The Hardest (Working) Man in Showbiz (18 page)

It was, if nothing else, awkward.

As we stood there, washing our dicks and saying nothing to each other, I thought to myself, This is absurd. Just say hello. I turned my head slowly, trying not to be too obvious. And just as I opened my mouth, I caught a glimpse of his penis.

It was brown.

And red.

And yellow and white.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. His dick was streaked with so many colors. It looked like a rainbow. What, I thought, has this guy been doing? How many orifices has he been in tonight? I could understand the brown and red. He had probably had sex with a woman who was menstruating, and then went straight to fucking somebody in the ass. But how to explain the yellow? Had somebody peed on him? And the white—was it sperm? My mind boggled.

I didn’t want to stare, but what choice did I have? It was remarkable. His dick was like a canvas that had been turned into a Pollack painting. The splashes of color almost seemed to be part of a deliberate design. If you gazed long enough, you could start to see shapes and patterns.

I don’t know how long I stared at it, marveling at its intricacies, before I realized that Jamie was looking at me. My eyes drifted up, and there was Jamie, watching me watch him. His face had no expression. If he was offended or amused, I couldn’t tell. Neither of us said a word. It was so eerily quiet you could’ve heard a needle drop.

After what felt like an eternity, he turned his attention back to his dick, scrubbing it casually as if he hadn’t just been leered at by another adult male. I took the hint and returned to my own cleaning ritual, acting as if nothing had happened.

As I was drying myself off with a paper towel, I could hear him walking behind me, heading toward the exit. My muscles tightened, and I wondered if it was too late to say anything. And then, just as I was about to turn around to introduce myself, I felt him step up right behind me and put his lips just inches away from one ear.

“Pigs,” he whispered, “aren’t they?”
*

And that was how I met Jamie Gillis.

S
wingers are a stubborn breed. You can call them sinners, and they’ll just turn up the sin a few notches. You can take away the parties, and they’ll find someplace else to play. You can even throw them in jail for zoning violations, and they’ll still find a way to get some nookie.

In 1981, Larry Levenson was convicted of tax evasion and sentenced to forty months in a state penitentiary. He was sent to Allenwood Prison in central Pennsylvania, about one hundred seventy-five miles away from his beloved Plato’s Retreat. For a lifelong swinger like Larry, it was the worst fate imaginable.

“All I want is women and pizza,” he told me. “And this goddamn prison doesn’t have either.”

When Larry became eligible for conjugal visits, I decided that the time was right to give him exactly what he was craving.

And I didn’t mean pizza.

I found a girl named Katie, a sometime porn star and regular at Plato’s. She arrived on the scene long after Larry had been shipped to prison, but she was well aware of his reputation within swinging circles and had read about him in magazine articles. When I offered to arrange a prison rendezvous with Larry, she jumped at the chance.

It wasn’t the first time that I’d set Larry up with a girl. Just a few years earlier, Larry had made a wager with
Screw
magazine publisher Al Goldstein that he could ejaculate eighteen times in just twenty-four hours. It was a tall order, even for somebody with Larry’s sexual appetites. Larry asked me to supply the “talent,” and I immediately asked Patrice Trudeau, one of the best cocksuckers in adult films. Because of all the media surrounding the event, she agreed.

Larry’s eighteen-pop-shot challenge was a huge event, taking place at Plato’s during one very long day and night. All the major players in porn were there to witness it, and a few, like
Penthouse
publisher Bob Guccione, even contributed to the pot. At the end, there was almost $10,000 riding against Larry. He later claimed that I was almost solely responsible for helping him win. Although he had a lot of volunteers, Patrice single-handedly brought him to at least five or six climaxes.
*

Setting up Larry’s conjugal visit wasn’t nearly as exciting. There were no cameras or cheering crowds or financial stakes on the line. But it meant more to me somehow, because this time it was personal.

Goldstein rented a limo and we took Katie on the long journey into Pennsylvania. We rented a hotel room in downtown Allenwood (Larry was permitted to travel only a few miles from the prison) and brought Larry over for his surprise.

Katie didn’t waste a minute. Before Larry knew what was happening, she dragged him into the bathroom, locked the door, and yanked off his pants.

“I’ve always wanted to meet you,” she told him. And then she proceeded to fuck his brains out in the bathtub.

Larry made his triumphant return to the new Plato’s (a bigger space in midtown) in 1985, with a homecoming parade through the streets of New York. Larry, decked out in a leopard-skin cape and crown, emerged from a convertible limo to greet more than five hundred of his screaming patrons and supporters.

“The King is back!” the crowd cheered. “Long live the King!”

But the victory was short-lived. Just seven months later, on New Year’s Eve, Larry and I arrived at Plato’s and discovered that the front doors had been chained and padlocked. We didn’t need to be told what had happened. The city had been threatening to shut down Plato’s for months. Mayor Ed Koch had closed down many of the gay bathhouses and sex clubs like the Ramrod and Anvil, citing new state laws designed to combat the spread of AIDS. When gay-rights groups protested, claiming that they were being unfairly targeted, Koch needed to pick on a heterosexual sex club to appear unbiased.

Larry took one look at the police barricades and cried.

“This is it,” he sobbed. “It’s over. We’re finished.”

“Don’t say that,” I said, trying to comfort him. “We can fight this.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head, “it’s too late.”

He explained that the city’s timing had been strategic. Larry was planning a huge New Year’s Eve party at Plato’s, and thousands were expected to attend. At $100 a couple, it would generate enough profit to keep Plato’s in business. Rent for a big building in midtown Manhattan is astronomical. By padlocking Plato’s, the city had crippled him financially. Even if he fought and won, he didn’t have the money to keep Plato’s afloat.

