I Just Came A Little Bit

Why yes, that is a hamburger phone. Sure it took $20 and a month to get here, but still, COMPLETELY WORTH IT.

Anyway, also on my list of shit to do: On top of moving into my new apartment this weekend, I'll also be going to the Osheaga music fest here in Montreal, which includes The Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Lykke Li, The Roots, La Roux, Vampire Weekend and Coldplay. Hence the title of this post. Does anybody here have a towel or something? I'm all sticky and shit...

To lead you out, here's Missy Elliott's One Minute Man, which I dedicate to...someone. Well, actually, quite a few someones, really. When ED eventually sets in, and you finally remember me, just realize that you missed out, not me, and you're not getting this ever again. Would you like your balls back now?

What Would The Neighbors Think? If They Only Knew...

With only three more days before I move into my first apartment, I'm currently doing the walk down memory lane that comes with packing all your belongings into various little cardboard boxes.

My God, is memory lane ever a shitty street.

Not to say I don't love and enjoy my family. Quite the contrary really. But looking back on my previous life, it's a little, oh what's the word...Oh yes, depressing. This shit is depressing. The years spent being the picture of obedience and good behavior, rarely missing class, getting good grades, never going out to parties...And look how I turned out. Kind of a far cry, isn't it?

I secretly wonder what the town will say when they find out one of their own is a gay porn star. The over-wrought displays of pity, the behind-the-back gossip, and the names. Oh, the names they'll call me...because apparently, I would be the first person to have sex in the history of Pointe-Claire.

The shame. Oh what a shame I'll be.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't secretly thrilled about it. If I said I wouldn't be watching with schadenfreudian glee as they lined up to throw stones in their glass houses. If I said I wouldn't wear my scarlet letter with pride, while their sons and daughters themselves burned through a list of various pharmaceuticals, drove drunk and, worst of all, looked at porn. Won't somebody please think of the children?

The truth is, we're all dirty birds; I just flew the cage is all. The parents who line up in front of my door with pitchforks and torches will, invariably, have kids as fucked up as I am. The only difference is, I own my sluttiness. Deny it all you want, but the only reason anyone does anything is for sex. Advancement of the species and all; you get my drift? I'm just more upfront about it, instead of throwing up a face of moral superiority.

Hell, just look at the oh-so-proper school I went to. Right now, there are something like 700 mothers and fathers paying thousands upon thousands of dollars to send their kids to a good school. But oh, the seedy underbelly of it. Not only is the faculty largly homophobic, but the one gay teacher that I ever saw there was fired within his first year when the the heads of staff, compromised of priests and catholics, made up a story about him having an affair with a student. Apparently, the forgot to read the parts of the bible about not being a total dick.

The shame, oh what a shame I'll be.

They'll hate me once they find out, and to be honest, I absolutely can't wait. The difference between me and them is, there's not a goddamn thing they can do to me anymore. I, on the other hand, can ruin them. Who would want to send their kid to the catholic school that gay porn star came from? They'd be finished.

Sorry for the overall sense of bleakness to the post, but I've finally come to the realization that I am un-fucking-stoppable. I am a force of nature in cheap-ass jeans and a skinny, slacker frame. When my time is done, I'll have gone places, met people and done things that these people only dream about. And I'll have had fun doing it.

The shame, oh what a shame I'll be...

How I Lost My Sanity At Ikea

www.marriedtothesea.com

With my impending moving day looming ever precariously over my head like the Sword of Damocles, I realized the time for cheap-ass, poorly-built Swedish furniture was nigh. While Mama Feist has what has been psychologically described as "a raging boner" for Ikea, I've never actually been inside the store, my experiences constructed mostly out of theory and word of mouth (which still makes it more stable than 90% of their coffee tables). Still, I was in desperate need of modest furnishings with incomprehensible names, and so I boarded my bucket of a car and hauled my pasty slacker ass off to Ikea.

What a terrible fucking idea that was.

The moment I entered the store, my ear drums were assaulted with the banshee wails of screaming toddlers, banished to wallow in the pit of plastic balls for all of eternity...or until their parental units were finished loading up on futons and ottomans. Whichever came first, really. Although it was a tad disconcerting to see a daycare center in the middle of a furniture store. Mostly because I'm faily sure I saw the exact same playpen in another unmentionable hell-hole, Chuck E. Cheese.

