Porn King: The Autobiography of John C. Holmes

by Holmes, John

  by John Holmes

  (with Laurie Holmes)

  BearManor Media 2012

  Porn King by John Holmes

  © 2012 The Estate of John Holmes Laurie Holmes, Executor

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission, except for brief quotations embodied in literary articles or reviews.

  For information, address: BearManor Media P. O. Box 71426

  Albany, GA 31708

  bearmanormedia.com

  Edited by Michael Schemaille Typesetting and layout by John Teehan Published in the USA by BearManor Media ISBN— 1-59393-685-0 978-1-59393-685-3

  Preface

  THE LEGEND CONTINUES… Before John died, he felt that because he had led such an extraordinary and unusual life, in which he was truly a landmark in American society and filmmaking, it was his responsibility to candidly share his life experiences once and for all. Throughout his career there had been many tall tales told of John Holmes. Some of them John even created himself in the interest of keeping his private life a mystery. However, John knew that someday he wouldn’t be around anymore and that this was his last chance. In his attempt to do this, he left behind many cassette tapes and writings, hoping that someday his fans would know exactly who he was and how he came to be something that some years back had no place or title of being. However, forty years since his first film and having starred in over 2,000 additional films and many compilations since, John Holmes is undoubtedly the King of Porn.

  Following the horrific experience of my husband’s passing and the events that took place directly after, I became very disenchanted with people and society as a whole. I withdrew inside myself, figuring that people were only going to believe what they wanted to believe anyway, so it didn’t matter. The industry in which John had fought so hard and eventually died for had turned their backs on him before and after his passing. The other society in which we never quite fit in, I was struggling with more than ever. I was too stubborn to subdue to its ways.

  In my heart I knew that it was my husband’s wish to have his book, Porn King, published. However, it wasn’t his family’s wish that the book be printed, so between the aching emptiness in my soul and the overwhelming feeling to not hurt those who loved John dearly, I decided that imme

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  diately after his passing was not the time for me to proceed in publishing his extraordinary story. After many years of struggling with what I felt in my heart was my destiny, and in spite of any hurt feelings it might have caused, I was committed to sharing John’s story, as he told it, with the world.

  Never in my wildest imagination did I ever realize that in my fight to tell John’s story, my story would be destined to become an extension of his. This book has been updated to reflect the years since the book was first published in 1998.

  – Laurie Holmes

  1

  It took less than five minutes to get from the men’s gym to the art building on the UCLA campus—unless I detoured through the women’s gym. Then it took a lot longer. The women’s gym was a good place to study, and a great place to get turned on. On the second floor, at the back of the building, was an outside walkway that stretched from one end to the other. No one ever came up there; it was always deserted. Yet the view was incredible, overlooking the huge swimming pool and grassy area bounded by high brick walls. Except for those rare days when the weather was bad, the pool and surrounding deck were almost always crowded with nubile coeds in clinging swim wear. Some took to the water like trained seals, playfully bounding in and out before emerging exhausted along the sidelines. There they stood, hands on hips, drawing attention to their rounded bottoms, flat stomachs, and high, heaving breasts. Others took to the grass, sitting cross-legged on towels while massaging their young bodies to glistening with globs of lotion, or stretching out in seductive positions to soak in the sun.

  The entrance to the girls’ locker room offered an even better view, particularly when the double doors swung open wide. From the corridor, it was impossible to see past the wooden half-doors that had been installed at eye level just inside. Opposite the entrance, however, was a stairway leading to the second floor. By sitting midway up, on the six or seventh stair, it was easy to look over the half-doors. The panorama was ever changing and often spectacular. I’d often eat my lunch on the steps, or spend my study hours there casually flipping through books that seldom got read. I never considered myself a voyeur. I didn’t peek through windows or go on the prowl to catch glimpses of ladies in various stages of undress. I looked openly, enjoying the passing parade from near and afar. There weren’t many girls taking gym classes at UCLA in 1965 that escaped

  1 my glances as they wandered into the showers. Few of them bothered to wrap themselves in towels.

