Porn King

by John C. Holmes

  With Misty not being around the business, it made it easier for me to guide her into my way of thinking. It was only when Bill was around her that I had any problems. He continually put thoughts in her head. However, I had more power over Misty than Bill did, and it really bothered him that his influence was slipping away. The seeds I had planted early on were taking root. With Misty thinking a certain way, I could easily get out of whatever he would tell her, turn it back on him, and he would never know it. Misty would always promise Bill that she wouldn’t say anything about the things that he would tell her but she always did and that gave me an upper edge over the situation. Misty proved to be a valuable asset.

  By the end of 1984, the time was ripe for Bill and me to break away from our jobs at VCX and start our own company. It was time for us to make the big money. Pornography was more popular than ever and taking in huge profits, so it seemed only fitting that we open our own production company. Misty had become bored at home and since we needed a girl to help get our office organized, she seemed like a good choice. Her job was not supposed to last more than a few days so I didn’t believe there would be a problem working with Bill. Misty was really good around the office, she surprised everyone, especially me. Bill insisted she work full time. It didn’t sit well, but I agreed anyway. There was one big plus having Misty around the office—she could be my own little spy. I knew Bill had the same agenda. I tried to warn her of his games and that it could get confusing for her, but she said she could handle it.

  I knew that Misty was smart, but I never dreamed she would become our office manager and bookkeeper. The business part of it was easy for her, but I doubt she fully realized that in her new role I would have to protect her more than ever. It was hard for Misty when people asked about her and I would say, “She is my secretary,” or even worse, “She is my maid.” I didn’t want people to know that we were seriously involved and about to marry. If that were to get out it might bring danger to her, it might also mess up some of my “playtime.”

  “Why do you say those things about me?” Misty would ask, time and again. “Are you ashamed of me?”

  “It’s for your safety, Baby Doll,” I’d tell her. “I love you, but it has to be this way.” That would be the end of it, until the next time. While she would go along with my excuses, feeble as they often were, she didn’t like to hear me speak of her in that way, even jokingly. Of course my efforts were often in vain. Bill seldom passed up the opportunity to tell people about Misty and me.

  Despite some run-ins with Bill, Penguin Productions was moving along fine. The office and warehouse were running smoothly, thanks to Misty. She turned out to be very good at bookkeeping, sometimes too good. There were occasions when she discovered discrepancies in the ledgers that made no sense to her. Coming to me for help, I had only to say, “What you don’t know won’t hurt you, girl.” Her questioning ended there even though she once found me counting a floor full of money on our bathroom floor at home, money I had made doing a film—or so she thought. It was a lot of money. The entire bathroom floor blanketed with about ten inches of hundred dollar bills. I didn’t want her to know about it because Bill and I already had plans for it, and those plans didn’t include the company. So she wouldn’t suspect anything, I put the money in my brown valise and took her out to lunch, telling her I’d be going to the bank afterward to put the money in a safety deposit box.

  The money was really intended for two men who were sitting in the booth behind Misty and me at the restaurant. When we left the restaurant, I “accidently” left my valise on the seat. We were half-way to the bank when Misty discovered that I had left the money behind. Slamming on the brakes I made a quick u-turn and raced back to the restaurant, but it was too late. The valise was gone.

  I had led Misty to believe that the valise also held my set of keys to the office, warehouse, Bill’s house, our apartment and all the alarm keys too. We proceeded to Bill’s house in the hills of Sherman Oaks to give him the bad news. He was standing in the driveway when we arrived. In on the scheme, he played along.

  “A man just called, John,” Bill told us. “He said he found your valise with your keys and our business card inside.”

  “Thank God,” I said. “Did he say where he found it?”

  “Somewhere along Ventura Boulevard,” he answered.

  “He was riding his bike when he spotted it.”

  Bill shrugged his shoulders. “No mention of any money.”

  Of course there was no money in the valise. Misty always believed that some bus boy found it sitting on the seat where I had left it at the restaurant and probably quit his job soon after. As far as Misty was concerned, the money was no more. The plan had worked.

  Our company was producing some pretty good flicks; the company was definitely in full swing. There was only one real concern on everyone’s mind: AIDS! The AIDS epidemic was staring to hit hard, and although no one in the business had been reported as actually having it yet, we were all starting to get worried. Bill and I, along with some other people including some screenwriters and still photographers, tried to organize an AIDS Testing Program within the business. Our goal was to form an organization that would require current HIV test results for every actor or actress we hired for a film. In 1985, everyone at our company, including myself, was tested for HIV. Our results were all the same—NEGATIVE! Funny, I tested under the name “Karl Marx.” Misty was “Betsy Ross,” and Bill was “Jack Daniels.”

  In discussion and on paper, testing sounded like a great idea, but when it came down to it I was surprised that the other performers refused to take any test. They believed that such testing was an invasion of their right to privacy. HIV testing was also quite expensive. Even though our company offered to pay for their test, they still refused. HIV testing at the time wasn’t very good either and there were some grey areas as to the window period. The time between a person’s first exposure to the virus and when the virus would show up in a test was questionable. At the time, there was also talk about putting people with AIDS in the old Japanese Internment Camps to isolate them, much like lepers were at one time.