After getting my mitts one a needlessly large shopping cart, I set out on the first of many quests in Ikea: getting a six-piece dining set. A simple enough task for even the most obnoxious and troglodytic of newlywed yuppies. Although granted, I am not what you would call an "exceptionally bright" person, or even an "adequately intelligent" person. Fuck, even "Hey shit-for-brains" would be something of a stretch. Naturally, I would (and did!) find a way to fuck this up.

The exact details of the trip are shady at best. I could have been in there for five minutes, or for five hours.* My shopping cart and I were bounced back and fourth, from one show room to the next. By the fifth time I found myself staring down a row of affordable TV stands, I was starting to lose my patience.

By the half-hour mark, I was starting to show visible signs of homicidal rage. I hadn't eaten anything that morning, I had a massive Charlie Horse thanks to a septugenarian with a shopping cart full of pots and pans, and the now universal screeching of children was severing the final string holding me from falling into the never ending pit of schizophrenia. I had to find those fucking dishes pronto, homeskillet, else I should end up being the first person to be charged with a Hit-and-Run in a furniture-laden shopping cart.

When I finally managed to procure a hasty dining set, I made my way to the check-out counter, a labyrinthian feat at best. While Ikea had thoughtfully provided you with a path and accompanying signs, I was getting te idea that the last thing Ikea wanted you to do was to actually LEAVE, as the acursed trail lead you through (quite literally) every single department there. The lines themselves were a veritable mile-long marathonin order to get to the actual register. I had the feeling that was what it felt like to work with Sky Net when it became self-aware.

With my kitchen set paid for, I still had the matter of hunger to attend to. Would I dare spring for the inordinately inexpensive hot dogs, or would I wait until home. I decided to wait, as consuming one of these would be the final step in my shameless pandering to the Swedes.

And that's how I lost my mind at Ikea. The story of how I managed to lost my mind in an orgiastic sea of wood, low-prices and incomprehensible Swedish names. While I doubt anyone will ever be able to fully explain the penomenon. Watch this clip and feel the pain as your brain slowly rots out of your ear canals.

*It was actually an hour, but I'm Irish. We tend to cram our stories full of bullshit just to fuck wit you.

Don't Mean To Boast, But A Kiss'll Make You Overdose

No real reason for posting this beyond the fact that:

#1) This could very well be my theme song.

#2) Estelle is fucking AMAZING live.

Also, #3) I'm too lazy to write an actual post with words and pictures and stuff like that.

Therefore, here's Estelle performing Wait A Minute (Just A Touch).

What? What? In The Butt

So after a night spent clicking my ruby slippers cheap-ass Converse All-Star knock-offs and repeating "there's no place like home", it appears I'm back in Montreal, giving my butt a much needed siesta. There really is a limit as to how much intestinal distress I can inflict upon myself before my tuchus just kinda goes "Okay, hold up, gimme a couple weeks before you start this up again".

Between the two shoots I scored while I was down in TO, I've managed to make rent for my second month, not to mention opening up a new market for my...talents. It's also allowed me to brush up on my dirty talk, a skill I have yet to master. It really shouldn't be all that hard, considering it just involves combining the following words into various breathless, shouted phrases:

- Fuck

- Pound

- Yeah

- Hole

- Big

- Huge

- Tight

- Cock

- Cum

It's that easy! Actually, the name of the site was called "His First Huge Cock", so I had to be reminded constantly that I was supposed to say "HUGE cock" instead of "BIG cock". Whoops. To-MAY-to, to-MAH-to, really. Seriously, you try remembering that little tid-bit when you have ten inches of man meat pistoning in and out of your hot pocket.

The other shoot I did was a solo, which I have to admit, I actually find a little harder than duos. Theoretically, this really shouldn't be too hard, considering that all you're doing is beating your meat for a designated amount of time. The only down-side is, I'm something of a no-frills masturbator. You guys may keep your fancy-pants fleshlights and dildoes. So long as I have a right hand and an ability to produce sufficient amounts of saliva, I'm golden.