  Not a day passed that I didn’t think about sex. In fact, my overactive libido had gotten me in trouble before, and it would again. I was about to start a new job, one that demanded absolute composure and concentration. For a few hours, at least, I had to keep my mind relatively free of everything sexual. That meant going directly to the art building without dawdling in the women’s gym. I didn’t need the tension. What I did need was the job, and I couldn’t afford to screw it up.

  The classroom door was closed and posted with a sign that read— DO NOT ENTER! But I went inside anyway. A pale, fleshy, middle-aged woman with Lucille Ball hair and Cleopatra eyes was lying stone naked next to a potted lily on a wicker settee at the far end of the room, stretched out with one ample leg propped over a paisley print cushion, the other hanging over the side. If she noticed me, she didn’t let on. Except for her surging breasts—two partially filled sandbags studded with backup lights—she remained deathly still. Not even the slightest eye movement or the fluttering of a heavily-mascaraed lash. The twenty or so students who faced her at their easels ignored my arrival as well, thank God. With their backs to the door they probably didn’t hear me. More likely, they were too engrossed in capturing the breathing still life on canvas. Only in the instructor, a tall, flashy dresser who had ‘GO’ written all over him, turned in my direction. He approached looking somewhat quizzical.

  “I’m the model,” I said flatly.

  “Of course,” he replied. “You’re Mr. Holmes.” He smiled faintly and checked his watch. I tried to return his smile but one wouldn’t come. “Looks like I’m early,” I answered instead, trying to sound nonchalant. The attempt backfired as my throat suddenly turned dry. Either that or an errant heartbeat had escaped from the pounding in my chest and had gotten in the way. Instead of sounding like a mature twenty-year old, which I definitely considered myself to be, I came across as a crackly-voiced, sputtering adolescent.

  “Not at all,” said the instructor, reassuringly. “We’ll be breaking in a few minutes; you might as well get ready before Miss Nichols needs the ro om.”

  “The room” was a dimly-lit storage area adjoining the classroom, little more than a windowless closet crammed with books, old files, and canvases, some rolled and piled on makeshift shelves, others stretched on frames and stacked against the walls. The air inside was heavy with the smell of turpentine, linseed oil, and paint; not a bad spot, actually, for anyone into breathing fumes. The stench was so strong in fact that lighting a match could have been dangerous. A dusty fluorescent fixture supporting three tubular lights dangled from the ceiling, held by fragile chains. The one light that still functioned sent out a flickering bluish glow accompanied by static buzz.

  The storage area was a poor substitute for a changing room, but not worth complaining about. The b
uilding’s days were numbered, at least as far as the Art department was concerned. An impressive new structure, the nine-story Dickson Art Center, was rising on the north side of the campus. Within a few months, beginning with the fall 1965 semester, classes would be held there.

  Outside, the library chimes were signaling two o’clock. A sudden clatter in the next room, mixed with voices, told me the class was breaking. I found a hanger and quickly stripped down, removing everything I had on—shirt, jeans, shoes and socks, even my wrist watch—until I stood bare-ass naked among the file cabinets. An old bathrobe that looked and smelled as if it hadn’t been washed since the year one was hanging on a hook. Luckily, I’d brought a clean towel with me from the gym. No sooner had I wrapped it around my middle when the door to the storage room opened. There stood Miss Nichols, all 220-plus pounds of her, wearing a brightly flowered kimono that hung loosely over her shoulders, untied and open at the waist. The slightly parted fabric revealed a view infinitely more tantalizing than the one that had been on open display.

  “They’re waiting for you,” she said wearily, moving inside.

