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