However, that shit just won't cut it for a half-hour jerk flick. Therefore, in order to pad it out, you're gonna have to give 'em the whole she-bang. That means strip-teasing, undie-sniffing, finger-blasting, dirty-talking, moaning and groaning, and to top it all off, some auto-fellatio if you're so inclined. As you can see, the concept of "Beating a dead horse" doesn't really apply to the world of porn. That being said, if you can suck yourself off, and subsequently, fire off a load of mini-Jeremys into your face-hole, then feel free to pat yourself on the back. Guys fucking LOVE that shit.

Anyhoodle, I spent the rest of my vacation walking around downtown Toronto, visiting The Eaton Center and The Much Music Headquarters, and going to see Away We Go. Actually, that serves as a pretty good litmus test to see whether or not you're boring. Let's say you're walking around unsupervised in a new city with a massive wad of cash burning a hole in your 50%-off jeans. Do you:

A) Get some booze and hookers. Get your rocks off.

B) Go to a sex club. Do body shots. Get your rocks off.

C) Go see a charming yet adequite indie-romantic-comedy while you wonder why exactly you don't have a boyfriend yet. Don't get your rocks off.

If you chose C, congratulations! You're the most boring porn star EVER.

Actually, on the way home we happened to stop at a Tim Horton's in Kingston where I got to talk to a charming, not to mention stunningly tall, young woman who was on her way back to Toronto after having been awake for 24-hours helping those with Alzheimer's. It was at that point that I resigned myself to never complain about my job ever again. No offense to others in the business who got troubles. I'm sure you're hurting and all, but come on...What the hell are you complaining about? You have it better than over 90% of the world's population. Gee, you get paid fuckloads of money to have sex with hot guys. Wow. Poor bitch. It must be so hard to be an upper-class American Male. Those 300,000 Sri Lankan refugees have been getting a free ride for WAY too long.

www.nataliedee.com
Seriously? I fucking lucked out. I have a good fucking job, and if I can't appreciate the fact that I have a great job, then I'd be the biggest douche ever. Sorta odd to think about the kinda shit you realize in-line at Timmy's for a muffin.

Anyway, for now, I have a couple little tasks set up for me. I have to get ready for my move on August 1st, wash off the scent of gay sex which now seems to be pervading every pore in my body (a heady aroma of sweat, lube, prophylactics and cum, with just a hint of fart), and work on planning my next trip to Toronto on the 10th of August. There's no place like home.

The Gay Porn Debut of the Godtopus

I am currently sitting in the exact place where, 24 hours ago, I was riding Sam Swift's dong like it was a mechanical bull. My feet and my lunch are resting on the table where he gave it to me doggy-style (Not LIKE a dog, simply in the STYLE of a dog), and there's a small bag full of used condoms and lube-covered paper towels in the kitchen.

If you can't find something funny about any of that, you have absolutely no sense of humour.

I won't give too much away, but the facts are these: At 1:30 yesterday, there was a full light and camera set in the living room of my hotel room, and the crew was setting up the scene for my shoot with His First Huge Cock (nice name, huh?). Sam and I were downing Red Bull (which, as it turns out, looks remarkably like pee), and going over the "script". I put that in quotations as Andre, the boss man, pretty much just winged it. I'm not gonna go into detail about it, but it revolved entirely around one of my useless talents.

I don't think I've ever actually mentioned this, but I happen to have this one stupid pet trick I can do in the sack which guys apparently go ape-shit over. I can give suck my own cock.

For reals.

Well, technically, I can really only get the head in my mouth (without assistance at least), but still, this is like some sort of sexual trump card. The fact that you can contort yourself into a pretzel and do things to yourself that most guys would give an arm and a leg (or, if you believe the legend, their ribs) for is a pretty invaluable tool in this biz. Who knew?

I have to admit, it was pretty much one of the most hardcore scenes I've ever done. We fucked on every piece of furniture in the house, the dirty talk alone would probably give an MPAA member an aneurysm, and at what point I was lifted off the fucking ground. I HIGHLY reccomend mid-air sex.