  I brushed past her mumbling a barely audible “thanks,” my heart racing all over again at the urgency of her words. After spending time in a dingy changing closet, the classroom seemed uncomfortably bright. Natural light, sunlight, streamed through a wall of glass, which may have been ideal for the artists but not for me. My eyes have always been extremely sensitive to light, and they water easily (they turn red and ugly). No way could I sit facing the windows, staring into the glare. There was another concern, an even greater one. The majority of students were girls in their late teens, very attractive California beach types. The thought of sitting before them with everything hanging out was embarrassing enough, but would I be able to control my often overactive imagination? It would take considerable concentration on my part to keep from becoming aroused. In a moment I’d be asked to remove the towel from my waist, unless catastrophe struck.

  I found myself almost wishing for something devastating to happen—an earthquake, hurricane, or tidal wave—anything to delay the inevitable. The more I dwelled on the subject the more apprehensive I became. I could feel my scrotum tightening, and my stomach knotting up. What was I doing in the place? Why was I the only person in the room not wearing clothes?

  Money, plain and simple! Money to eat, money to live, money for school… I’d been working for six months to save enough to attend UCLA, washing dishes and cars, waiting tables, taking odd jobs whenever and wherever I could. I had to keep coming up with ways to keep the money coming in. Modeling for a Life Drawing class wasn’t the greatest job in the world, but it was one of the most interesting and the pay wasn’t half-bad.

  “It looks like we’re ready to begin, Mr. Holmes,” the instructor said, motioning for me to take my place on the high stool in the center of the room. In my absence, the students had rearranged their easels into a circular pattern, like theatre—in-the-round. I made my way through them, nervously fingering the terry wrapping at my midsection to check that it was still in place, and sat with my back to the window, purposely facing the ugliest male in attendance.

  The instructor followed on my heels. “Strike a pose that’s comfortable for you,” he said. “Once you’re set you won’t be able to move”.

  I positioned myself more squarely on the stool, resting one foot on a rug and bracing the other on the floor. Then I leaned over placing an elbow on my knee, sinking my chin into the cup of my hand. I looked like a poor substitute for Rodin’s “The Thinker.”

  “That will do,” commented the instructor without much enthusiasm. (Did I sense some impatience on his part, or was he beginning to annoy me?) “But haven’t you forgotten something?” He added, “The towel. Just drop it on the floor. We’ll use it as a prop in the exercise.”

  I stood reluctantly and loosened the towel letting it fall free. Exactly where and how it fell, heaped or in artistic folds, I don’t remember and didn’t much care. My mind was on the students and their reaction to my nakedness.

  At this point in my life I wasn’t quite sure whether the Almighty had blessed me or cursed me. I only knew that I was “different.” And painfully sensitive! One crack, one sarcastic remark, and I was ready to bolt out the door. There were no words, thank God; none that I could hear, anyway. But I did detect muffled sounds about the room: a throat clearing, scattered murmuring. Or was that my imagination, too?

  No sooner had I removed the towel then I was back on the stool, trying to duplicate my earlier pose. In my eagerness to resume the crouched position I must have turned slightly, for when I looked up I was not facing the ugliest guy in the class; he was off to the right. What I found instead was a young lady with lustrous, long dark hair, penetrating eyes, and full, sensuous lips. She was seated on a low stool, her easel angled at her side, and she wore a paint spattered smock that covered her blouse but offered little protection for the rest of her. And the rest of her was sensational! Her tight little miniskirt riding up her thighs, her long smooth legs— and the shadowy recesses in between—made quite a show. Had she kept her legs motionless, the view would not have been quite so captivating. Although her feet were planted firmly together, her thighs seemed to pulsate, opening and closing like butterfly wings in super slow motion. She fanned them apart and then pressed them together. Spreading, closing, spreading: the movement was hypnotic. At times her thighs opened so tantalizingly wide that it was almost possible to discern the dark patch under her skirt. She appeared to be wearing panties. Then, again, she did not. It’s doubtful that any of the students saw what she was doing. She moved so slightly, so effortlessly in a subconscious way that it would have taken a prolonged, studied look to discover she wasn’t sitting absolutely still. Even then, because of their vantage point, they could not have noticed anything more than the most subtle changing of positions.

