as a freelance porn model, I can't really get fired from anything, especially since my fifteen minutes is over and there are no upcoming offers, but I believe that if it wasn't over before now, it is now. I have, on this blog, never set out to hurt anyone or defame any names, let alone my own, and I feel I have done that, and foolishly so. I am not proud of that. In short, I've underestimated what written words can do, much like I've underestimated what starring in gay fuck films can do. I think I have inadvertently burned some bridges. I don't know if this is a good thing or a bad thing, and I've tried not to dwell on it as it probably won't be very significant one way or the other.

Now that I have that off my chest, I would like to set the record straight about Raging Stallion. For any of you that have taken any of my posts as depicting Raging Stallion in a less than rosey light, let me tell you that of all the companies I've worked for, I can say that I've enjoyed working with them the most, and I mean that. I feel that they have taken a chance with me that no other studio has been willing to do. I've always had a great time making movies with them, and I think they've showcased me the best. My favorite movies are all Raging Stallion. I have a personal aesthetic that is very strong and very important to me. I've always said that my top three attributes (in no specific order) are my eyes, my ass and my hair. That's all. I wouldn't have liked it if I had to put fake colored contacts or if they made me seat on a wicker chair naked before a scene either.

I think I have cleared all that up now. Now, I have to say that we all need to take this a little less seriously. I write everything tongue in cheek, with a SENSE OF HUMOR. It's meant to be a joke. Cory Koons is a personality, not a person. Cory likes to have a piss take. He likes to push people's buttons. He's obnoxious, a little annoying at times. He's a total sex pig pervert. He likes to have a good time. He's not a drug addict my any means. He's not insensitive or mean or bitchy or racist or stupid at all. He's pretty fucking smart, he just has a strong opinion about things that generally differ from other peoples'. His point of departure isn't Jenna Jameson or Jeff Stryker, but Jeff Koons or fuck I don't know, ask him.

So, nice to be back, assholes! Hope ya missed me! Plus, my life has been so crazy that I have to talk about it to someone, somewhere, and it's not like I have any friends I haven't alienated already! ! !

I had such an eventful week, I don't know where to start

So much happened last week that I honestly don't even know where to start. I feel like last week really announced the return of Cory Koons, even though I'm thinking about renaming him Corky Goons. Last week was one of those hyperactive, busy as hell, about to fall over and die, totally lose it, coming down with a cold, wearing five hats, working during the day and in nightclubs, etc. Crazy it was. I started to snap. And I'm sure that you can all imagine that me snapping is no small thing nor is it very pleasant for those involved. So upsetting. OK, I lie, it wasn't upsetting. It felt great, every single person that gave me a reason, forced me to lose my temper, IT FELT AMAZING. I really wish I did it more often. Just thinking about it now makes me hope that the dry cleaning fucked up my Alexander Mcqueen sweater. I'm a bad person. I'm a bad person. I'm a bad person. I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you. . .

I Love LA

I'm in LA, and I have to say, I kinda like it more than NYC, although that's no big surprise to me. It's been really nice. For instance, yesterday: I styled a shoot yesterday at the Roosevelt Hotel with a photographer friend I had been working with over the weekend.

I knew it was going to be good when we met up with the publicist, who, after shaking my hand, said "Nice beads. Could you wear any more?" to which I replied, "I've got three more strands in my bag just in case I start to feel naked," to which he replied, "I've got some too--these are all Tibetan--I made it myself but then I got it blessed by my teachers from Tibet and wow I just can't wait for them to come out here because these men are so spiritual and righteous and I'm in soo good with them and pretty soon they're going to introduce me to their teachers and. . ." He went on to talk about his teachers and his teacher's teachers for twenty minutes and honestly I couldn't have given a shit less, and neither could my friend, but god, what an LA moment. Did I mention that we went to the Coffee Bean right before that?

After the shoot, we lounged by the pool for a bit and "Candy" struck up conversation with us. She was a rich bitch for sure, and kept on asking us if we were cameramen, for some reason. Even after Sam explained he was a photographer, she didn't really seem to get it. Her daughter was going to a casting, her 10-year-old daughter, whom EVERYONE says should be a model or an actress, but she just doesn't know yet, and describing her outfit, which was a red polka-dot Jil Sander dress with red polka-dot Marni pumps with bows. She couldn't believe that I knew what Marni was, and after she asked me if I was a cameraman and I told her I was a stylist, she seemed to understand a bit more. When she asked me who my favorite designer was I named off about ten amazing Belgian and Japanese designers that she's never heard of. She then got on her cell phone and walked around the pool in her Chanel bikini and coverup and sunglasses and her Costume National ("Do you like my shoes? They're Costume National! NO ONE knows who they are but I think they're FABULOUS!") cork platform spike heel slides. BY THE POOL, PEOPLE.

