by Ron Jeremy
I lifted myself off the floor and limped back toward the curtains. I stuck just a nose outside and saw Jacklyn staring back at me. She mouthed, “Are you ready?”
I looked down at my sad excuse for a penis, which looked demoralized and frightened. I had a better chance of growing a vestigial tail than getting an erection.
“No,” I mouthed back, holding out my hand. “Five more minutes.”
I paced backstage and gave my shriveled manhood a pep talk. “Just do this one thing for me,” I pleaded with it. “And I’ll never ask anything of you ever again. Please, I’m begging you here. Don’t make me go out there alone. This crowd is going to eat me alive.”
“Do you need some help?”
I turned and saw a vision of loveliness standing in front of me. She was dressed like a Las Vegas showgirl, with sequins and peacock feathers and a brassiere that appeared to double as an automatic weapon. I didn’t know who she was or what she was doing there, but she might as well have been a guardian angel, sent from the heavens by some divine, sympathetic creator.
“Please,” I whimpered.
She took me to a bathroom and shut the door. She wiggled out of her costume and posed for me like my own personal Playboy centerfold. Without the cheers and blinding lights to distract me, my stage fright was gone. It was a relief just to be able to look at a naked woman without cricking my neck for a fleeting glimpse.
I jerked and jerked, trying to lose myself in the girl’s succulent body and peaches-and-cream complexion, certain that the worst was behind me. My penis was starting to grow.
I heard a knock at the door. “Ron, we’re waiting.” It was Jacklyn.
“I’m not ready, goddamnit! It’s getting there, but not yet!”
“Well what’s the holdup? The crowd’s getting restless.”
I could hear them in the distance, banging their fists against the chairs, chanting my name. My penis recoiled at the sound, trying to burrow back into its cave of pubic hair.
The door swung open and Jacklyn waltzed inside. Her naked body was glistening with sweat. “Anything I can do to move this along?”
So now I had two girls posing for me. If this didn’t inspire an erection, I’d need to call for paramedics and have them check for a pulse.
“I have to go,” the showgirl said. “My boyfriend’s picking me up soon and I can’t, you know—”
“That’s okay,” I said, hugging her with my free hand. “Thanks so much, you’re a doll!”
She threw on her costume and left. Now that we were alone, Jacklyn sat on the bathroom’s sink and spread her legs. “Maybe this will do the trick,” she said, forcing my head toward her pussy. She knew that giving a woman head has always been one of my favorite things.
“Are you almost ready?”
I came flying out of the curtains, my boner waving in front of me like a fleshy sundial. The audience leapt to their feet and gave me a round of applause, and somewhere in my head, the thunderous bass drums of Sprach Zarathustra were booming. Jacklyn and Serenity went to the bed, clapping along with the crowd.
After making them wait for so long, I wanted to give the onlookers something special. I kicked at the stage floor like a bull preparing to charge a matador. My nostrils were flaring, and I placed two fingers on either side of my head as makeshift horns. Jacklyn turned over, perching on the bed in a doggy position, her ass poised in the air like a target. The crowd stomped their feet in unison, awaiting the imminent stampede. I gave a few warning snorts and scraped my hooves, my eyes red with fury.
And then, with one last mighty bellow, I took off, kicking up a cloud of smoke as I charged toward Jacklyn.
“Olé!” the crowd roared. “Olé!”
(Courtesy Leisure Time Entertainment)
chapter 15
DUDE, WHERE’S YOUR PENIS? (OR, “JOHN WAYNE BOBBITT, SUPERSTAR”)
“So listen, is there any chance you’d want to be in a porno movie?”
John Bobbitt raised an eyebrow, perhaps trying to determine if I was serious. I knew it was a gamble, but it couldn’t hurt to ask.
“You mean like have sex?” His voice was confident, almost daring me to come right out and say it.
“No, no, no,” I said. “Just a walk-on part. You’d come out, say a few lines, and leave. It’ll be easy, I promise.”
