by Ron Jeremy
We found an empty bedroom and Christie started blowing me again. But it wasn’t working this time. I kept thinking about all the cameramen and gaffers and grips and makeup people downstairs, waiting for me and expecting me to come waltzing in with an erection that could cut glass. I needed something a little more intense to put me in the right mind-set.
“Can I ask a favor?” I said to Christie. “Would you be offended if I ate you out a little?”
“Sure,” she said with a shrug, “knock yourself out.”
I know this may surprise you, but I’ve always preferred giving head to receiving it. There’s nothing I enjoy more than being face-deep in a woman’s snatch. And though this may sound like bragging, I’m very good at it. Maybe it’s because I like to eat. Vagina, lasagna, whatever.
It was working. My penis was beginning to show signs of life. Just to be on the safe side, I stood up and rubbed it against her pussy. I didn’t insert it, just rubbed the tip against her lips. That was another technique of mine, which I’d been using since my teens. There was a time when girls called me Ron “Just the Tip” Jeremy. It’s not as penetrating as actual sex, and I’ve found that it’s the perfect way to get a girl nice and wet, because you’re rubbing the clitoris under the hood.
Sometimes, when I was about to have actual sex (often anal), a girl would say, “I don’t know if this will work,” or “You’re too big.”
“How big is your boyfriend?” I’d ask.
“Six inches.”
“Fine. I’ll only put in four.”
It worked every time. And the excitement of just being in the vicinity of a vagina was usually enough to make me hornier than a dog in heat.
Though my erection was as stiff as could be expected, I wanted to be sure. No point in returning to the set only to go limp again. Perhaps something a bit more adventurous would ensure that my boner stayed at attention.
“Do you mind if we screw?” I asked Christie. “Just a stroke or two?”
“Sure,” she said, with enough enthusiasm to let me know that she wasn’t just being polite.
“Want to just ride me?”
“Sure,” she said. She threw me to the bed and jumped on top of me, slipping my cock inside her without the slightest hesitation.
It was at that exact moment that a PA came barging into the room. “Are you about ready here?”
“Almost,” I muttered.
It took him a minute to realize what was happening. “What the hell? Are you out of your mind?”
“Don’t worry,” I told him. “I know what I’m doing.”
He stifled a laugh. “Y’know, Samantha is more than happy to fuck you. You didn’t need to save it for the fluffer.”
Christie, a consummate professional, could feel that I was coming dangerously close to cumming and promptly jumped off of me. I stood up, shoved the PA out of the way, and bolted toward the door.
I tumbled down the stairs, screaming at the top of my lungs, my massive boner waving in the air like a pendulum.
“Roll! Roll! Roll! Roll the cameras! Roll the cameras!!”
I saw my first porno film in 1969, when I was just sixteen years old.
Actually, I’m not sure if it counted. The only reason it could’ve been called porn at all was because it had the word pornography in the title. It was called Pornography in Denmark, a documentary about the first country to legalize adult films. By today’s standards, it wasn’t even scandalous enough to shock the typical PBS viewer. But when my dad announced that he was taking me to the American premiere at the Mayfair Theater in Fresh Meadows, Queens, I was so excited that I couldn’t sleep for a week. All I could think was, “I’m going to see a movie about boobies. Boobies, boobies, boobies. What god did I please?”
As it turned out, boobies in Denmark were hard to come by, even in a documentary about boobies. There were plenty of ancient-looking sexologists talking about boobies. But when it came to actually showing us boobies, they were apparently in short supply.
Things slightly improved during the summer of 1972, when Deep Throat opened in New York. I was nineteen at the time, and less interested in seeing other people have sex than doing it myself. But with all the media hullabaloo surrounding the film, I was at least curious enough to check it out. I went with a date to the Mayfair, which probably wasn’t the best of ideas. This was no Pornography in Denmark. Deep Throat featured lots of explicit hard-core sex with very little left to the imagination, which isn’t exactly the sort of thing you want to watch with a prudish date. Luckily, the rest of the movie was pretty goofy, so we made the most of an awkward situation by mocking the terrible acting and sloppy production values.