This all made me realize that the world really is full of douchebags, and I'm just as big a douchebag as the next. Realistically though, I'm a bigger douchebag than most, a douchebag amongst douchebags, so have you, because most douchebags don't know that they're douchebags, yet I can recognize the douchebaginess in someone a block away, yet I still play the game. I hope it's good for something other than material, because I think I've made a certain lapse in judgment in my self-worth and the contribution I could be making to society.

But sheeit, I put cute outfits together, I'm hot, and my asshole just lights up in front of the camera with a big dick in it, and maybe that's more than most people, right?

Guess I'll Just Eat Worms

Here and I think it was about me complaining a lot, but I'm not sure any more. Right now, all I can think of is that I'm kinda pissed that my friend Angela postponed brunch for fifteen minutes which means that even though I was running on time, now I'll write this, lay around, and then be an extra fifteen minutes late. It also forced me to write something here. Hmmmm. . .Should I get stoned right now?

OH, something really funny happened. I should totally put my foot in my mouth, but why should I start now? Remember when I was talking about that porn star cruise and how it kinda sucked? Well, now you can read all about it. I feel like such an asshole!
Kindly read the comments. Ouch. Hope I didn't burn any bridges. Damn. Pretty soon it's gonna be me, and me. Way of the Samurai.

Have I mentioned I'm broke? There I go complaining again. . .

Did I tell y'all lately that breakups are really hard? Oh wait, that COULD be constituted as complaining.

OK, well, I'm gonna have brunch now. Have I mentioned that I'm getting mildly obsessed with straight porn lately? More on that later.

OK, This May Be Bitchy

but if y'all want to e-mail me about a blog related topic, please just post a comment rather than e-mailing it to me. This goes to all my friends too. What ends up happening is me writing the same shit over and over again.

And on another, less bitchy (ha ha ha) tangent: breakups suck. I'm heartbroken, and it sucks. If only I could hate him like I have all the others. . .

You Ever Wake Up Like You Just Did Lots of Smack?

And I wouldn't even know what that's like, and that's how I feel. I can relate it closest to when I take too much Vicodin, Norco, Tylenol w/ Codeine, etc. and wake up the next day feeling like, "Wait a minute, what goes up must come down and I guess that's why I feel like sick shit." That's how I feel right now.

I slept on my couch last night to let my girlfriend and her boyfriend fuck in my bed. The sheets had been clean until the night before (I had changed my fuck sheets so that she wouldn't have to sleep on them, but then she hasn't been staying at my place, and I got REALLY lucky the other night) but were filthy. I was going to change them again but then realized she's probably a shooter and pussy excretions apparently are worse for sheets than cum.

I think my problem is that I like my sheets chocolate brown, slate grey, dark burgundy. . .it's like towels--I love white towels and white sheets, don't get me wrong, but I just can't do for myself. Can't do it. Can't. And then every bit of cum just glows on them and threatens to bleach them out. And it's not like I sleep on anything less than 350 thread count. I'm getting used to combed Egyptian cotton but really I still prefer pima cotton, I don't give a shit what anyone else says.

Then, you throw in lube stains (I can't help it if I like silicone-based more and that's the shit that stains) and the odd poppers spill here and there, and my sheets are looking real ghetto. One last word, Calvin Klein Home bedding--total ripoff.

Who wants to go to Bed, Bath, and Beyond with me today?

Honestly

Right now I really want to write something, but I know that I'm getting picked up at should be here by now and I'm just writing this because I didn't have time earlier due to a houseguest so I'm trying really hard to rack my brain trying to write something right now so I thought I would just write about that but these tricks can only be undertaken every so often so I should really be saving them for when my life actually is boring and there's nothing to write about versus being too lazy to edit down what has happened since I've last been typing this shit.

I will say that the haircut I got in San Francisco sucked and I'm going to have to get it fixed by my hairdresser here in New York (I just blew it out and it looks kinda funny, and not in a good way. I got the haircut three weeks ago and by this time Richard's haircuts look better than they did when he first cut it, instead I once again look like an old lady with a set hairdo).