I met Bobbitt at a Playboy Wet ’N’ Wild party in Las Vegas with my friend and producer Greg Watkins. It was hard to miss him. Though there were dozens of celebrities in attendance, Bobbitt was clearly the man of the hour. From the moment he walked in, all eyes were on him, staring at the infamous bulge in his pants and wondering, “What the hell does that thing look like?”
Just a year earlier, Bobbitt—or rather, Bobbitt’s penis—had made headline news across the country. While he slept, Bobbitt’s wife, Lorena, had sliced off his manhood with an eight-inch carving knife and then thrown the shriveled remains from her car window. Miraculously, the severed penis was discovered in a nearby pasture and doctors were able to reattach it to Bobbitt’s body.
And now the entire world wanted to see it. Was it covered in stitches and scar tissue? Did it even look like a penis anymore? And, more important, did it still work? Would an erection cause his stitches to come popping off and his penis to shoot across the room like a balloon pricked with a needle?
But thus far, nobody had gotten a glimpse of it. The tabloids were drooling for just one picture, but Bobbitt wouldn’t allow it. During Howard Stern’s 1994 New Year’s Rotten Eve Special, Bobbitt was offered $15,000 to flash his mangled dick for the cameras, but he refused. It only heightened the national fervor, and every day there were new rumors circulating about Bobbitt’s now notorious cock.
I wasn’t vain enough to think that I would be the one to unveil his penis to the world. If he wouldn’t show his dick to Howard Stern, he sure as hell wouldn’t show it to me, much less allow me to photograph him having sex with a porn actress. All I wanted was a nonsex dialogue cameo to make the video more interesting and newsworthy.
“Sure,” he told me. “That sounds like fun. I’ll do it.”
The next morning, I received a call from Bobbitt’s managers, Jack* and Aaron Gordon. They weren’t the most traditional management team in Hollywood. They were scandal chasers. They worked primarily with B-list stars and scandal celebrities. Aside from Bobbitt, their clients included Paula Jones, Divine Brown, and a lounge singer who claimed to be Elvis Presley’s illegitimate son. They even represented Bobbitt’s wife, Lorena, which was nothing if not a conflict of interest.
“Ronnie, baby,” Jack’s smarmy voice echoed into the phone.
“Looks like we’re gonna be doing business together.”
“So I hear,” I said.
“We’ve had a long talk with Bobbitt about this movie of yours, and the way we figure it, why stop at a little dialogue? If he’s gonna do a porno, we might as well go all the way. The whole nine yards!”
I checked the phone’s receiver to make sure I didn’t have a bad connection. “Excuse me?” I asked.
“Johnny wants to do it.”
“Do…it?”
“Sex. He wants to have sex. On camera. For you.”
I must’ve been hearing things. I roughly jabbed at my ears with a finger.
“Are you fucking with me?” I asked.
“I’m not fucking with you, Ron,” he said. “He’s serious about this.”
“And he’ll do it for the same price as a dialogue cameo?”
A raspy chuckle escaped Jack’s throat. “No, smart-ass. It’s gonna cost you a lot more.”
When I hung up the phone, I had to take a moment to catch my breath. I couldn’t believe what was happening to me. Not only was I getting Bobbitt for a film, not only would he be showing his schmeckel, but he was going to use it. He was going to fuck! Or at least try to fuck. I still wasn’t sure if his penis worked. It didn’t matter, limp or hard, he was going to do it all for the camera. I felt as if I had just won the lottery.
I knew exactly who to call.
Many of the adult companies were furious with me for bringing Bobbitt to Mark Carriere and Leisure Time Entertainment. “He’s already a multimillionaire,” they told me. “You’re making a rich man even richer.” While this was true, Mark was also my friend, and he’d been loyal to me for years. If I’d taken the deal to another major company like Vivid, VCA, or Wicked, they would’ve thrown me a few grand as a finder’s fee and passed it along to one of their in-house directors.
Another reason to bring it to Mark was the production costs. It wouldn’t be cheap to get Bobbitt out of his pants. He wanted thousands up front and a hefty percentage of the profits. Overall, he stood to make at least $500,000 for the entire thing if it all went well. It wasn’t chump change, and Mark was the only man I knew whose pockets were that deep.