  Misty was no longer making films, but I still was. Since we were unsuccessful at organizing HIV testing within the industry, I was still at risk, meaning Misty was at risk, too. I felt like every time we made love, we were taking a chance. I think it was on my mind more than hers. At times I found myself pulling away from her. I wasn’t as concerned for myself as I was for Misty.

  There was so much stress in and around our lives, mostly brought on from the daily head games we had to endure at work and from Bill. In spite of all of this, I was determined to make our company work. All my life, I had made money for other people and other companies. Now it was time to capitalize on my own name and in my own company. I also looked at the opportunity of making some real dough, with the plan of breaking away from the business one day.

  With the AIDS threat always in the back of my mind, I somehow found it easier to play around on occasion. As terrible as it sounds, I wasn’t as concerned with some playmate as I was for Misty. For some reason I had a bad feeling about it all and that turned out to be a good thing.

  In the spring of 1986, I began to feel ill. I had a bad ear infection and I could hardly hear a sound. The doctor first insisted that this was because of the time I had spent in the army around heavy artillery. That made since at first but then I began to have other symptoms. I had a rash over most of my body. Even when I seemed to get it under control, every time I had sex the rash would come back—down there. To be on the safe side, I decided to take yet another HIV test. It took a week to get my results; only this time, the news was grim. I was HIV positive!

  After finding out that I was sick, Misty took another test. Thank God she didn’t have the virus. While we were not having a lot of sex at this time, we had just had sex less than two-weeks prior. I can’t say how this was to be, only that I was happy she was negative. Months later she took another test and again, she wa
s negative. We were both very relieved after the second test. Thank God I hadn’t infected the love of my life.

  It’s been said that everyone has their own time and destiny and I could only believe that this was mine. “Why me?” I wondered. Why was it that the most famous and successful porn star ever would also be the first reported to have AIDS? There was a lot of other talent that were doing much nastier scenes than I had. None of this made any sense to me.

  After I first received the devastating news, all I wanted to do was run away—from me, from Misty and from the entire world. I knew I would only be able to hide the news for a short time. My health was failing fast and all I could do was wait for the other shoe to drop. My doctor had told me that it was only a matter of time; if this were true then I wanted to do everything I could to ensure a quick death. I increased my cigarette intake and was now smoking up to eight packs of Marlboros per day. My drinking increased, as well. The Scotch really helped to clear the phlegm from my throat so that I could breathe better. Misty was always trying to get me to take vitamins, but I never took them. A wasted motion, I convinced myself. I didn’t want to prolong anything.

  Nearly two months had passed and I was reminded that it was time for me to make my annual appearance at the VSDA (Video Software Dealers Association) convention in Las Vegas. I felt absolutely horrible and was sure I looked even worse. The banner above my head read “JOHN HOLMES, IN PERSON,” It should have read “JOHN HOLMES, THE WALKING CORPSE WITH A BEATING HEART!” I didn’t want to show up looking the way that I did but I couldn’t get out of it. Besides, I had to keep up appearances, such as they were. Our company was depending on me. I was so terribly self-conscious that I found myself repeatedly asking Misty if my makeup was alright. She would reassure my confidence and always with a smile. Only then could I face the world and act as if everything was “hunky-dory.” I had always loved doing these shows in the past. Now, just the thought of having to be around so many people terrorized me. Signing autographs for thousands of fans and taking pictures with them for the world to see could be somewhat demanding on a good day, but I did love my fans. I smiled and laughed and made it seem like great fun, but it really took its toll on me.

  By the time I made it back to Los Angeles all I could do was fall into bed. My days of getting out of bed and going to work became fewer and fewer. I began to have all kinds of health problems. The doctor informed me that I needed hemorrhoid surgery. The procedure was rather simple and it didn’t concern me. However, I really wanted to keep my identity a secret. Discretion was most important in this matter. This wasn’t always easy as I was recognized everywhere I went. Confidentiality of medical records meant very little to me. If a nurse or an orderly or someone in the hospital were to recognize John Holmes as a patient, chances were good that they might tell a friend, who would tell a friend and so on.

  The surgery was successful, however by this time my immune system had been so compromised that I wasn’t sure if I would ever heal. Sure, the hemorrhoids were gone but the pain was worse than before. With my noticeable health problems, instead of telling people that I had AIDS we told them that I had colon cancer and that they had taken out six feet of my intestines. I probably should have left the little bastards alone because the word of my failing health spread quickly. Now the press was banging at my door, wanting to know if it was true that I had cancer—or did I really have AIDS?

  “AIDS?” I said with a tone of disbelief that they were even asking me this question. “NO WAY,” I replied. “I have cancer,” I tried my best to convince them.

  We had other reasons for not wanting anyone to know that I had AIDS. The Meese Commission was going strong and Edward Meese was currently lobbying the White House in an effort to shut down the porn industry. If people knew of my condition they would use that against us. We had to protect the industry.