And on another note, I've had pretty amazing sex two days in a row, and it's real nice. I'm actually in a better mood, and my skin looks better (or maybe it was my $50 tanning session and no it wasn't spray on OMG I totally forgot! ! !)

SO, I FINALLY JUST REMEMBERED THIS FUNNY THING THAT HAPPENED TO ME(and my friends aren't here to pick me up yet so I must write on. . .the powers of writing about nothing!)--I went to this tanning place next to my gym the other day. I already have a tanning package over at another place, with a low-pressure stand-up bed, but in SF I had a high-pressure tan session and it was amazing. I also had one in Bakersfield, CA after I got back from Hawaii and I swear to god it was the darkest I've ever been. Anyways, so they have this bed that's $59 a session, but the package was buy five get two free get three free today as a thanks for joining and you get ten percent off for working out at crunch so after deliberation I decided to go for it (and also I had a date with a very hot very sexy mixed black/native american/irish man last night and didn't want people to look at us funny ha ha ha oh I know that's terrible) and I invested the most money I've ever spent in my life all in one big tanning shebang so as I'm signing my C/C slip I see a bottle of tanning shit that has a name on it, "Corey Feldman." I chuckle, think it's a joke, and ask the lady if it's for real. She kinda tells me to shush and says "He's right there behind you."

WHOA! ! ! I don't know about you, but that's a whole lotta dreamboat Cory/Corey action goin' on over there at California Tans. Fuck man, my dirty little tanning secret is out, and Corey Feldman is plastered all over it.

Going Postal

I DJd last night, got home around 3, was half-heartedly looking for action, but I knew where my heart lay: the new Harry Potter. You see, I get mildly obsessed with books when I'm reading them. It never takes me weeks to finish them. Instead, I go nuts, think I'm one of the characters (Harry and I do have a lot in common) and prioritize the book above and beyond everything else. So, at 3am last night, I quickly finished up the last 150 or so pages. I woke up with a hangover too, which was a little annoying, but more on that later.

There was a doorbell ring around 1130. In my slumber, knowing I was the only one home and that it could be my girlfriend that is staying with me right now, I threw some shorts on and went to the door. Dogs all barking crazy and shit. Not too happy about it. No one is there. I don't want to say anything too racially offensive, but I think we're all familiar with the term used to describe, um, ringing someone's doorbell without having any intention of being in front of the door when they open it. I came outside, called out "Hello" a couple times, was pissed, went back to bed.

I'd say, oh, enough time later for me to close my eyes and start to drift off to sleep, the doorbell rings again. By now, I'm pissed. I grab the same shorts, buckle the belt (remember this for later), and go to the door. It's the mail lady. With a parcel. For the next house over. I start muttering something bitchy about how when you ring someone's doorbell you wait for them to answer and probably said some real cunty things. I'm not really a morning person, and fuck, I was up late reading Harry Potter. Doesn't she know that. She walks away, I slam the door, and then I hear her exclaim "ASSHOLE" from the window. I get offended by this, which is funny because I was being an asshole, come back outside, and start going off, like did you call me an asshole did I hear you right I'm sorry last time I checked an asshole was someone who [knocks and runs] and then she turns to me, looks down, and says, "Your dick is hanging out of your pants. Why don't you put it back in? That's nasty. ASSHOLE!"

Hiatus

As some of you may have noticed, I haven't been writing here very often lately. My trip to SF took a bit of a toll on me and I have wanted to shun the sex industry ever since. However, since I'm actually starting to get somewhere with it and I've come this far, I guess I should stick with it.

Basically, the movie we shot was starring me as the only bottom in the movie, but getting back to the plot, the only bottom in the ID Lube Warehouse. I get plowed by everyone, basically. It was pretty nasty. Kinda hardcore. Mildly humiliating. It was supposed to emulate straight gang bang movies where the guys just use the girl and you can kinda tell the girl is freaking out and not enjoying herself, really being used. Not stuff to write home to mother about. I choked on lots of cock, almost hurled probably 20 times, and that was only the first day. Whatever gag reflex I had has been knocked out of the way, literally. It was kinda hot, but after four days of it, it was starting to wear. I had bruises on my knees, my shins, my ankles, a slap mark on my ass, etc.