I called Mark immediately. Just days later, Mark and I met with Bobbitt at a restaurant at Caesars Palace in Las Vegas. From the moment we stepped inside, we were the center of attention. Waiters did double takes, diners paused in midbite as we walked past. They were staring at Bobbitt, pointing at him and whispering to one another. “Is that the guy who got his dick chopped off?”
After we had signed the contracts and sealed the deal with a handshake, we decided to take some comical pictures to commemorate the occasion. John and I posed with steak knifes, aiming the sharp edges toward each other’s crotch like we intended to carve out our initials.
“Be careful with that thing,” Bobbitt said to me, eyeing my knife nervously.
“Oh, relax,” I told him. “It isn’t anything you haven’t felt before.”
Y’know, John, we could’ve made this movie without you. I was going to get Robert De Niro to play you and Danny DeVito was going to play your penis.”
The crew laughed, but Bobbitt didn’t seem to notice. He had other things on his mind besides my crappy jokes.
Bobbitt arrived for his first day on the set looking uneasy. I wasn’t sure if he was having second thoughts or if he was just worried about whether he’d be able to perform. He had a daunting task in front of him. A first experience in porno can be frightening enough, but when your cock is tied together with sutures and it’s literally hanging by a string, a guy can be excused for a little performance anxiety.
I thought some humor might lighten the mood. I just wanted to remind him that we were all friends and we were all here with a single purpose: to make fun of his crooked, misshapen, gargoylish penis.
To be fair, it didn’t look that bad. The stitches were hardly noticeable. It had a slight curve in the middle like someone had tried to snap it in half. But otherwise, it looked like any other penile shaft.
The million-dollar question was whether it could get hard.
“You know what really makes me think?” I told John. “Your penis stayed in the park for around three hours before the cops found it. A hot dog can’t be left outside for that long without getting a little funky. You throw a knockwurst into the park and a squirrel is gonna steal it. A dog will take it away. A stray cat is going to bite into it. John, all kidding aside, how disgusting is your dick that not even a cockroach crawled through it? Not one squirrel looked at it and said, ‘Hey, that could be lunch?’ How does that happen, John? How repulsive is your penis that not one animal would so much as give it a sniff?”
Bobbitt smiled at me, but my teasing clearly wasn’t putting him at ease.
“Hey,” I added. “I forgot to mention. We invited Lorena to be in the movie, but she got into a car accident on the way to the set. Apparently some prick cut her off.”
The crew howled in laughter, but Bobbitt’s face was a blank slate. Not even a glimmer of outrage or bemusement.
Bobbitt’s first few scenes were less than successful. He tried to get an erection on his own, but it was clearly a losing battle. I had prepared for just such a difficulty. This was in the age before Viagra, so it wasn’t as simple as having him pop a few blue pills and waiting for wood. But if you had contacts with a few helpful doctors, it was possible to get your hands on some Caverject.
Caverject, for you nonmedical types, contains something called prostaglandin, a lipid hormone that causes the muscles to relax and stimulates the flow of blood. You just insert it directly into the spongy tissue of the penis and, five minutes later, blamo, instant hard-on. The only problem is, it needs to be injected with a huge and menacing-looking needle. The thought of having your arm punctured with a needle the size of a fencing sword is enough to make most people a little light-headed. But imagine taking that same needle and jabbing it into your penis.
I wasn’t about to give Bobbitt the injections, so I gave the job to Adam, Mark’s assistant. Before every scene, he would take Bobbitt into the bathroom and demonstrate how the Caverject shots were used. It was supposed to be a temporary thing, as we assumed that Bobbitt would eventually be able to do it himself. But Bobbitt didn’t have the nerve to ram his own penis with a needle, so Adam became his permanent medical liaison.
I loved watching Adam on the set. He’d stand on the sidelines with his fingers crossed, waiting to find out if Bobbitt would be able to perform without the injections. “Oh please, please, please,” I heard him muttering. But invariably Bobbitt would go limp, and, with a heavy sigh, Adam would grab his arm and bring him back into the bathroom.
