by Ron Jeremy
Mandy and I visited the rock often during our courtship. Our first attempt at sex wasn’t exactly one for the record books. We never slowed down long enough to get undressed, so we had to make do with dry humping, though I did manage to cum in my shorts. We tried again a few weeks later, and this time we had the forethought actually to get naked. But even with this obvious advantage, it was only slightly more successful. I say “slightly” because, though I did achieve penetration, I’m not entirely sure if it was her that I penetrated. In my haste, I had put the rubber on backward, and the lubricated side was rubbing against my penis. So I basically screwed the rubber. Whether I was actually inside Mandy, well, your guess is as good as mine. It felt like I was, but it’s hard to say. I might have just been resting my cock against her pelvis while I fucked the living shit out of a well-lubed condom.
And that was how I lost my virginity. Maybe. Depending on your point of view.
The funny thing is, I thought we were being creative. I thought that we alone had discovered this rock, and we had brilliantly picked it as the ideal setting for a bit of covert nookie. But when I bragged to my friends about our encounter, instead of applauding me for my ingenuity, they said, “You mean the rock over by lot 46? That’s where I lost it, too.”
“Seriously?” I asked them, stunned and a little hurt.
“Oh, yeah. My older brother told me about it. He’s been using it for years. And our dad lost his virginity there, and our grandfather. Everybody goes there.”
As it turned out, the lot 46 rock was Grand Central for underage sex in Bayside. It was a miracle that we didn’t run into another couple heading there to do the very same thing. That it wasn’t covered in used condoms and graffiti boasting of sexual conquests probably attests to the fact that it was, and remains, one of the neighborhood’s most revered and closely guarded secrets.
Until today, anyway. Sorry about that, guys.
Not long after our sorta-maybe-kinda sex, Mandy and I stopped seeing each other. We were never technically dating to begin with, so there wasn’t much of a relationship to fall apart. I eventually became involved with a nice Jewish girl from Little Neck named Karen. I’m not sure why I chose her as a steady girlfriend. Maybe it was the convenience—we both went to the same high school and took many of the same classes. Or maybe it was our shared interests—she was an actress, too, and we performed in several plays together. But in the back of my mind, I was still pining for Mandy, though I didn’t have the guts to admit it yet.
Karen and I were having sex—actual sex, not just fucking a condom—and I soon learned that Mandy had moved on as well. She was seeing a guy named Charlie, who was older than me, better looking, and considerably more experienced. Just the idea of her fucking Charlie was enough to give me nightmares. I could see it all so clearly: Charlie crawling on top of her and pumping his eighteen-year-old penis into her, as she howled with ecstasy and scratched her fingers down his brawny shoulders. Oh God, it was horrible. I’d wake up some mornings in a cold sweat. (It was later that I realized that romance made me more jealous than just sex.)
A few months later, Mandy and I started dating again, and we didn’t waste a moment making up for lost time. We screwed at every opportunity, regardless of whether it was safe to do so. We screwed in bedrooms, in the backseats of cars, at her family’s summer home in upstate New York, on a canoe drifting down the Delaware River—any place where we could find even a few seconds of privacy. I discovered an elementary school in Little Neck where the windows were left unlocked at night. Telling our parents that we were at the movies, we’d sneak out to the school, shimmy through the windows, and then proceed to have sex in every classroom in the building. At one point, we even screwed on a few tables in the cafeteria. Because the school had running water, we were able to take a sponge bath afterward and come home without the telltale “sex funk” that might have otherwise given us away. It was our escape from the outside world, and sometimes we’d just lie for hours on the dirty hallway floors, cuddled together on a blanket and counting the constellations on the insulated ceiling tiles.
Photographic Insert I
Even as a young kid I was always ready for the camera.
My mother was a spy during World War II. These are her identification papers.
My father, Arnold, fighting in the Philippine jungle during World War II.
My cousin Eliot Weiss won the Purple Heart and the Airman’s Citation of Honor for his heroics during the Battle of the Bulge.
With one of my first girlfriends.
June 1971, with another early girlfriend.
On the beach in Miami, Florida.
One of my earliest publicity shots, when I was still known as Ron Hyatt.
A great publicity shot that Hollywood Video used.
Teaching two girls how to canoe down the Delaware River. I earned a Boy Scout Merit Badge for it and I still go canoeing every summer.
This layout, which I did in 1980, was a period piece.
John Holmes acting as my gay lover.
Some early porn flicks had elaborate costumes—here I am in character for Pink Lagoon (a Gourmet Collectors film), shot in Hawaii.
By 1984 I was considered very knowledgeable in the world of adult film, so Adrian Lynne asked me to be a consultant on the film 9½ Weeks. Kim Basinger is on the right.
With director Adrian Lyne at the wrap party for 9½ Weeks. (Photograph © Peter Merl)
With a young Jim Carrey and Freddy Asparagus at the Comedy Store in L.A.
Sam Kinison was a good friend of mine. We always had a blast.
I like to think that I can transform myself into almost any character, and here I am on the set of Caged Fury with James Hong.
With Adam Rifkin on the set of Bone Chillers, which ABC-TV played on Saturday mornings. I played Blister Face.
