The Hardest (Working) Man in Showbiz (48 page)

Tammy and I kept in contact after
The Surreal Life
ended. I even arranged for a reconciliatory phone call between her and her onetime nemesis, Jessica Hahn. Jessica, as you may remember, was the one-time church secretary who slept with Tammy’s former husband, PTL televangelist Jimmy Bakker. For years, Tammy partially blamed Jessica for destroying her marriage, and they had a feud in the media. But the dust had settled, and both women were ready to speak to each other at last.

All they needed was a push in the right direction from a friend.
*

And this, folks, is verbatim:

Tuesday, August 2, 2005

Early afternoon

Three-party phone call between Jessica

Hahn, Tammy Faye, and myself.

RON JEREMY: Without further ado, allow me to introduce you to Jessica Hahn. Jessica, say hello.

TAMMY FAYE: Hello, Jessica.

JESSICA HAHN: (Bursts into tears) I am so sorry for all the pain that you’ve been caused.

TAMMY FAYE: Oh honey, it wasn’t your fault, and I will never, ever, ever believe it was your fault. It takes two, Jessica, and I never blamed you, honey, I really never did.

JESSICA HAHN: I’ve been crying for days, Tammy. You’ve ministered to so many people, and everybody thinks you’re just a ball of energy.

TAMMY FAYE: Oh my goodness, you’re just like my little girl.

JESSICA HAHN: I am, I am. I always wanted to be a part of your family.

TAMMY FAYE: I kinda feel like you are. You’ll always be a part of our family. Just know that I love you and that everybody asks me, What would you do if you see Jessica? And I say, I’d put my arms around her and we’d both say thanks to Christ.

JESSICA HAHN: I just want to see you, so I can hold you and let you know…

TAMMY FAYE: We’ll do that one day, baby.
*
Maybe you and Ron, we can meet somewhere.

JESSICA HAHN: Please, just know that everyone is on your side and I love you so much. Please stay healthy.
**
There’s so much more for you to do. You must stay healthy.

TAMMY FAYE: I will, sweetheart. Thank you for wanting to talk to me. It means more to me than you’ll ever know.

JESSICA HAHN: I love you very much, Tammy.

TAMMY FAYE: I love you, too, Jessica, and you’re a beautiful girl.

W
hen you’ve made a career of fucking for the cameras, people just naturally assume that you know a thing or two about sex. And I guess they’re right. Most people average maybe a dozen or so partners in a lifetime, but I’ve slept with more than four thousand women. So I suppose you could call me something of an expert. In my own mind, I’m a professor in sexology but without the PhD.

I’ve always been happy to share my knowledge with the world. I’ve been a guest on hundreds of talk shows and radio broadcasts, where I’ve given sex advice alongside Dr. Ruth Westheimer,
*
Dr. Tony Grant, and Dr. Drew Pinsky. I’ve even had famous friends approach me in private, asking for my guidance on sexual health and STDs., or asking for a referrel to a good, closed mouthed doctor. There were a few celebrity actors and directors—none of whom I’ll name—who’ve dropped their pants in front of me and asked me to examine a mysterious-looking pimple on their genitals.

“Is this anything to worry about?” they’d ask. “Could it be herpes or genital warts?”

“No,” I’d say, calmly giving their schlong a quick inspection. “It’s probably an infected hair follicle. You’re fine.”
**
(Sometimes, I can actually see the ingrown hair.)

I’ve had only one friend who was wary of letting me see him naked. And it was the last man in the world who should’ve had anything to hide. I’m talking about Dennis Hof, the owner, proprietor, and “Pimpmaster General” of the Bunny Ranch in Nevada (not to mention one of my best friends).

There were many times when we’d be on a double date and the girls wanted to have sex with each other (and us), but Dennis always found an excuse not to do it. He’d say something like, “Oh, it’s kinda late and we’re tired. Maybe next time.” And he and his date would retire.

“Dennis, why are you blowing this?” I’d ask him. “These girls want to party. Why are you being such a wuss?”

“I’m just not in the mood for this,” he explained.

“Not in the mood? I know the real reason. You’re just afraid of letting me see your dick.”

