by Ron Jeremy
I tried to offer my advice. “Don’t you need something a little more exploitive?” I asked Trey. “You don’t have any major stars in this film. It’s not going to play to the art-house crowd. Maybe you should think about showing a little more skin?”
Trey laughed at me. “Ronnie,” he said, “you just don’t get it.”
Though he wasn’t interested in T&A, he was willing to jeopardize his R rating because of a single line of dialogue. In one of the scenes, a porn actress explains just how far she’ll go to stay gainfully employed. “I’m the only one in town who’ll do a double anal and double vaginal at the same time,” she says. “You know, DVDA. It’s how I still manage to get work.” He refused to cut it, and, as a result, Orgazmo was slapped with an NC-17 rating. An NC-17 rating is the equivalent of an X. Most of the theaters in Middle America won’t pick up an NC-17 movie because it cuts down on their potential audience.
I begged with Trey to reconsider. “Please,” I said, “just cut the line, and everybody will be happy. Is it really worth having a limited release just so you can save one lousy gag?”
“Ron,” he said. “I don’t like succumbing to pressure.”
“Can’t you just compromise this one time?”
“Let me tell you a little story,” he said. “When some of the backers at October Films heard that you were in this movie, they tried to get me to fire you or give you a much smaller role. But I told them no. I wouldn’t even discuss it. Ron Jeremy stays in. If I had let them bully me, the first thing we would’ve lost is you.”
I thought about it and said, “Y’know, you’re right. You have to put your foot down. Don’t let those bastards push you around!”
But not all of Trey’s choices were so easy to get behind. The film had its own internal logic that just baffled me. In one scene, a black guy was brought in as a stunt cock for a white guy’s sex scene. Aside from the naked male asses, the only real nudity was a morbidly obese woman dressed in a skimpy bikini. After my character was killed, he reappeared a few minutes later, his head fully intact.
“What a minute,” I asked Trey. “Didn’t I die? How did I come back to life? What happened?”
“Ronnie,” he said. “You just don’t get it.”
I finally saw the complete film at a screening in Beverly Hills.* Trey had kept in all of my scenes, including the martial-arts kicks (which I’d done without a stuntman). There was a method to Trey’s madness that I never noticed before. The comedic special effects, the plot inconsistencies, the absurd overacting, it was all played with a wink to the audience.
As the credits rolled, I turned to Trey, who was staring at me with a shit-eating grin.
“Well?” he asked.
“Trey,” I said slowly, “I get it.”
Trey stood up and waved to the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced. “Ron Jeremy gets it!”
Over the years, I’ve been fairly lucky when it’s come to filmmakers. Every director who promised me a role—or even an audition—has usually come through. There’s been only one notable exception:
Alex.**
Alex worked for a major production company in L.A. When he and his assistant asked to visit a few of my porn sets, I was happy to accommodate them. On one occasion, they even asked to bring along the head of their studio—let’s call him Mr. Big—who was a major player in Hollywood. But in a strange twist of fate, the sprinkler system at our location accidentally went off, dousing the furniture and most of the lighting equipment. We had to cancel the shoot at the last minute, and Alex and Mr. Big were unable to reschedule.
In exchange for my hospitality, Alex and his assistant promised to get me an audition for at least one of the films they were developing. Months went by, and I didn’t get so much as a phone call. Alex eventually became a major executive at his studio, with enough power and influence to green-light projects on his own. But still, I heard nothing from him. Several of his movies went into production, and I never got anywhere near a film set, much less an audition.
I got my revenge sooner than I expected (and totally by accident). When the Heidi Fleiss prostitution scandal broke in 1993, the tabloids reported that Alex may have been one of Heidi’s regular clients. It was just speculation, but nobody in Hollywood was surprised by the stories. The real shocker came (at least for me) when I learned that I was at least partially responsible.