In character for Adam Rifkin and Steve Bing’s Without Charlie.
As Mussolini in a XXX World War II parody.
In costume on a Mark Carriere-produced XXX film.
I admit it, I love to eat! (Courtesy “Dirty Bob” Krotts)
I look better with a little hare on my chest—get it? (Courtesy of Fantastic Pictures and John T. Bone/Metro Studios)
At the Adult Expo with Night Moves magazine, in Tampa. That’s Felizia Fox on the left. (Courtesy “Dirty Bob” Krotts)
With Kayla Kleevage. “Got Milk?” (Courtesy Kleevco)
Here I am as Dr. Ron (and look how truly frightened I appear!) (Courtesy Immaculate Video Conceptions and Tiffany Million)
Good times with the late, great Anna Malle (R.I.P.). (Courtesy “Dirty Bob” Krotts)
Getting lipstick on my dipstick in Tampa, Florida. (Courtesy “Dirty Bob” Krotts)
I love foreplay because it gives the girls goose bumps if you do it right. It starts with goose bumps and within ten minutes you have an eight-man, interracial, anal, dwarf, bukkake, cream-pie gangbang. (Courtesy Klinger Video Entertainment)
I was once honored by PETA as an ambassador of goodwill, and here I am consulting with some of the experts. Two dolphins double-teamed me for an aquatic kiss.
Another expert—a female walrus…. Hey, I’ve done worse!
Cherry the Tortoise, my pet (as seen on The Surreal Life).
Yes, that’s a rat. A hairless one, named Fetus. Howie Mandel had her before me. He called her Chemo.
With a baby lamb from a British TV show called The Farm. She was born ill and I helped nurse her back to health. She kissed me on the nose as thank-you.
In 2002, Adult Video News proclaimed me the Top Porn Star of All Time. (Courtesy Adult Video News)
In 2003 I joined the cast of The Surreal Life (first on the WB and later on VH1), with Traci Bingham, Vanilla Ice, Tammi Faye Messner, Trishelle Cannatella, and Erik Estrada. (© WB/Brett Panelli)
Here are some of my more recent publicity shots. I can be whatever you want me to be. Ladies, please have a seat on this page so I can brag that you all sat on my face….
Ron Jeremy—Suave and Debonair
? (Courtesy Metro Studios)
Ron Jeremy—Hustler and Sportsman? (Courtesy Metro Studios)
Ron Jeremy—Refined and Sophisticated? Ladies, a toast: “Here’s to you…on my schmekel!” (Courtesy Metro Studios)
Ron Jeremy—Friendly Neighborhood Porn Star!
I love public speaking and try to do as much of it as possible. Check your local newspaper—I may be coming to a town near you!
But even though I was falling in love with Mandy, on the side, I was still seeing Karen who had proven to be more than a passing fancy. Oh, I know what you’re thinking, but it wasn’t cheating! Mandy was well aware that I was still screwing around with Karen. In fact, she had her fair share of boy toys, and I was fine with it. Our relationship was becoming serious, but it was by no means exclusive.
At a young age, I was very clear on the distinction between love and sex. Mandy could fuck anybody she wanted, and it never bothered me. She could’ve gone back to Charlie and his brawny shoulders for all I cared. Because Mandy and I had something more significant than just sex. Sex just for sex’s sake doesn’t mean anything. What would’ve made me insane with jealousy is if I ever found out that Mandy was cuddling with somebody. Oh God, the mere thought of it was enough to make my blood boil. Anything that seemed too romantic was off limits, as far as I was concerned. She couldn’t take a walk in the park with a guy and hold his hand, and I wasn’t crazy about candlelight dinners either. But cuddling was so out of bounds, it wasn’t even open for discussion. Cuddling was intimate. No, no, no cuddling! You put the dick in, you take it out, you walk away, end of story. You want to cuddle? Come see me.
I thought we had the perfect arrangement, but apparently Mandy didn’t feel the same way. One day, completely out of the blue, she put her foot down.
“I’m going to stop seeing other guys,” she told me. “And I want you to stop seeing other girls.”
“Okay,” I said. I couldn’t argue with her. I didn’t like the idea of having sex with just one person, but I was too much in love with Mandy to protest.
She gave me a disbelieving look, as if she knew I didn’t completely understand. “That means Karen, too,” she added.
“O-okay,” I said with a gulp. “I’ll stop seeing her.”
“That’s not good enough,” she said. “I want you to break up with her.”
“Is that really necessary?”
“Yes,” she said firmly. “You need to tell her in person. She won’t give you up unless you say the words. Do it today.”
I was like putty in her hands. What choice did I have?
So I slinked over to Karen’s house and told her that it was over between us. It took me a while to find the right words. I didn’t want to hurt her, but I didn’t know how to break up with her gracefully. She listened silently as I stammered and overexplained, trying to make her understand. She didn’t try to change my mind. She knew that she couldn’t compete with my feelings for Mandy. It was probably one of the most painful things I’d ever done in my life. I hated every minute of it.
We sat on her bed, and she cried, and I was helpless to do anything to make it better.