“That’s not why, Ronnie.”

“Yes, it is! Listen, I don’t care about seeing your dick. I just want to have a little fun. Why won’t you trust me?”

I knew that if I was ever going to convince Dennis to relax and be part of a foursome, and stop being so needlessly intimidated by me, I’d have to find a way to break down his defenses.

I found my opportunity in Las Vegas during the summer of 2001. Dennis and I were visiting for a weekend retreat, and he was staying at a private suite at the Rio Hotel and Casino. While cruising the Vegas Strip without him, I ran into an old friend, a dancer named Fire Ann Steele. She lived in Vegas with her husband, and they were both swingers who liked a good party. I told her about Dennis, and she admitted that she was a big fan.

Lightbulbs flashed in my head. “Well,” I said, “we should pay him a visit.”

As her husband and I hid behind a maid-service cart, Ann knocked on his hotel-room door. It was approaching four
A
.
M
., and Dennis was already asleep, but Ann kept pounding until he stumbled out of bed and opened the door.

“Yes?” he said, looking at her groggily.

“Hi,” she said in her most seductive voice. “You don’t know me, but I think you’re the sexiest thing.”

He just stared at her for a minute, not sure if he should believe what was happening. And then he took her by the hand and said, “Come with me, young lady.”

They disappeared into the room, and in his haste Dennis forgot to make sure the door locked behind them. He let it swing shut, and I ran over and blocked it with my foot. Ann’s husband and I crept inside, slowly feeling our way through the pitch-black suite. We could just make out the shadowy figures of Dennis and Ann in the distance, and we crawled toward them, huddling on the floor just below the bed. We listened to everything: the slurping and groaning and moans of pleasure. Dennis was giving her head for the longest time, like a man who hadn’t eaten in years. Though I couldn’t see much from the darkness, judging from the violent creaking of the bed, which seemed ready to collapse on itself, it was clear she was enjoying herself.

Hours passed, and the night was fast becoming morning. Rays of yellow sunlight were streaming across the room from an open window. They finally started to screw, and Dennis was too engrossed with Ann to notice that we were just a few feet below him, admiring his feats of carnal gymnastics. The four of us were like a symphony of sounds, matching each other in perfect syncopation.

“Ugh,” Ann cried.

“Ugh,” Dennis grunted.

“Shh,” I whispered to the husband.

“Okay,” he whispered back.

We went back and forth like that as if somebody was conducting us. “Ugh.” “Ugh.” “Shh.” “Okay.” “Ugh.” “Ugh.” “Shh.” “Okay.” “Ugh.” “Ugh.” “Shh.” “Okay.”

Dennis finally had an orgasm and collapsed on the bed. While he was still heaving from exhaustion, Ann’s husband and I jumped to our feet and gave them both a standing ovation.

“It’s about damn time,” I said, glancing at my watch. “We’ve got things to fucking do, Dennis. How long does it take for you to fuck a girl anyway?”

Dennis’s face went ashen. “Who the hell is that?” he asked, pointing at the man standing next to me.

“It’s her husband,” I announced.

“
What
?”

“It’s okay,” the husband said with a laugh. “We’re big fans. I get a kick out of sharing my wife with somebody like you. And she does the same with me.”

“Do you realize what just happened here?” I told Dennis. “I saw your dick! I saw you give her head, I saw you fuck her. And you know what? It’s no big deal!”

“You’re an asshole,” Dennis growled at me.

He pretended to be angry, but I knew that everything had changed between us. He didn’t even bother to reach for his robe to cover himself. A few minutes later, he and Ann were sitting on the couch together, messing around while her husband and I watched. Whatever nervousness he once had about having sex in front of me was gone.

“We’re finally bonding, Dennis,” I said with a laugh, as Ann dropped to her knees and gulped down his penis. “Isn’t this nice? Isn’t this what friendship is
supposed
to be about?”

“Will you shut up?” he grumbled, combing back Ann’s hair for a better look. “I’m trying to concentrate here.”
*

H
ere’s a short quiz for you. What do three U.S. presidents, two prime ministers, Winston Churchill, Mother Teresa, the Dalai Lama, and I have in common? Well, if you read the Reuters news services, or the AP wire, you’d know that we’ve all lectured at Oxford University.