Years earlier, I had introduced Alex to a few of my lady friends (including porn star Taylor Wayne). When he asked for a girl to entertain at a bachelor party, I suggested that he contact Veronica, my roommate and a college student majoring in physics. I knew that she danced occasionally for extra dough, but I had no clue that she was also doing escort work for Heidi Fleiss.
Veronica told me everything. After the bachelor party, she and Alex had some form of sex at the Bel Age Hotel in West Hollywood. (I’m not sure if money was exchanged, and I never asked.) They hung out a few times after that, and he met her friends, including—and here’s the kicker—Heidi Fleiss! Alex ended up hiring some of Heidi’s escorts,* and the rest, as they say, is tabloid history.
I was stunned that I’d been so naïve. Not just because I had played an innocent, unsuspecting role in introducing Alex to Heidi Fleiss, but because my roommate had been an escort and I’d never had any idea.
“I can’t believe this,” I told her. “You really have sex for money?”
“Yes.” She grinned at me. “So do you, y’know.”
She had a point. But the fact that we both made our living in sex was where the similarities between our two professions ended. I had fought hard to prove as much after my pandering arrests. What I did involved cameras and photography and stills and video. It was intended for entertainment, which separated us from prostitution.
But this was the real deal. This was prostitution. Whatever my personal feelings about the morality of escort services, it was still against the law.
I asked Veronica politely to move out of our apartment. I couldn’t risk being linked to prostitution. There were too many ways it could blow up in my face. She was a sweetheart about it, and she agreed that it would be for the best if she found her own place. So she moved next door, and as I said earlier…still best friends fifteen years and counting.
As for Alex, he was never charged with soliciting a prostitute, but the public scrutiny and tabloid headlines were punishment enough. I felt strangely vindicated by it all. He had used me and ignored me, and as penance he was thrust into a scandal that just so happened to involve my roommate.
Well, that’s karma for you.
I’m sometimes asked if I have any advice for young actors looking to break into Hollywood. Here’s what I tell them. Bend down and take a fifty-yard dash into a brick wall. You’ll be knocked unconscious, and when you wake up you’ll realize it was a mistake and you’ll find something better to do with your life.
That’s it. That’s my advice. To be an actor in Hollywood, you have to be the world’s biggest idiot.
Just this morning, a producer for VH1’s Pop-Up Video called me with a pitch.
“Okay, Ron, hear me out,” he said. “I’m working on a show that I think you’d be perfect for.”
“Great,” I said. “I’ll do it.”
“You—you’ll do it? But…you don’t even know what the idea is yet.”
“Doesn’t matter. The answer’s yes. You have the interest of a studio or network?”
“Uh…we’re hoping.”
“You have the funds to shoot it?”
“I think so.”
“Then I don’t give a fuck what the idea is. I love it. Count me in. You can tell them that Ron Jeremy said yes. Put it in writing. Fax me something to sign, and I’ll fax it back. Just tell me when you want me on the set.”
“But I didn’t—”
I hung up on him. There was nothing else to discuss. I don’t want to waste time going over details. If a studio or network wants it, I’m happy to do whatever it is. You want to do a reality serie
s about Ron Jeremy cleaning his shoes? Great. Put me on a farm and have me shovel horse manure? I’ll do it. Cruise around Sunset with some half-naked girls? Fine. Whatever. I don’t care. I’m not that picky. I’m a performer. That’s what I do, I entertain.
I’ve gotten too excited about too many film or TV projects that have gone nowhere. My apartment is piled high with nonfinanced scripts that were rejected by the studios. I don’t even bother to read them anymore. It’s too heartbreaking. You have a concept? The answer is yes, I’ll do it. When you have a studio or network behind it, then I’ll meet with you.
“No, no,” the producers will say. “We have a great track record with the studios. They really want to work with us.”
“Oh,” I’ll say, “then the answer is definitely yes.”
“But I haven’t told you the idea.”
“I love your idea.”