It was the first and only time that I ever dumped a girl.
I’m not sure why Mandy and I eventually drifted apart. There were a lot of reasons I could point to. For one thing, I graduated early from high school and enrolled in Queens College, where I was hanging out with a very different crowd. But more than that, our lifestyles were becoming increasingly disparate.
A few years into our relationship, I learned that Mandy was taking drugs. Not just pot, but the harder stuff, like LSD. She had started experimenting when she was still dating Charlie, who socialized with Jamaican foreign-exchange students and had access to all the drugs he could handle. I didn’t know it at the time, but Mandy was regularly sneaking into the girls’ bathroom at our school to do drugs with her friends. It was a world that I couldn’t have known less about. I never tried drugs; I never even had an interest in them. I smoked pot a few times during school field trips and didn’t care for it. Mandy was a different story. She loved getting high, and I didn’t have a clue how to help her.
She visited me occasionally at Queens College, and during the summers when I worked as a waiter at the Catskills. But her visits became less and less frequent. The last time I saw her, she was at a drug rehabilitation center in New Jersey. I heard from a friend that she kicked the habit and went to college, where she got straight A’s, and that she was now working at a lab for a major chemical company. But she never contacted me again. To this day, I still don’t know where she is and what she’s doing with her life.
I still think about Mandy sometimes, and I remember the shivers that used to shoot down my spine when I looked at her. I know that everybody looks back at their first love with rose-colored glasses. But on some days, it still seems unreal, like something that I just imagined but never really experienced. Sex has never been so innocent for me since. It’s odd to think that there was a time when one girl might’ve been enough to make me happy, when all I wanted was to sit on the cold floor of a dark and abandoned school and count the pretend stars on the ceiling tiles.
My very first performance as the talking Statue of Liberty.
chapter 2
CATSKILLS-A-GO-GO
Ken was giggling so loudly he was about to blow our cover.
“Oh my God,” he sniggered. “I can’t believe we’re actually doing this.”
“Will you shut up? They’re going to hear us.”
Ken and I were hiding behind the desk in his office, peering over it like hunters on the prowl for a cartoon rabbit. We’d been waiting there for almost ten minutes, and there was still no sign of our dates.
“Why are they taking so long?” Ken muttered. “The suspense is killing me.”
“They’ll be here,” I assured him. “Just be patient.”
The dates we were awaiting so eagerly were hardly our girlfriends. They were a pair of Borscht Bunnies whom we’d bedded the night before. “Borscht Bunnies” or “Bungalow Bunnies” were terms coined in the Catskills, meaning, “married women who love boinking younger guys.”
Allow me to explain.
Every summer, rich couples from Manhattan would drive up to the Catskills for the weekend, wining and dining at the best resorts that money could buy. On Monday, the husbands would return to the city (and, one could only assume, to their mistresses) while their wives stayed behind. They were lonely, armed with their husband’s credit cards, and ready to play. By “play” I mean, of course, have as much sex as possible with as many hot young boys as possible, which usually meant the resort’s staff of easily seduced waiters and busboys.
Well, as luck would have it, on this particular summer in 1975, I just so happened to be a maître d’ at one of the poshest resorts in the Catskills: Gasthalter’s Paramount Hotel. The moment I spotted these two Borscht Bunnies in the Paramount dining room, flirting and drinking wine, I knew it was going to be a good night.
I called my friend Ken, and we met up with the ladies for a few drinks after my shift. Several cocktails later, we invited them back to our room at the Flagler Hotel. There was just one thing we forgot to mention to them. It wasn’t actually the Flagler Hotel anymore. The Flagler had gone out of business years ago. It was now the Crystal Run School for the Mentally Challenged.
A small technicality, really.
Ken and I both worked at Crystal Run. Ken was the in-house psychologist, and I was teaching part time while I finished my master’s degree in special education at Queens College.* During the week, I taught Academics of Daily Living to children with learning and emotional disabilities. No, really. I showed them the proper way to brush their teeth. I took them to the local fire station and taught them about fighting fires. I took them on field trips to the bank and gave them each a quarter to open an account. I was actually pretty good at my job. There was a time when I believed it might be what I was destined to do with my life.
Ken and
I lived in the staff quarters on the top floor, which had many of the same furnishings from when it had been the Flagler Hotel. There were elegant rooms, an Olympic-size swimming pool, the works. So anyone visiting might reasonably think that it was a hotel.
At three A.M., the building was completely empty, so we had the entire grounds to ourselves. We took a dip in the pool before splitting off into pairs and retiring back to our respective rooms. Though my Borscht Bunny couldn’t have been more than forty-five, I’d never been with an older woman before, so it was a novelty to me. It was like having my own personal Mrs. Robinson. And she clearly had some built-up sexual frustration, because she fucked like a caged lion. I was in the prime of my sexual prowess and no slouch in the sack, but this lady literally screwed the living crap out of me.
The next morning, I woke up early and dragged Ken out of bed. By the time the girls opened their bloodshot eyes, we were already dressed and heading for the door. Though Ken assumed that I was just planning a quick getaway, I had something far more devious in mind.