When I called myself a professor in sexology, did you think I was just pulling your leg? In May 2005, I was invited to Britain to do a lecture and participate in a debate on pornography at the esteemed Oxford Union, the 183-year-old institution of higher learning.

It wasn’t my first time speaking to an academic crowd. I’ve been a regular on the college-lecture circuit for close to a decade. I’ve traveled to renowned universities around the world, speaking on topics like the ethics of pornography, and sex and the law. Sometimes I’ve lectured alone and sometimes I’ve toured with feminist author Susan Cole or
Porn Nation
spokesman Michael Lahey. Both are staunch critics of adult films, but we’ve actually become friends over the years.

I know that’s not something most people want to hear. A feminist like Susan should be the sworn enemy of a pornographer. When the college kids come out to our debates, they want us to be like Mike Tyson and Lennox Lewis. They want to see pure, unadulterated hatred between us. They expect smoke to come out of our noses. When they see Susan and me socializing together before a show, sharing a dinner at a nearby restaurant, they feel betrayed.

“Relax,” I tell them, “when we hit the podium, the gloves will come off.”

Though Susan and I are firm in our convictions, we both know that it’s still entertainment. She truly does dislike the adult industry, and I think her arguments against porn are a little misguided and inherently flawed. But offstage, away from the howling crowds, we’re able to separate business from pleasure. We treat each other with mutual respect even if we don’t always agree with the other’s personal philosophies. Aw, heck, she graduated Harvard for gosh sakes.

When we sign autographs after the debates, I’m careful not to do anything that might inadvertently offend Susan. During one of our college visits, we went to a bar after the debate, and, as usual, I was surrounded by girls asking for autographs. One of them asked me to sign her boob, and, as I usually do, I turned to Susan for approval.
*
She just rolled her eyes, which is her way of saying, “Fine, do whatever you want.” The girl pulled down her blouse, and, as I was signing her left boob, I noticed that there was already a signature on the right one. I inspected it more closely.

I would recognize that handwriting anywhere.

It was Susan’s signature!

I pulled Susan over and pointed to the evidence. “Did you do this?” I said. “You, the champion of women’s rights, the adversary of pornography?
You
signed a boob?”

“So what if I did?” Susan said. “Don’t make such a big deal of it. You do it every day. Besides, she asked.”
*

I
n every city I visit, I’m faced with a new group of young people who ask more or less the same questions. They want to know, “What’s it
really
like to be a porn actor? Is it as much fun as it looks in the videos? And what can we do to make our sex lives as exciting and visually electrifying as what we see in a porno?”

Okay, kids, it’s time that I gave you the brutal truth once and for all. Grab a seat and get ready for the final installment of…

SEX Advice from DR. RON JEREMY

Part 4:
HOW TO MAKE LOVE LIKE A PORN STAR

I
remember when Jenna Jameson’s autobiography came out, and I first saw the title.

Now, I really like Jenna. We’ve done projects together (mostly mainstream) and I’m proud of her success, but I got a big kick out of the title of her book.
How to Make Love Like a Porn Star?
There’s so much wrong with that phrase I don’t even know where to begin.

First of all, porn stars don’t make love. We make like. What we do is just sex. I’m sure it looks pleasurable. Everybody in a porno movie appears to be moaning and sweating, and sometimes we’re having a swell time. But I’ve got a little secret for you. More often than not, it’s difficult work, and anybody who tells you differently is a liar.

The next time you rent a porno, take a long, hard look at what we’re actually doing. Do you see those positions? Notice how the woman’s legs are being thrust into the air at odd angles, how the guy’s torso is twisted around like a pretzel, how our bodies seem to be levitating in the air with only a trembling shinbone to support our weight. Does it
look
like we’re having fun? Do you think we’re doing those positions because it’s more stimulating than anything you have the courage or physical dexterity to try at home? The answer is no. We’re doing it because it’s
required
of us. We need to give you, the audience, the best possible view of what’s happening. If you can’t see the penetration, then a porno flick isn’t doing its job. It’s not for our pleasure, it’s for
yours
.