My self-esteem was shot down quite a bit during the whole movie. Before I threw a diva temper tantrum when I found out I was being forced to cut my hair (I understand it was better for the character to look more conventional now) for the movie but after I found out I had to share a room, the director of the movie didn't even recognize me, and throughout the shoot, he said things to the other stars like "This is gonna get you nominated for a Grabby! Amazing!" meanwhile I guess I was just chopped liver. I also learned that people were fighting for me to be on the cover, as apparently the movie is already a fetish-type movie and my presence on the cover would do nothing but keep it sitting on the shelves. A blow to the ol' ego, in other words.

After doing this shit for over a year, constantly getting good press and rave reviews, deciding to work with more open-minded less commercial studios, I am still too "edgy" or "ethnic" or whatever they want to call it now.

I was starting to feel emotionally damaged. Me? Damaged? Issues with Sex? Weird. It's now been, oh geez, over two weeks, and I've had pretty regular sex, and the only time I wasn't paid for it in some way, I couldn't get hard and couldn't go on with it. Weird, right? I think I'm getting better though.

I have my FUCK YOU attitude back (and more on that in about five minutes). I forgot that I'm better than this shit, and that I shouldn't be upset with the rules when I've always known they were shit and I've never wanted to play by them. So I'm not. Nothing's changed, I haven't changed, and I'm not changing anything, IT'S JUST PORN.

So Much Has Happened

I don't really know what to write.

I filmed a movie in SF. More on that later.

I'm trying not to talk shit. Plus, I'm over it now. I need a break. This is the first time I've done a movie and felt emotionally exhausted afterwards.

As a result, the last thing I want to do is pour more of my damaged self onto the blog, even though I am doing it anyways. Fun times.

Lates.

 

I Can't Tell if this is Messy or Not

So I was on the Bad Boys on the Hudson cruise yesterday, one of Will Clark's fundraisers. I was glad that it was a fundraiser for something good, I think, some sort of anti-gay violence thing ha ha ha ha, which I think is a more noteworthy cause then the last fundraiser I helped Will Clark out with which I think was to give broke showtune queens dying of aids one last chance to see their Broadway favorites or something like that. To cope with all my, ahem, fame, and the stimulating people around me, I had to get extremely drunk. This led to me crumping (I've been very inspired by David LaChappelle's Rize lately) and circuit dancing, to the horror of my friend Adam.

This led to a bar crawl involving the Maritime, the Park, and A.P.T. After all this, I decided it would be a good idea to go to the West Side Club to get fucked, so I did, but when I got there I realized I was too drunk, sleepy, and hungry to be any good. I decided that meth would be a good idea despite not liking it and not doing it in over three oh wait I mean a year. I found some coke, found some cock (and it was large and attached to a black man [see previous blog please]), he fucked me for an hour, I was starting to get tired again, he came, left, I was about to go back around the dump and shower and find more cock, but then next thing I know I look at my phone, it's 9am, and I've been asleep this whole time.

It was all just a dream!

I Just Realized I'm Getting Less Witty

Strange Waves

So as some of you know, last week was my week of the old-fashioned two dicks in one hole trick. This had nothing to do with me. Nothing. I didn't look for it, or ask for it. OK, I asked for it once, but, fuck, what were they waiting for?

This week, it's been my week of color. I've literally had sex with more hot, sexy, hung black men in the past week than I think I ever have. . .I don't understand why, or how, and it once again has nothing to do with me, but this is just how it's worked out.

I'm very excited to see what happens next week.

I Hate to Sound Like a Broken Record

But yeah, good things happen in threes. I got DPd againg tonight. That's all.

Lost Contact

I hate to repeat myself here or in the bedroom too much, but last night this guy was fucking me and decided it would be a good idea to fuck me with some toys. I thought it was a good idea too. Then he decided it would be a good idea to try to fuck me with his dick and a dildo. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I got DPd again last night. So, after a bit of this, while I'm in the doggy position (first time ever!), is that what you call it? Wait, I mean doggystyle, thank you Snoop, I came. Couldn't help myself, but then again, who could, right? Anyways, so my head was kinda pushed down in the mattress and somehow my contact lens folded up and into the back of my eyeball, which took me about five post-coital minutes to find, while my poor friend was just laying on the bed wondering where he could stick his dick now. That's all.