Twenty years ago, I would have gladly jumped through hoops if I thought it might get me an acting job. But I just don’t have the energy for the game anymore. Some days, I’ll wake up and think, That’s it. I’m done. I don’t want any more disappointment. If it’s not a real offer, I’d rather skip lunch, stay home, and play with my pet tortoise.
But then, just like that, everything changes.
As I was writing this chapter, I got a call from my friend Ben. I’m up for a small role in a new George Clooney–produced movie. I’m being considered for the part of a Russian spy. It’s a long shot, but they want to give me a reading.
So, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go practice my Russian accent.
On the set of Put It in Reverse. (Courtesy Zane Entertainment)
chapter 14
IT’S GOOD TO BE THE KING
It’s a defining moment in a guy’s life when he realizes that his penis is more famous than he is.
I’ve always known that my large endowment was responsible for at least some of my popularity. You can’t get very far in porn if you’re hung like a mosquito bite.
I once did a funny little skit about the notoriety of my penis for a porn film called WPINK-TV 2. Do you remember those American Express commercials from the 1980s? Karl Malden flashes his credit card and says, “Don’t leave home without it.” Well, we did a parody of that commercial, with me substituting for Karl Malden. “People don’t always recognize me,” I said to the camera. “And my credit card doesn’t help one bit. That’s why I carry”—and the camera panned down to my crotch—“my penis. Don’t leave home without it.”
Wherever I go, there’s always a chance that some stranger will ask to “see it.” I’m at a party in Hollywood. “Hey, show us your cock.” I’m shopping at the grocery store. “Hey, show us your cock.” I’m visiting with my rabbi at the local synagogue. “Hey, show us your cock.” They’re around every corner, just waiting for me to drop my pants and wave my penis at them like I’m a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade float.
But that doesn’t mean I keep the ol’ fella completely under wraps. If somebody asks nicely, and that somebody’s a woman, and especially if she’s famous, I might just give her a quick peek. But I expect something in return. Remember that old game from grade school, “You show me yours and I’ll show you mine?” Well, let’s just say that adults like playing that game, too. Hey, fair is fair. If a woman wants to see my pecker in the flesh, without paying the rental charge at her local video store, then the least she can do is flash me her boobies.
Paris Hilton once took me up on that offer.* I was at a premiere party for the movie Wonderland, hosted by Val Kilmer at the Chateau Marmont. I was just minding my own business, chatting with Laurie Holmes and playing a Bach tune or two with Sean Lennon at the piano. All of a sudden, Paris came strolling over with her girlfriend, Bijou Phillips, and asked if they could see it. I agreed, but only on the condition that they flash their tops. I expected at least one of them to storm off in a huff. Bijou was dating Sean Lennon, who just so happened to be standing a few feet away. But without batting an eyelash, they both said yes and took me directly to the nearest women’s bathroom along with another female friend.
After making sure that the coast was clear, we squeezed into an empty stall. They pulled up their shirts. I unbuckled my pants, and, after seeing my schmeckel, Bijou turned to Paris and wondered aloud, “Could this be considered cheating?”**
I may not be able to go to each of your homes and give you a personal look at my goodies, but I can answer your questions. And I may be overassuming that you have questions, but in any case…
Frequently Asked Questions About Ron Jeremy’s Penis
How big are you, really?
I always say that I’m two inches…from the floor. Seriously, folks, I’m nine and three-quarters inches. The media sometimes rounds it up to ten, which is fine by me. If they want to give me an extra quarter-inch free of charge, I’m certainly not going to complain. Sometimes I feel like Christopher Guest in This Is Spinal Tap. “It goes to eleven.” Yeah, right.
Do you have the biggest penis in the history of adult films?
