The Hardest (Working) Man in Showbiz (2 page)

“How ya feelin’, Ronnie?” he asks, patting me on the back.

“Couldn’t be better,” I say. “You ready to start rolling again?”

“Any minute now. We just have to get a few more positions and maybe some anal and then we’ll be done. Think you can handle that?”

Why does everybody keep asking me that?

“Of course I can handle it,” I assure him.

Matt smiles and throws a playful punch at my torso. “You the man,” he says, and returns to his crew.

I can understand why everybody is treating me with kid gloves. Even for a young stud, having sex with the equivalent of a small sorority house is no small feat. The Zane family was kind enough to throw a party last night in my honor. Most of the actresses and a few celebrities, like Elijah Blue and Jonathan Davis of the rock band Korn, toasted me and helped get me excited for what promised to be a daring, almost superhuman undertaking. But the moment the clock hit ten
P
.
M
., I was shuttled off to bed like a kid before his first day of school.

Funny thing is, there are few things I enjoy as much as morning sex. But on a porn set, all the romance and spontaneity is stripped away. You can’t just roll over and tap your partner on the shoulder. You actually have to
leave
the house, and take the long, bleary-eyed drive to whatever backwoods, out-of-the-way location is being used for the day’s shoot. By the time you get there, your morning wood has been replaced with a sagging mushroom, a shadow of your former glory.

And then there are the rehearsals, the waiting, the presex showers to ensure that everybody is squeaky-clean. Even though it might be only six
A
.
M
., it doesn’t feel like morning sex anymore. You’re just another employee, working your shift and counting the hours before lunch.

“Okay, guys, break’s over,” Matt announces. We all return to the living room, ready for round two.

Angella Faith has her hands on the couch, her cute little butt in the air. I stand behind her and wait for my cue. After mumbling some instructions to one of the lighting guys, Matt turns to me and says, “Let’s do this thing.”

He yells for action, the camera purrs into life, and I penetrate Angella.

Don’t get me wrong, I love making porn films. But sometimes it can get a little monotonous. I mean, you’re basically doing the same thing, over and over and over and over again. In and out, in and out, switch positions, in and out, in and out. Who wouldn’t get a little bored after a while? Sometimes I let my mind wander, maybe make a mental inventory of the rest of my week.

Let’s see, what else do I have lined up for today? Well, after we finish the morning’s shoot, I’m going to jump on a plane and fly out to Indiana to host the Ponderosa Nudes-A-Poppin’ Festival. After that, I’m off to Buffalo, New York, to shoot a few scenes for a new Troma movie. Next I’ll be catching a flight to Los Angeles for a stand-up gig, then back to New York the next morning for a radio interview with Howard Stern, and then back on a plane for the long journey over to New Zealand for the Erotica Expo, where I’ll be shooting a porno with some Kiwi women.

And that’s just the weekend. Well, okay, a week and a half.

I can’t imagine how I’m going to squeeze it all in. At some point I must’ve thought I could manage. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking. Sometimes I wonder if I’m stretching myself too thin. I mean, seriously, how is it possible for one guy to be in three different states—including the state of despair—and even an entirely different country, in less than an eleven-day period? I must’ve been out of my mind when I agreed to it. My schedule would be physically impossible even if I somehow found a way to clone myself. Hmm, actually, that’s not a half-bad idea. I wonder if I could arrange for that. If they can clone a sheep, surely they could clone one measly little porn star, right?

Why do I keep doing this to myself? Why do I take every last gig that’s offered to me? Sometimes it seems as if I’m terrified of not being busy. Like if I sit still for too long, I might cease to exist. I don’t think I’m quite that screwed up, but it is curious why I always seem to be moving at such a frantic pace. It’s as if I’m trying to cram four lifetimes into one. But I like it that way. I’m not comfortable being idle. I want to keep moving, keep looking for the next project, the next opportunity. I’m always afraid that the phone will stop ringing someday.

When I first told my dad that I wanted to be an actor, he told me, “Remember to have something to fall back on.” I may have taken him just a little too literally. I’ve got so much to fall back on, it’s propping me up.

“Ronnie. Hey, Ronnie.”

I didn’t even realize that Matt is standing right in front of me.

“I’m sorry, what?” I mutter in reply. “Are we still shooting?”

“Yes, we’re shooting, goddamnit. Come on, Ronnie, pay attention.”