These are the hazards of my life, people. I'm not talking about the hivs or shit. I'll probably get shit for this but I do always protect myself and I'm not a speed freak so chances are unless I get raped at a bareback breeding party I'm not too worried about that, but contact lenses going awry, cum in the hair, pinched nerves in the back due to excessive ankles to Jesus, bug bites on the ass or dick head, accidentally snapping up extra ball skin in a cock ring/ball stretcher, the old sand up the butthole (you think a pebble in your shoe feels like a mountain? At least it's exfoliating, but be forewarned, DO NOT TAKE DILDOS TO THE BEACH), slipping on a puddle of silicone-based lubricant (or rather your entire bedroom floor), slipping on a puddle of Crisco in the shower, these are my fears. Oh, and let's not forget losing total bowel control. Again.

Let this be a lesson to you all, even though there really is no lesson here that I can see. I learned a lot, though, and you should too.

Today Was a Good Day

That fine line between freaking out and being a freak,

I know I complain a lot about my miserable life, but I have to say:

I'm having a good time

I can make the assssss drop.

Pinching myself.

OCD/Insomnia

So it's that time again for rainbows. I like rainbows.

The OCD is getting out of hand, even though I don't really feel OCD right now, but I could, I just don't know it. I'll let you know.

I'm actually not feeling much of anything right now. Which is strange. I've been doing that whole "I'm gonna cry no wait laugh hysterically life is so great oh fuck why god why why why meeeeee?" type of thing right now. If I apply my fashion sense to it though, it must mean I'm doing great as it's that fine line between love and hate, tasteless and avant-garde, ecstatic and miserable. . .I need medication.

Double Penetration. . .it is Fun! ! !

And it's just as fun, if not more, for the tops! I had no idea!

A couple more words early in the morning

Dear Diary,

Thank God you called me this morning or I would have been late to work! Of all the questions I have in the world, I really want to know why some gay men get lip implants. It's really not sexy. But, if you're paying me for sex, you don't have to be sexy, so all of you guys out there with lip implants don't be afraid to call me. . .

And diary, I feel like you've been leaking out secrets. It's like I think you're the only person that reads these things, and then I get strange e-mails from strange men relating to the topics I discuss with you. You know, these things I write aren't for everyone's eyes. I'm mad at you!

Love,

Cory

Sex on the Beach

Sand. All I have to say. Plus, I have so much hair now that it literally took fifteen minutes to get it all out. Not that I tried to wash it. That's gross. I've built up a month of oil and product residue, and I don't want to start all over again. With that said, sex on the beach is better if you're not shivering.

OH, and I think I hate all homosexuals, but I'm not sure.

OH, and I also have been thinking about writing less about myself as a metaphor for life, and just writing about metaphors for life.

Blogs are so self-fucking it makes me sick. This is no exception.

Important Realisation

So as I was trying to rally up an army of guys to fuck me senseless in the bathroom at Boysroom last night, I realized something: I am a slut. And a whore. I feel like this whole blog I've been going on and on about how I'm not a slut or a whore any more, and that's just plain wrong. I am. I should be proud of it. And that's not going to change. And if that means that I can't work it out with a certain ex-boyfriend, then so be it.

As I was getting fucked in the bathroom and couldn't enjoy it as I was working, I also realized that I am a hardworking slut with morals.

As I was dragging another guy back to my place at the end of the night, I realized that I'm a good slut.

As I was taking it all the way down and his eyes were bugging out because no one's ever done that before so comfortably, I realized I'm an amazing slut.

See y'all at Fire Island this weekend!

Summer Rain Storms

I can't honestly thing of anything sexual to write right now, I actually want to talk about the weather. Wait a minute. . .

So some of you may know I'm DJing and hosting an underwear party in the East Village. It's supposedly sleazy and rock n roll, but nothing crazy seems to ever happen. There are three boys that work it and they always suck dick in the bathroom, but other than that and some line blowing, nothing that interesting happens. I've decided tonight to get fucked in the bathroom by as many guys as possible, while DJing, or while I'm DJing period, and document the photos. Still, that's not crazy I guess, coming from a Mormon it would, but me not really, but I'm trying. Any ideas people? How can I scare faggots into action?