I wish. No, that honor belongs to John Holmes. John liked to brag that he had well over fourteen inches, but it was actually closer to eleven. That’s still pretty massive, though. The truth is, a lot of porn stars exaggerate their size. They use “porn inches,” which are substantially different than real inches. Gay porn star Jeff Stryker swore that he was eleven inches, but the gay press has since reported that it’s a bit smaller. Long Dong Silver was reportedly a staggering eighteen inches, but most people know it was just a prosthetic.* Nobody is eighteen inches. I’ve met very few porn actors who weren’t somewhere between eight and ten inches. So no, I’m not the biggest in the biz, but I’m big enough to put me ahead of the competition. And to paraphrase the late, great Milton Berle, “If somebody wants to compete, I’ll just pull out enough to win.”
So how does that happen anyway? Is it genetic? What is your family like? Are all the men in your family hung like grizzlies, too?
First of all, yuck. Do you really think that my dad and I have compared penises? That is disgusting. I have no idea how big my dad’s cock is, and I have no interest in finding out. What I do know is that all the men in my family (and the women, too, for that matter) are very intelligent, and some are even geniuses. We’re all college educated, all with at least a master’s degree or higher. My dad is a retired physicist and the smartest man I’ve ever met. He knows everything about history, language, science, medicine, and literature. I’ve never seen him without his nose buried in a book. My brother majored in economics at Williams College and then got his master’s from Harvard. I remember coming home from school and catching him reading The Economics of Traffic Control. Just for fun. Is there some connection between book smarts and genital size? Could be. It’d make a great public service announcement, don’t you think? “Hey, kids. Ron Jeremy here. If you want to have a big dick just like me, stay in school! Oh, and don’t do drugs.”
What’s the deal with that Ron Jeremy dildo we’ve seen in sex novelty stores? Is that really molded after your own penis?
You’re damn right it is, and it’s very popular. When I was shooting the movie Boondock Saints, Sean Patrick Flanery came to the set with a box full of my dildos and asked me to autograph them. I have no idea what he was doing with a box full of dildos, but I was too flattered to tease him about it.
Has a mold of your penis ever been used in an art exhibit?
Believe it or not, the answer is yes. I visited an art gallery in Amsterdam, and the curators asked me to dip my penis into cement, which they then used to make an exact replica. You want to talk about pressure. It’s one thing if somebody is just going to see my cock, but this would be forever. Future generations would be looking at this mold and judging me long after I’d passed on.
The curators were kind enough to leave me alone with one of their salesgirls. She was hugging and kissing me while I jerked myself and tried to get the circulation moving in the right direction. I was getting closer, but then I s
tarted to hear voices coming from upstairs. The gallery was still open for business, and one of the patrons was carrying around a very upset baby. It was crying so loudly that the shrieks were echoing throughout the gallery. Unless you’re a bit weird, this isn’t the sort of thing to put you in a sexual mood.
I tried to block out the baby’s bawling, but it was ruining my concentration. So even though I usually love kids, I yelled out, “Would somebody please tell that baby to shut the hell up?! Some of us are trying to get an erection down here!”
The mother took the hint and left the gallery. My boner returned, I dunked it into cement, and everybody was happy.
As your penis is so valuable, have you ever considered taking out an insurance policy on it?
You mean like with Lloyd’s of London? It’s not a bad idea, actually. Performing in porn can be a precarious profession. I was once observing a scene with Samantha Fox and Bobby Astyr on a porn set in Hollywood. They aimed the lights under Bobby’s legs for what’s called an “Australian down under” angle, which is where the camera gets a shot of the penetration from beneath the guy’s legs. I was standing above them, watching while Bobby was banging away from behind, and out of nowhere, we caught a whiff of this weird odor. None of us had any idea what it could be. But then Bobby looked down and saw that the lights had moved in a little too close and were burning the hairs on his balls. He screamed and did a double-flip somersault with a half gainer right into the pool. It was like somebody had pressed a hot iron to his testicles. I think he broke an Olympic diving record. I’m not sure if he ever fully recovered, and since then I’ve been extremely conscious of where the lights are at all times.