Though I wasn’t very impressed with Deep Throat as a porno, I wasn’t so jaded that I couldn’t appreciate Linda Lovelace’s fellatio skills. Her technique was, if nothing else, unique. She didn’t take the entire shaft in one gulp. She’d break a blow job down into stages. She’d take a penis into her throat almost to the point where it hit her epiglottis, and then she’d pause for a moment before sucking the rest of it down. It was as if she was deciding just how much she’d need to expand her throat to fit the rest of it inside. She’d make a cute little grunting noise—an “unngh” sound—and then boom, the penis would be gone, right down to the balls.
Harry Reems, Lovelace’s costar, wasn’t exactly small in the cock department. How she got all of him inside without his dick popping out the back of her head was a miracle. I was just in awe. It wasn’t until years later that I learned a trick that Little Oral Annie used to do. Before a blow-job scene, she would cover her gums with butter or margarine. Apparently the lubrication made it easier for a cock to slide naturally inside and keep right on going.
A few years later, I saw the sequel, Deep Throat 2, in the Catskills. There was a drive-in movie down on Route 42 that showed adult movies exclusively, so I went with some of my teaching friends from Crystal Run. It was horrible. There wasn’t any actual sex in it. It barely passed for soft core. My friends and I were outraged and left halfway through. I found out later that Arrow, the company that produced the original Deep Throat, was being investigated by the FBI, so they decided to make two different versions of the sequel: one an X-rated version and the other a softer, less-explicit R-rated version. The X-rated reels were stolen from the lab, so the company had no choice but to release the R-rated version. It flopped, of course, because who wants to see Deep Throat without any deep throating?*
I went to see a few other adult films when I lived in the Catskills, mostly at the insistence of my friends. I didn’t find them particularly erotic, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to jerk off to any of them. For the record, I’ve never jerked off to porn. When I was a kid, I occasionally masturbated to Gilligan’s Island and I Dream of Jeannie. I still prefer Mary Ann to Ginger. But jerking to porn just seemed too obvious.
It never crossed my mind that a career in adult films might be something I’d want to pursue. The actors weren’t really actors, after all. They were just stunt people who could handle some dialogue. They were movable body parts hired to reenact fantasies. I wanted to be a thespian, performing great plays on Broadway or starring in major motion pictures. I wanted to be appreciated for something other than the size of my penis, or my ability to fuck in front of a camera. No, I thought, the very idea is preposterous. Not even worth considering.
It’s funny how quickly your entire outlook can change.
In 1978, not long after my Playgirl spread, an acting friend arranged for me to meet Jim Sandberg, a New York–based director who’d made a name for himself with low-budget B movies. I was beside myself with excitement. It was my first contact with a legitimate filmmaker, and I was ready to take whatever role he offered.
“I hate to break this to you,” Jim told me when I called. “I don’t really make B movies anymore. I’m mostly doing X-rated stuff these days.”
My heart sank. “Oh, well that’s—”
“Have you ever thought about doing an adult film?” he asked.
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“Not really,” I said, being totally honest.
“We could use a guy like you. I’ve seen some of your theater credits, and I’m very impressed. You studied with Dr. Stephen Macht and Joel Zwick* of La MaMa, isn’t that right?”
“Yeah.”
“I also saw you in a production of Salome. That was probably the best interpretation of King Herod I’ve ever seen.”
“Thanks.” I was blown away. He seemed to know more about my theater career than most of my closest friends.
“And, of course, I had to sneak a peek at you in Playgirl. Not bad at all. If you don’t mind my saying, you have an extraordinary penis.”
I had no clue how to respond to that.
He offered me a small part on his latest film, All About Gloria Leonard, based on the memoirs of the female publisher of High Society magazine.
“No,” I said, a bit too quickly. “No, I think I’ll pass.”
“Okay,” he said, unable to hide his disappointment. “Well, if you ever change your mind, feel free to call me. I’m sure I can find something for you.”