I Can't Believe it's Happening to Me

I've heard people talk about this but have never experienced it:

So I finally got a hook off the internet last night that lives two blocks away from me. SCORE! I run over there, he bends me over, eats my ass for a bit and tries to shove his dick in me. AS IF! ! ! I don't bareback kids, even though I wish I did, let me tell ya. So yeah, he's fucking me, pulls out, starts jacking off, I'm like, come on bitch, fuck me some more, and then finally puts it back in with the condom falling off and starts groaning, like he's cumming. I back him out of me, and he starts ejaculating. WHAT THE FUCK PEOPLE? ? ? I didn't realize that guys out there really did just try to cum up your ass whether you like it or not. So weird. I just don't get it. So then after that, I ask him to finger fuck me and he just won't really stick his hand in there, like he was going to hurt me. Once again, AS IF! I then noticed a small empty medical thingie on the ground and thought it was going to be triple antibiotic ointment or something, in hopes that the condom would break, but it was actually water-soluble lube. I don't get it.

the morning after

and I had a hair of the dog beer to keep the hangover away but I'm still a little drunk. . .I can't write any more right now. It's painful. I'm trying to hook up right now even though I just want to go back to sleep, and I'm getting lots of bites, go figure.

Hand to Phone

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I'm Gonna Live Forever

The following is my e-mail response to my blog being "Best Personal Gay Blog" this week. I'm so fucking funny and postmodern ironic it kills me. OH, and the website is bestgayblogs.com (my hyperlink thingie isn't working).

I feel honored, all I have to say. I don't think I have a counter, so I really have no idea how many people read it; it's a selfish venture anyways. I was shocked to see how many typos there were in the blog entry you posted--the one fucking blog entry I don't proofread, and there it is, indelible that I'm a fucking dumb ass. What are some of the other e-mails people sent me? Does anyone want to pay me for sex? I'm broke. I actually feel like my blog is once again stripping away the fantasy that porn builds up for people and is actually detrimental to my career as an escort/porn star. I'm glad I have other things going for me. I'm going on and on with this e-mail right now, because I know that once I finish it I'm going to copy and paste it into a new blog posting. I wonder which word I use more in my blog, fucking or pathetic?

Anyways, thanks thanks thanks, I'm a whore in many ways and this has slightly inflated my ego for at least a couple more hours.

Cory Koons

I've Been Waiting a Lifetime for a Moment. . .

So I started writing this shit after a hiatus, and not three days later, I get an e-mail saying that this blog has been chosen as Best Gay Blog of the Week! I don't really have anything to say tonight, but as they valued my constantly updated content, I felt I had to constantly update it.

Content, not quality? Fuck that.

I'm trying to bring back the art of public cruising; however, my initial reaction when seeing a guy that makes my crotch stir is to look at him with what I think is my "hot face," but according to various photographers, and I joke you not, is actually my "Cory, relax your face. Look sexy, not serial murderer," face, and probably the same face that while putting on a dildo (fire hydrant) show with a trick last night was my "Cory, you look so serious and angry" face. I think that's why guys like me doggystyle. Whenever I fuck a guy missionary he inevitably stops and says "God you look so unhappy and angry" face. Fuck, sorry, I also smile a lot when getting reared, I swear.

Happy face. Angry face. Happy face. Angry face.

I also snapped at a customer at Bloomingdale's when they interrupted a sales associate and me (I've been looking for a pair of low-rise, tapered stretch jeans, and can't fucking find them anywhere; it's killing me) with the question, "What size is this shirt?" "It's vintage, there is no size marked." "Well, is it a large?"

My life is starting to appear boring. The only thing interesting to me is that in my porn roles I'm going from Crazy Chinese Chef to Palestinian to Skater Boi to Gang Bang Bottom Fucko. After I get a savage tan and braids, I'm calling up Latino Fan Club. If anyone from Latino Fan Club is reading this, holla, holla.

It's Like 10,000 Spoons/When All You Need is a Knife

I was going to write something else, more vented and heartfelt, but then I got a little buzzed and stoned and the sarcasm just leaks out of me.

I've been so poor lately that I haven't been able to afford therapy or anti-depressants, both of which I need right now. I pinched yet another nerve in my back. The pain got worse and worse until it became debilitating. It got so bad I had to go to a chiropractor twice a week. I pinched the nerve getting the living hell fucked out of me by a big-dicked furry dancer (modern). I think he forgot I wasn't as limber as him, or just the sheer size of his dick meant him pushing my knees into my shoulders harder, I don't know. I finally had to go to the chiropractor because I now know that I pinched a nerve in my sacrum which is just below the lumbar vertebrae and above the coccyx and it causes your sex organs and anus to fuck up, and while I was having no problem shitting pushing out hit a nerve that I could feel all the way up my back and and getting a dick in my ass was harder and it was slightly swollen inside, plus arching my back, forget about it! I basically couldn't enjoy my ass. At all. At. All. So I had to go to the doctor. I know go twice a week to fix a years-long problem that apparently has shortened (not irreversibly)my left leg 1/2 an inch. OH, I guess the ironic thing is that with the money I'm spending to allow myself to be spinally adjust enough to enjoy getting fucked I could be spending it on a therapist that could help me process my issues associate with getting fucked.