  Eventually I did start to feel better and in the fall of 1986, I was invited to Italy to star in three adult films. It was a three-week gig and they were paying TOP dollar. First class all the way, all expenses paid. Ordinarily I would have been packed in an hour but this was a big decision to make, one I didn’t take lightly. I turned them down at first but after being approached several more times, I was persuaded to accept the offer.

  After more than 20 years in the business, offers were still coming my way. I considered myself not only lucky but a survivor. Most of the performers in my line had disappeared after only a handful of films, burned out or washed up. The public was after new faces, new bodies and new thrills. I had walked a few tightropes in my time, even dodged a few bullets. In spite of my shaky reputation, however, my films were selling better than ever. The demand for theatrical releases may have slipped, but the hot video market had expanded both the audience and its demand for fresh product.

  I really needed the money and was looking forward to the opportunity of seeing the hillsides of Italy one more time, a place I had always thought was so beautiful, with great food and wonderful people. Of course, there was the risk of infecting someone else. However, I had been told that they were flying everyone out from the San Fernando Valley. We all had sex in circles; I honestly believed that if they didn’t get the virus from me they were sure to get it from someone else. It wasn’t until after my arrival that I discovered that I would be working with someone new. Her name was Ilona Staller, better known as “La Ciccolina.” An Italian film star, she was also a member of the Italian Parliament. The movie was to be called The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empress.

  Filming in Europe can have its drawbacks. Some years earlier, while working in France, we had to shoot the entire production twice, once in English and again in French. As soon as a scene was finished in one language, we went back and did it again in another, line by line, until we got it perfect; then we would go onto the next line. It was somewhat of a bore and I hadn’t the foggiest idea what I was saying in French.

  The Italians were fifty times more professional. They had us work straight through, in English only, then dubbed the finished product. They also stayed sober on the set. The French crew was drunk by mid-morning and literally dropped the cameras while film was rolling.

  Working with an Italian crew meant having a translator on set. The studio furnished us with a little redhead, the cutest thing since Oreo cookies. I wanted her in the worst way, but I knew I would be putting her at risk too, so I didn’t press it. Had I made a move on her I might have left Italy without my most strategic body part. We later discovered she was a Mafia princess.

  One of the benefits of filming overseas is the side trips. This time, because of the long schedule, I was able to sneak off between pictures to as many places as possible during any free time available. I visited old friends in Germany, and wandered Romania, Czechoslovakia, and Spain.

  Between work and running from place to place I had little time to relax. The pace seemed to agree with me and for the first time in months, I felt terrific. Not even the constant changes in food, water, and climate affected me. I had only one “off ” day, which I blamed on a night without sleep. I knew better, but I wasn’t complaining. For me to feel as good as I did was kind of a miracle. Nevertheless, I laid low for awhile. The production company simply cancelled me out that day and worked around me.

  It wasn’t until the shoot was about over and I was about to leave Italy that I began to fall apart. I knew something was wrong almost immediately. I decided to stop in Ohio on the way home to see my mother, perhaps for the last time. It had been years since we last talked. She had called while I was incarcerated during the murder trial but I didn’t want to talk to her at that time. I knew she would have wanted to come to California during that time to visit me and I didn’t want her anywhere near that scene.

  My mother is a very special lady. Through the years she had even earned the name “Mother Moses” because she always knew and felt things before they happened. I had hoped to surprise her by showing up unannounced. I hadn’t called, written or anything to let her know that I
was coming to visit. When the doorbell rang, she asked, “Who is it?

  “Jessie James,” I replied. The joke was on me when she opened the door, held out her arms then said, “I knew you were coming Johnny Buck.”

  We had a wonderful visit but there were things that were purposefully unsaid. Before having gone to Italy, I had needed to get a new passport. I had lost all my personal papers when I had been on the run days after The Wonderland Murders. I had to send off for my original birth certificate. When my birth certificate finally arrived, I was only too surprised to learn the name listed as my father wasn’t Edward Holmes as I had believed all my life. Instead, it listed someone named “Carl Estes.”

  “Carl Estes?” Who was this, I wondered. While visiting with mother I couldn’t bring myself to ask. I didn’t want her to be embarrassed or make her feel ashamed or uncomfortable. If she had wanted me to know she would have told me, I figured. Besides, that was Ed’s and Harold’s little game, not mine.

  The stop-over in Ohio to see Mother was like an injection of miracle medicine for me. However, the high of being in her company, amid old familiar surroundings, soon faded as the miles stretched between us on my return flight to Los Angeles.

  After returning home to Misty, it was more difficult than ever to return to my everyday office routine. The days of working 10-12 hours per day were long gone. At first, I would cut out just after lunch and make for home. Within several months, I wasn’t going to the office at all. Why even bother? I certainly wasn’t accomplishing anything when I was there.

  My life is nearly over and I must face this. I have little motivation or energy to do anything except lie in bed. I drift in and out of sleep and everyday is just a little harder to face. I am growing more confused.

  10

  Days keep rolling by, and yet, time has no meaning for me. Lying in bed, day after day, I worry about money and mounting doctor bills and the rising cost of medicine. I worry about Misty. She comes home every single night with a migraine headache. She tries to tell me about the day but it’s getting harder to grasp what she has to say. I feel as if I am losing my mind.