“Now, don’t get too carried away,” I’d tell him. “I need Bobbitt excited, but not too excited.”
“Fuck you, Jeremy,” Adam would grumble before slamming the door.
Bobbitt’s costars knew about the Caverject, but they weren’t entirely clear on why Adam was helping him. “What’s going on in there?” they asked me after Adam and Bobbitt disappeared into the bathroom.
“Well,” I said, “Adam takes Bobbitt’s cock in his hand and gives it a few jerks. And then when it’s nice and hard, he puts the needle in. If that doesn’t work, he blows him.”
And the girls believed me!
When Adam found out about the rumors I’d been spreading, he went ballistic. “I do not do that!” he screamed at me in front of the cast and crew. “I do not jerk that man’s penis. Nor do I blow him. That is a filthy, rotten lie.”
“None of us think any less of you,” I teased him. “You’re a valuable part of the production team. Just because you have your hands all over another guy’s cock doesn’t mean you’re gay.”
“I’m going to kill you, you motherfucker!” he snarled, storming off. Everybody was laughing except him (the cast and crew soon figured out I was just kidding).
Eventually Bobbitt learned how to do the injections himself. But he wasn’t very good at it. Before one of his scenes, he walked out of the bathroom clutching his penis like he’d just been kicked in the balls.
“I think I put it in wrong,” he said, grimacing. “It hurts.”
I felt sorry for the poor guy. It was heartbreaking to watch him cowering in the corner, tending his wounded penis, thoroughly humiliated. The rest of the crew was just annoyed by the delay, but I almost felt fatherly toward him. He looked so helpless and scared, and nobody deserved that, even if there was a fat payday at stake.
“It’s okay, John,” I told him, joining him on the floor. “Put some ice on it and take a break. This isn’t worth torturing yourself over.”
Bobbitt faced some extra intimidation when he found out that he was doing a scene alongside of me. Mark wanted another dick in the movie, just in case audiences got bored watching Bobbitt’s contorted cock in action. So we arranged for a mini-orgy, with Bobbitt and me each tackling a different girl in separate corners of the room.* It was a risky proposition for Bobbitt, as it meant being unfairly compared with a porn pro. He handled it well, though, and he even let me share a few tips on giving a better performance. I demonstrated “The Grip” to him, one of my most time-honored techniques.
Never heard of it, you say? Well, sounds to me like it’s time for more…
* * *
SEX Advice from DR. RON JEREMY
&
nbsp; Part 3:
THE GRIP
First, give your penis a few jerks, just enough to get a semierection. Then grip your penis by its base, using two fingers and a thumb, and squeeze. Don’t use your entire fist, just the fingers and thumb. You’re not trying to double the size of your schlong. Rather, you’re creating a cock ring, viselike effect. You’re forcing whatever blood is already in there toward the front of your shaft and giving it some leverage so that it actually sticks forward.
Now jump on the bed and waddle toward your lady’s “business.” As long as you’re gripping tightly at the base, your penis won’t lose any of its rigidity. And you’ll have enough of an erection to make an actual insertion. Once you’re inside, it’ll feel so damn good that a real erection will form on its own. In just a matter of minutes, you’ll be able to release your grip, and say, “Look, Ma, no hands!”
Trust in “The Grip.” If it worked for Bobbitt, it can work for you.
You’re welcome.
* * *
Making John Wayne Bobbitt Uncut—yes, that was the title—was, to say the least, surreal. I knew what it was like to have the vice cops kick down my door. I knew what it was like to fear that somebody was lurking outside, just waiting to catch you in the act. But this was scrutiny of a very different sort.
We’d arrive on the set each morning, and the front lawn would already be besieged by news crews. The streets were lined with vans, satellite dishes mounted on their hoods like doomsday devices. Helicopters hovered over the house constantly, and photographers skulked in the bushes, waiting for any sign of movement inside. Our set was quite literally a compound. We couldn’t even open a window without attracting reporters, who’d come running like mosquitoes to a sweaty neck.