I decided to save money last night by taking the subway back to Brooklyn instead of a cab like I usually do after dark/every day and after waiting twenty precious minutes waiting. So I actually had to pay more, given the longer distance to the subway I walked to.

There was another, but I forget.

OH, that when you dump someone a month later they're saying the exact same thing you said a month ago and you're saying the exact same thing they said a month ago.

That's all for now. . .

It's Like 10,000 Spoons/When

I was going to write something else, more vented and heartfelt, but then I got a little buzzed and stoned and the sarcasm just leaks out of me.

I've been so poor lately that I haven't been able to afford therapy or anti-depressants, both of which I need right now. I pinched yet another nerve in my back. The pain got worse and worse until it became debilitating. It got so bad I had to go to a chiropractor twice a week. I pinched the nerve getting the living hell fucked out of me by a big-dicked furry dancer (modern). I think he forgot I wasn't as limber as him, or just the sheer size of his dick meant him pushing my knees into my shoulders harder, I don't know. I finally had to go to the chiropractor because I now know that I pinched a nerve in my sacrum which is just below the lumbar vertebrae and above the coccyx and it causes your sex organs and anus to fuck up, and while I was having no problem shitting pushing out hit a nerve that I could feel all the way up my back and and getting a dick in my ass was harder and it was slightly swollen inside, plus arching my back, forget about it! I basically couldn't enjoy my ass. At all. At. All. So I had to go to the doctor. I know go twice a week to fix a years-long problem that apparently has shortened (not irreversibly)my left leg 1/2 an inch. OH, I guess the ironic thing is that with the money I'm spending to allow myself to be spinally adjust enough to enjoy getting fucked I could be spending it on a therapist that could help me process my issues associate with getting fucked.

I decided to save money last night by taking the subway back to Brooklyn instead of a cab like I usually do after dark/every day and after waiting twenty precious minutes waiting. So I actually had to pay more, given the longer distance to the subway I walked to.

There was another, but I forget.

OH, that when you dump someone a month later they're saying the exact same thing you said a month ago and you're saying the exact same thing they said a month ago.

That's all for now. . .

It's Getting Hott oh fuck I can't finish that

I decided to go for a Miami look today, complete with slicked back hair, before it gets too hot and muggy for the Miami look, and I just look like a sweaty fucking slob. I haven't started sweating yet, which is amazing. I've started to use sweatbands, and not even as a fashion statement, but more as a headband/necessity. It's kinda sad.

I Think I Might Be on to Something

So, professional life, great. Personal life, eh. Why is it always like that? Why am I avoiding calling my mom like I've been avoiding writing this blog? Why do I miss my exbf (that I dumped and now want to get back together with) so much? Why do we exist? Why was I abducted by aliens? Why isn't my blog as eloquent and amazing as Michael Lucas'? What is love? I don't wanna hurt no more (it's just time for letting go). And I

This is SO Funny

I was just about to write something here, but then realized that I should take a shower, as I should be on the subway right now back to Manhattan. I then decided that I should just take a cab, because I'm really lazy, and even though I'm broke, I might as well, because otherwise I'll never leave. It will even be hard for me to make the phone call.

I'm finally at home for more than thirty minutes at a time since Tuesday. It's really annoying. I like my house. There are dogs here that I have to house-sit right now, which is nice since my dog Rookie (aka The Bobie) was put to sleep yesterday, which is fine because he was old and not enjoying life. There. I said it. And "Flashdance" is on the Women Channel. I don't want to go. I don't want to go. And I don't really like showering anyways.

So Sorry

I always forget about this thing. To make up to all five of you that actually read this thing every now and then, I'm going to go back and make blog posts for every day that I've missed. I have a really shitty memory and tend to gloss things over though, so really, take everything with a grain of salt.