Anyhoodle, afterwards Andre took me out for some Thai food, and after returning to my hotel room to rest up/check to ensure that my internal organs hadn't inadvertently fallen out of my ass, we went out to GoodHandy's. For those of you who have never been to TO and/or never went to GoodHandy's, it's essentially a burlesque bar, and my GOD is it ever a fuck-load of fun. At one point Mandy GoodHandy, the drag queen hostess of the night pulled me up on stage to help her spank one of the guys. The good news is that she must have seen something she liked, so it looks like I'll be returning to Toronto very soon to make an appearance.

I'll be heading back home tomorrow, but for now, here are some pics from the set. Lates!



(Oh! And before I forget, I managed to do a write-up for my new blog, Pornstar in the Kitchen, so feel free to check that shit out)

On The Job

I'm currently in an apartment in Toronto's gay village. There's 3/4 of a pint of Ben & Jerry's in the freezer, and a double-headed dildo resting on the TV six feet away. In the corner is a complete light and camera set, and hanging from my shower-head is a douche that looks like it was created by H.R. Giger on an acid bender. The first thing I encountered upon entering my apartment was a staggeringly well-built latino guy with his hands down the front of his Ginch Gonch. Tomorrow, I'll be getting railed by an incredibly sexalicious, tattoed guy in exchange for wads of cash.

This is the single greatest vacation in my life. Even better than Disney World. Seriously, when was the last time you went to The Magic Kingdom only to be greeted by a guy milking his snake? Exactly.

Re-Do!

Hey, remember how I totally said I was going to Toronto yesterday? Well, about that...the ticket the company bought me was actually for TOMORROW, so looks like everything we were supposed to do Tuesday is getting pushed back to Thursday. No big!

Anyways, someone must have seen my interview with Neon and saw something the liked, because I got this very sweet piece of fan-art from a guy named iDLg, and I thought it was very sweet and very pretty.How cool is that? I'm at the point in my career where I'm doing interviews and getting fan art! Spiffy! Even spiffier when you consider that I've done all of four scenes so far. Never has one porn star garnered so much attention for doing so little...I'm sure you can throw in a snide remark of your own here, but quite frankly, it's too early in my career for me to be bad-mouthing others while remaining gainfully employed.

Anyways, gonna try this Toronto thing again. See y'all in Ontario! I hope!

Jeremy Feist Does Toronto

A couple quick announcements everyone.

First off, some of you might have caught this on my Twitter, but I'll be in Toronto from Monday night to Thursday morning for a shoot. Well, first off, FINALLY! Seriously, I haven't done a shoot in like 2 months. I was starting to get a little bit crazycakes to be honest with you. No work and no play makes Johnny a desperate, unemployed pornstar.

Second, I did an interview for the good people at Neon - The Many Hot Men of Gay Porn and I think I did pretty damn well. Here's a quick excerpt from the interview.

Neon - Why gay porn? What led you to this?

Jeremy - To be honest with you, the thought of having to put on a tie and work a desk job for the rest of my life petrified me. Actually, work in general scares me. I suppose part of me is doing porn as a form of subconscious retaliation against the authority figures in my life, but really, I just like to get railed by hot guys and travel around. If I can make some pretty decent cash off of it, all the better, really!

You can catch the rest of the interview at Neon, though I must warn you...


Anyway, if there are any bloggies in Toronto who want to meet up, leave a comment and I'll see if I can arrange something. Either way, I'll be Twittering along my trip, so chances are you'll know where I am 24/7 anyway. For now, I'll be leaving by bus at 1:15 tomorrow, so if I can't find some wifi to blog, I guess I'll catch y'all later!

...Aw hell, I might as well leave you with something, so here's Seth Green plugging Robot Chicken on The Soup. Either Joel McCale is REALLY tall, or Seth Green is REALLY short. Or possibly both. And is Seth Green wearing eyeliner? Hmmmmm...

Potter Puppet Pals Say WHAAAAA?!

If you loved seeing stupid, whiney, sparkly vampires as puppets, than how about wizards? Okay, so granted, I totally read every book in the Harry Potter series (as well as having watched the accompanying movies) but I still love seeing people make fun of the series. I think there was one point in the movie where Dumbledore asks if he can borrow a knitting magazines because he loves to crochet, so I turned to Mama Feist and whispered "It REALLY should have been more obvious that he was gay".