We sat in my car for most of the night and just stared at the Plato’s entrance. We watched as throngs of would-be patrons came and went, shaking the doors vainly, some angrily kicking at the barricades before slinking away. Before long, we were alone again. Nobody else was coming. It was like watching a friend die right in front of you.

“It’s going to be okay,” I said to Larry, trying to reassure him. “We’re not going to let these fuckers stop us from enjoying New Year’s. I know a few parties we can go to.”

Larry just sighed. He looked defeated, like he would have been perfectly happy just to die right there and then.

“I suppose,” he said.

“Trust me, it’ll be great. We’ll stay up till dawn and have so much nookie, you won’t even think about Plato’s.”

He turned to me and raised an eyebrow. “Will Patrice Trudeau be there?”

We laughed until tears came to our eyes, our voices the only sound on the otherwise empty New York street.

Part Two

The penis is mightier than the sword.

—Mark Twain

With Danica Ray in one of the first in
Hustler
magazine. male-and-female centerfolds

(Photograph courtesy
Hustler
magazine)

chapter 7

DAYS OF PORN AND ROSES

“Ron Jeremy, you fucking son of a bitch!”

John Holmes pushed through the crowd waiting for my autograph and stormed over to me. We were both appearing at the Consumer Electronic Show in Las Vegas, promoting our latest movies and meeting with the fans. I was signing for Dave and Svetlana at Collector’s Video, and John had his own booth with
Swedish Erotica
on the other end of the convention hall. I hadn’t had a free moment yet to stop by to say hello. But he was apparently in a hurry to see me, and judging by the throbbing veins on his neck, he was out for blood.

“Johnny Boy,” I said warmly, reaching over to give him a hug.

He pushed me away and held up a copy of
Playgirl
, shaking it in front of my face.
*

“What the hell is this piece of shit?” he demanded.

“I think it’s a nudie mag,” I said. “What’s your point?”

He flipped through the pages until he found the article that had incited his temper tantrum. He held up the magazine and pointed to a photo layout. It was a picture of me, looking skinny and attractive. In big, splashy letters over my head, it read:
RON JEREMY: PORN STAR OF THE
’80
S
!

“Star of the ’80s?” Holmes screamed in mock outrage. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Hey, I didn’t write it,” I said with a shrug.

He threw the magazine to the ground and spit on it. “Why should I even bother making movies?” he roared. “What difference does it make? You’re the only one people want to see!”

I laughed and said, “You know that’s not true.”

His eyes widened, and his ears almost began to smoke. “Well, that’s what the magazine says,” he hollered. “Consider me officially retired! I’ll just be your bitch!”

He turned to the crowd and put his arm around me, letting his wrist go limp in an imitation of a gay lover.

“From this day forward,” he announced, “I am Ron Jeremy’s bitch!”

After photographers snapped a few pictures, we laughed and gave each other a hug. I’m still not sure if anybody in the crowd knew that he was joking.

“Seriously, though,” he whispered into my ear, “congratulations.”

“No hard feelings?” I whispered back.

He just looked at me with a sinister smile. “You’ll always be
my
bitch, Jeremy. Don’t ever forget that.”

B
y the mid-1980s, I was already becoming one of those nostalgic old farts, reminiscing about the glory days and moaning about how everything was better back when I was a kid.

During the first five years of my porn career, the adult industry had more legitimacy. A movie was an event, from the production to the opening night. There were scripts and elaborate sets and full crews, and we’d sometimes spend entire weeks on a single shoot. That may sound laughable, but compared with the cookie-cutter pornos of today, which are shot on an average of one a day, taking a whole week to shoot just one film was preposterous.

The producers of those early adult films spared no expense, green-lighting budgets that would impress even most Hollywood B-rated movies. In
Blonde Goddess
, I played a Red Baron, and we shot my scenes with an authentic World War I fighting plane. On
Bad Girls II
, we left a path of destruction in our wake. Cars crashed into gas stations, bulldozers stormed over fences, glass storefronts shattered almost constantly. We even drove a police car over a cliff. All of those effects made for an amazing finished product, one that you could feasibly enjoy even
without
the sex.

But the real thrill of making a porno film was attending the opening night screenings. Because adult movies were still being shown at theaters, we had lavish premiere parties. At a typical opening at the Pussycat Theater in Hollywood, there would be roaming searchlights and live bands and paparazzi. All the actors would arrive in limos, decked out in tuxedos and ball gowns. When you walked down the red carpet and saw the lines of cheering fans and flashing camera bulbs, you felt like a star.

Even more extravagant were the award ceremonies—our version of the Oscars—hosted every year in Los Angeles by the Adult Film Association of America (AFAA). It was a carnival atmosphere, with each star trying to outdo the next with the most outlandish entrances. Juliet “Aunt Peg” Anderson once entered the theater riding an elephant. In 1980, to promote the film
Urban Cowgirls
, the actresses showed up on horse-drawn stagecoaches. Al Goldstein was famous for making the biggest spectacle. He would come out onto the stage dressed as a gladiator and riding a chariot, or lowered from a giant crane while in a Superman costume. The awards themselves—a plaster of Paris statue of a naked woman holding a spear, called “The Erotica”—were usually the cheapest part of the entire evening. But you didn’t come for the awards, you came for the
show
. And the houses were always packed, sometimes attracting famous guests like director Francis Ford Coppola and producer Robert Evans.