It's Been a Long Time

I actually forget that I have to write blogs now. It's good, though, I feel like it gives my life some sort of direction, meaning. I styled my friend Fredrick Ford's first music video yesterday, for his first single, a remake of "Too Funky." It was fun, if not slightly self-indulgent, as I made all the other porno boys (Johnny Hazzard, Arpad Miklos, Tony Serrano) try in and out of as many things as possible. It's times like those when I feel like a perv amongst pervs, if that makes any sense. When I'm an old man I better have lots of money so that I can, well, be pervy with young cute guys more easily. Hmmmm. . .What else is new? I can't sleep more than four hours at a time? That sucks. I still sleep on the floor? That sucks. I learned how to properly flatiron my hair? Fuckin' A, man. I've gone to the same bar in Williamsburg five nights in a row? Pathetic? Or is it becoming my Cheers, and what's wrong with that anyway? This is all I can handle right now. I need a cup of tea, but unfortunately, all that's here is earl grey, and though I'm a big fan of the essence of bergamot, I prefer it in scented candles.

Coming Out of the Dark

Baby Steps

I've decided to title every blog something really cheesy. Since I don't really feel like writing anything else, that astoundingly profound title will be all tonight.

New Beginnings

I had to title it that. It's just too cheezy to pass up. I now live in Brooklyn, which makes me feel like I need to shave and stop wearing scruffy sneakers, because if one more person says, "You look like you live in Williamsburg," I might scratch their eyes out with my Dior heels. On a negative note: the squealing mice in the oven. I still think they're kinda cute though. I wish I was a kitty.

May Day

Last night I had a dance off with a drag queen, and then when I got home played pinball with myself walking down the hallway, right before I went into the wrong bedroom and accosted a female roommate of mine with my naked body. Oops! I'd like to say that I regret drinking that much but I don't really remember. Boy am I lots of fun. I think I need to lay off the PCP. Just kidding, just kidding. What do you guys think I am? A mess?

I've discovered in the past five days. . .

. . .that living with an ex is like if you're a Siamese twin and your other half dies and then you have to carry around their dead weight with you until either you die yourself or you can find a good enough surgeon to sever the ties hoping that you don't have any arteries or organs to share but really you just have to go into a cave in the side of a mountain and like a feral cat do the job yourself with your teeth and a sharp rock.

More thoughts. . .

I realized today that maybe I'm in the wrong line of business. I think that if I sell my soul and compromise my integrity I should be making a lot more money. I also think I should become a drug addict or alcoholic (again?) because I'm more fun that way, just like I'm more fun when I'm single. Which I am. Definitely.

Today I realized. . .

. . .that in looking for a suitable apartment and roommates, I'm going to scare the shit out of at least 90% of them.

. . .that working in the field of fashion is only for crazy people.

. . .that I should probably try to start making money.

. . .that black currant tea with milk and honey is a guilty pleasure of mine. It just doesn't feel as manly as irish breakfast tea.

Not Again

So, I was down at Metropolitan in Brooklyn last night hanging out with my friend Cameron at his Sunday night party, "Easy," and he made me enter the amateur strip contest. . .again! I think it's the third or fourth time now. It supposedly encourages others to enter. I lost, again, for the third or fourth time. This time, I lost to a 21 year old dyke from Connecticut (it was her birthday). I have to say, though, that I was really happy I was wearing my favorite underwear (black and white skull-print Marc Jacobs briefs). I'm such a fag. She didn't even get naked. I saw no ass, or titties. And she was fat. I'm not bitter, I swear. I've actually never won any sort of contest that had something to do with me taking my clothes off. I always seem to get asked to do it over and over again though, which makes me think that there are two types of porn stars in the world: those that do it because they're so fucking hot that it's basically their call in life, and those that do it because they're willing to degrade and exploit themselves when no one else will.

Something Strange is Happening

I don't know what's going on, but I cannot get laid to save my life. It's not like I'm picky, either. You'd think that after a night of go-go dancing, I'd have my pick, but noooooooo, another night alone. I finally had to bust out my trusty dildoes and go to town on myself earlier. Maybe if I rub my ball sweat all over my face and neck. . .

Finally, getting this shit started

As this is the first post, I feel like I should have something all-encompassing, cerebral, to say, but really, I don't. I feel like I should give my thanks to my fans, Raging Stallion for setting this up for me, my ass, but really, I don't. Not that I'm trying to be ungrateful or disrespectful. I guess I'm just hangover. Or tired. Or emotionally disturbed.

To get back to business, I guess I should say that I'm horny, getting my hair cut in an hour, and am go-go dancing over at the Slide tonight at High Life/Low Life for my friend Daniel Nardiccio. For all of you out in New York Shitty, come visit me. I'll be the guy in the rhinestoned "Cory" jock strap.

Welcome to Cory Koons' Blog!

Welcome to Cory Koons' Blog!