Drownin’ in Love (Bukakee Girl)

When she’s putting her hair up in a ponytail it’s about to get real

Ponytail Playtime

Anal Leakage

Freaked as Fuck

Feminist for the Pussy

Johnny wasn't afraid to test the boundaries. 

The 69ers

Mystery Load

Some women have more needs than others. Nothing wrong with that.

Double Creampie

Grab My Sack

The greek gods had their "other" talents too.

Posideion

Bangkok

Take Me Back To My Youth

Milk It In Your Mouth

In the sweat-soaked annals of American rock, Johnny Thrustwell carved his name with a jagged guitar pick and a whiskey-soaked snarl. Born in the dustbowl of nowhere, he clawed his way from dive bars to neon-lit stages, a musician, producer, and writer whose riffs could make the devil blush and whose lyrics once got him banned from three states for “corrupting the youth with poetic filth.” A master of the analog era, Johnny churned out hits and hidden gems across four decades—1960s grit, 1970s swagger, 1980s excess, and 1990s rebellion—leaving behind a legacy as wild as a bar fight and twice as loud. He lived fast, loved hard, and rumor has it, once screwed a groupie on a mixing board mid-session, claiming it “added reverb to her moans.”

When Johnny kicked the bucket in his Sin City trailer—a double-wide palace of faded glory surrounded by empty bottles and cigarette burns—his fans thought the music died with him. But fate had a raunchy encore up its sleeve: a treasure trove of analog reels, stashed like dirty secrets in a shoebox under his sagging couch. Spanning the '60s to the '90s, these tapes captured everything from psychedelic jams to punk-fueled rants, all marinated in Thrustwell’s signature cocktail of genius and debauchery. Discovered by a nosy landlord looking for rent money, the reels were caked in dust and what Johnny’s old roadie swears was “the scent of ass and inspiration.”

Now, as Vegas buzzes with slot machines and strippers, Johnny’s sonic resurrection is underway. Those gritty reels are being dragged into the digital age, cleaned up (but not too much), and unleashed for his legion of fans—diehards who’d kill for one last riff from the man who once said, “Music’s my bitch, and I ride her hard.” Piece by piece, the world’s getting a front-row seat to Thrustwell’s unfiltered soul, a catalog of sound that proves he was more than a legend—he was a goddamn force of nature, now howling from the grave. So crank it up, pour one out, and let Johnny remind you: even in death, he’s still got the loudest cock in the room.

Johnny Thrustwell

Pinned to spotlight

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