I spent the rest of the week telling myself that I’d made the right decision. But all around me was mounting evidence that I had made a mistake. Since the mainstream success of Deep Throat, adult films had achieved a legitimacy that would’ve been unthinkable just years earlier. Porn directors were no longer stringing together unrelated sex scenes with flimsy or nonexistent story lines; they were creating actual plots with compelling characters. Gone was the silly hamming of Deep Throat. The new breed of adult actors performed, in some ways, with the intensity and commitment of a trained Broadway player.
Even more surprising was the crossover potential. In the days of porn loops and stag films during the 1960s, there was a clear line between adult and mainstream actors. But thanks to the growing popularity of porn, it was beginning to change. Georgina Spelvin, who starred in the original Broadway production of The Pajama Game, took a break from theater to appear in The Devil in Miss Jones, and it only helped her career. Marilyn Chambers, who became an overnight sensation in the porn classic Behind the Green Door, was cast as the lead in the David Cronenberg film Rabid, and nobody in Hollywood questioned whether the public would buy a porno actress in a nonsexual role.
The floodgates had opened, and porn was no longer a shameful profession dominated by drug addicts and filth mongers. It could be a very real stepping-stone into the mainstream, and it seemed as if I was the only actor in New York who hadn’t figured it out yet.*
But I wasn’t ready just yet to jump blindly into the porn trade. Before I made such a monumental, life-altering decision, I needed to talk to my dad.
He listened silently as I explained it all to him. I told him that I wasn’t looking to stay in adult films forever. It would just be a temporary thing, just long enough to get a few film credits under my belt. I told him about the director I’d spoken to, Jim Sandberg, who was widely considered to be one of the best foreign-sex-film directors of all time. I wasn’t putting myself in the hands of some hack smut peddler, I told him. This guy was a genius. A respected filmmaker who could feasibly help my acting career.
“Well,” my dad said after a long and thoughtful pause, “I guess, if you think it sounds like a good idea, you know more than me.”
“Really?” I hadn’t expected it to be so easy.
“You’ve been in Playgirl, so people have already seen you nude.” “That’s exactly what I thought!”
“At least you’re performing in front of a camera—and there’s some story line to it, and you’re doing some acting. If you really think this is a wise choice, you have my permission. But I do hope you go on to better things.”
I hugged him so hard, I nearly broke his neck. “Just one thing,” he said, his face buried in my chest.
“Anything.”
“If you use the name Hyatt, I’ll kill you.”
I could only imagine that, somewhere downstairs, my grandmother was thinking exactly the same thing.
Do you want me to cum now?”
The entire crew was staring at me, as if I had just sprouted wings and a tail. I wondered if I was being too presumptuous. Maybe I should just shut up and do as I was told. I didn’t want to be branded as difficult before I’d even finished my first scene.
“Uh, yeah,” the director, Jim Sandberg, said. “You think you can?”
I didn’t just think I could, I knew I could. Cumming had never been a problem for me. Once I have an erection, I could time my orgasms literally down to the second. I could stall for hours or pop within seconds, depending on my mood. In my social life, this was nothing more than a mildly amusing trick. But, as it turned out, on the set of a porno film, it was a valuable and rare commodity.
“Sure,” I said. “Just tell me when you need it.”
The director and crew shook their heads in amazement. “Wow,” a gaffer muttered under his breath. “This guy is good.”
“Can you do it in one minute?” Jim asked.
“Yeah, no problem.” I glanced at my watch. “One minute and counting.”
Samantha laughed, which didn’t exactly help matters. Any contraction in her vagina was enough to make me cum ahead of schedule. But I managed to cling to what remained of my willpower and continue the scene.
Samantha was riding on top of me, grinding onto my cock with violent thrusts. Normally, this is a dangerous position for me; it’s when I have the least amount of control. When a guy is on top or doing doggy, he can control his strokes, slowing down or speeding up as needed to keep from exploding. But when the girl is on top, she has complete control. If she decided that she’s going to pound away at you at lightning speed, there’s not a damn thing you can do to stop her.