  I followed her every move, no matter how fractional, and as I stared past the inner reaches of her smooth thighs into the blossoming, uncertain shadows, I was drawn uncontrollably into a wild sexual fantasy. God, it was starting! A tingling sensation raced through my groin, fed by the powerful juices of some unseen current. I felt myself hardening and rising until a part of me was pointing directly in the darkening depths, straight as a ramrod, as if to say, “I want you!” If her movements went undetected, mine did not. My dimensions had altered drastically; creating a stir among the young artists who sat facing me. They turned from their easels and began to buzz. The murmuring encircled the room like “The Wave” in a football stadium.

  “Did I miss the bell—or are we taking a break?” An authoritative voice asked rhetorically from somewhere behind me.

  An uncomfortable silence followed as the students straightened on their stools and returned to work. I willed myself to soften, but the more I concentrated on that seemingly simple feat the more I stiffened and throbbed. I felt flushed. Beads of perspiration formed on my brow; my hands and crotch grew clammy, the air felt suddenly stifling.

  I began breathing uneasily through my mouth, parching my lips. I wanted to lick them but I didn’t dare, not with my eyes focused on her. In desperation, I shifted my glance to the back of the room, then upward toward the ceiling. Still haunted by the smoldering mental images, I began to count holes in the acoustical tiles. When that failed, I turned to a wall chart showing a sexless human form with its muscles exposed.

  The discovery of the well-defined rendering had me wondering why Id been accepted to model for the class, for that matter, Miss Nichols as well? As a prerequisite for Life Drawing, the students had to complete a tough course in anatomy—similar to one required for pre-med majors— in which they had to learn the names and locations of all the bones, muscles and tendons in the body. Miss Nichols’s bones were much too padded to be a good subject. At 6’3” and 175 pounds, I was lean and lanky. The only muscle I displayed—more openly than I’d intended—unfortunately wasn’t illustrated on any anatomy chart.

  Out of t
he corners of my eyes I saw the mini-skirted girl signaling for the instructor. Then he was at her side and I overheard her say, “The model has moved his eyes, sir, and I’m trying to draw them.” Her message was quickly passed on to me, along with a few reminders of his own that stopped just short of chastisement. His words had a chilling effect, just what I needed.

  When I looked back at the girl, she had a playful smirk on her face. She was at it again. Now her legs were spread even farther apart, well beyond proprietary bounds. She didn’t even bother to close them. This deliciously humpy number was playing games with me, deliberately trying to turn me on!

  Somehow I made it through the rest of the session without embarrassing myself more than I already had. Then I was off the stool, reaching for the towel and whipping it on. No longer was it my exposed front side that concerned me. After sitting in one position for nearly an hour, I had the uneasy feeling that I resembled one of those flame-cheeked African baboons.

  “Next time we’ll try a different pose,” said a voice at my side. I turned to find the instructor clearing the area that had been my stage; he was working with several other students in straightening the room. After a slight pause, he looked up and said, “I think we’ll have you standing— what do you think of that? With your legs it should be interesting.”

  He’d already answered his question so I just nodded. I doubted seriously, however, that my legs would be much of a factor if the sitting proved to be as “interesting” as the last one.

  “Oh, before you get away, Mr. Holmes, I have something for you.” From the inside breast pocket of his designer jacket he retrieved an envelope that contained a voucher—not a check or cash, which I was expecting—and typed instructions that directed me to the cashier’s window in the Student Union. The thought of having to trek halfway across campus for a few bucks before heading home depressed me, but not enough to postpone the long walk till another day. I wanted the money now. I needed to feel my fingers wrapping around it. That was a fact of life, my life. I can’t remember a time when the promise of money hadn’t been a driving force in me. One that has too often led to trouble!