To make this work and cum on command, I would have to draw on some juju magic.
I was fighting an uphill battle, especially considering that I was working with a sexual hellcat like Samantha. She wouldn’t just fuck you, she’d rip you to shreds. She had incredible control of her pussy muscles. I didn’t think it was possible for an orifice to have such powerful suction. It was like putting your penis into the circulation pump of a swimming pool, but without the nuisance of spinning blades.
“Okay, let’s get the pop shot, please,” Jim announced.
Thank God, I thought. It’s about fucking time.
The set went eerily quiet as they awaited my orgasm. I pulled out of Samantha, and she jerked me off as I popped into the air. And let me tell you, I came gallons. The sperm came blasting out of me in a torrent, like somebody had replaced my penis with a hose and turned it up full blast.
Samantha continued to jerk my penis, squeezing out every last drop, then turned to the camera to deliver her final line: “Did you see that juice?” she asked. “Tigresses always get their milk.”
It was all I could do to keep from laughing. “Tigresses always get their milk?” Who wrote this stuff?
Jim called for the cameras to cut, and the entire crew burst into applause. I wasn’t sure if they were applauding me or Samantha, but I felt a surge of pride nonetheless.
“Holy shit, kid,” Samantha said with a wicked grin. “Where’d all that sperm come from?”
I smiled back at her, and with a completely straight face, I said, “Chicken soup.”
That’s right, chicken soup. When I was growing up, chicken soup was a medical necessity in our house. My grandmother used to call it “Jewish penicillin.” Whatever is ailing you, chicken soup will take care of it. I ate so much chicken soup during my youth that it was practically coming out of my ears. If chicken soup could cure any number of diseases, well, it was only logical that it could have other benefits, like increased semen production.
Of course, I didn’t really believe that. I knew it was bullshit. But it was less embarrassing than the truth.
The real reason that I came so hard was that I held back. When I learned that I had the job, I didn’t have sex for a week. I wanted to make a good first impression,
and cumming like Niagara Falls seemed like the best way to do that.
“Chicken soup?” Jim asked. “Seriously?”
It was too late to change my story now. “Yeah,” I said. “A bowl of chicken soup two hours before sex. Works every time.”
Little did I know that I had inadvertently started one of the biggest insider myths in the New York porn world. Word spread quickly around the set, and by the time I returned upstairs to get dressed, two of the actors had already sent out PAs to get chicken soup.
“Thanks for the tip,” one of them told me.
Years later, chicken soup would become a common sight on porn sets. I’d show up for a shoot and find cans littering the dressing room. Even Samantha Fox’s boyfriend, porn actor Bobby Astyr, bought into the folklore. Whenever I’d see him, he’d invariably have a few bowls of soup heating nearby.
“Oh yeah,” he’d explain. “It makes you cum like a volcano. Chicken soup is very good for you.”
“Well, sure,” I’d say. “But not for sperm!”
When I left the set, I went straight over to my sister Susie’s apartment; she lived just a few blocks away. I burst inside and screamed, “I did it!”
“Oh my God,” Susie squealed. “You really went through with it?”
“I did! It was amazing! I popped and everything!”
Susie took a step away. “Okay, I probably didn’t need that last bit of information. But thanks for sharing.”
In just a few weeks, my feature-film debut was out in theaters. It was called Tigresses…and Other Maneaters, and I was one of the first in line to see it. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to being a little disappointed. When they finally got to my scene, it took me a minute to recognize myself. You couldn’t even see my face! I was just a headless torso, and the top half of me was completely out of the frame.
“What the hell?” I grumbled, unaware that I was speaking out loud. “I spent an hour in makeup, and they didn’t even shoot my goddamn face!”
“Will you keep it down?” a man sitting nearby yelled at me.
I mumbled an apology and eased back into my seat. A part of me wanted to turn to him and say, “Listen, jerk, you see that huge pecker up there on the screen, shooting off like a fireworks show made entirely of viscous fluids? That’s me, asshole.”