Matt asks me to move on to an actress named Temptress, who wants to do missionary. I pull out of Angella and join Temptress on the floor. God, she is so beautiful. What a face on this girl. She’s making eye contact with me, which is always dangerous. Nothing makes me pop quicker. I look away and try to think of something else. Dead animals usually do the trick, but I don’t want to take it too far and end up going limp. It’ll just give Chuck another reason to start mentioning Viagra again.

I wonder if I turned off my cell phone. I’m expecting a call from Adam Rifkin, my good friend and a very successful director and writer. He always tries to get me mainstream work. He put me in
Detroit Rock City
and
Night at the Golden Eagle
and
The Chase
. He’s been promising that he has another project lined up for me. I couldn’t be more excited. I always make room for a mainstream gig, especially if it has the potential to be seen by a bigger audience. Adam has been one of the most loyal friends I’ve ever had.

“I need a little anal,” Matt says. “Who signed up for anal?” A few girls raise their hands.

A pretty black girl drops to her knees. She’s ready to go, her asshole lubed and stretched out about as far as it’ll go. I put just the head of my cock in at first. I don’t want to hurt her. Anal is tough even for the seasoned pro.

“Is that okay, honey?” I ask her. “Tell me if that’s too much, okay, sweetie?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ, Ron,” she says, thrusting her pelvis toward me. “Just ram it in, will you?”

Well, so much for the gentle approach.

It’s strange the things that go through your head as you’re fucking a girl in the ass. I start to daydream about my life up to this point. I am, according to most men’s magazines, the most famous male porn star on the planet. But I also wonder if people know anything else. I’ve done a lot more than porn. As far as I’m concerned, that’s just one line on my résumé. It’s a fat line, of course. But I’m also a mainstream actor of sorts. I’ve been in a lot of Hollywood films, like
The Boondock Saints
and
Orgazmo
and
Meet Wally Sparks
and dozens of others. And when that doesn’t pay the bills, I’m a stand-up comic. I’ve done my act in nightclubs around the world, and rubbed shoulders with comics from Sam Kinison to Rodney Dangerfield. Oh, and don’t forget music—I’m a classically trained pianist and violinist. I’ve been in more than thirteen music videos, performed with Kid Rock at the L.A. Coliseum and other venues, and even recorded a hit single, “Freak of the Week,” which was on the Billboard charts for more than twenty-seven weeks. My name appears on products from T-shirts to greeting cards to rolling papers to hot sauce to skateboards.

That’s awfully ambitious of me, I know. Most people would be happy with just one career, but I had to try everything. I’m not sure why that is. I guess it’s because I don’t want my gravestone to read:

HERE LIES RON JEREMY
,
THE GUY WITH THE BIG DICK
. Sure, I’ll take that. But if there’s room at the bottom, I wouldn’t mind if a few of my other credits were mentioned as well. Something that
doesn’t
involve my oversized schlong.

“Can we get some more lube over here?” Matt asks.

A stagehand runs over with a tube and I apply fresh lube to the next girl’s ass. I put on a fresh condom and move on to Randi, a cute blonde with a set of breasts so perky they’d take out an eye if she wasn’t careful.

“Lift a leg for me, would you, Ronnie?” Matt says. “We need a down-under shot.”

I know what you’re thinking. “Poor, pitiful Ron. He’s not happy getting paid to bonk beautiful women for a living. Oh no, that’s not good enough for him. What he really wants is to be a
legitimate
actor. Most people would be thrilled to be the most famous male porn actor of all time. But not Ronnie. He wants our
respect
.”

Well, you know what? You’re wrong. I’m not chasing some elusive and far-fetched dream. I don’t have any illusions that I’m going to be the next Brad Pitt. (At least not as long as I keep going back for seconds at the buffet.) I’m just another actor who wants to take his shot. I know that some people—okay,
most
people—will only ever see me as Ron Jeremy, Porn Star. But I don’t want to settle for that. It’s too easy. I don’t want to be on my deathbed someday and think, Well, I could’ve done more, but I blew it. I never gave myself the chance to see how far I could go. And if I just sit around the apartment all day, waiting for some producer to call me and give me a break, it’s never going to happen. You have to get out there and bust your ass, pound the pavement, work it.

As Abraham Lincoln once said, “Good things come to those who wait, but only the things left by those who hustle.” I couldn’t agree more. If you wait around for the world’s scraps, that’s all you’ll ever get. But I’m going to hustle for as much as I can. And in the end, if I still get nothing, it was still one hell of a ride. And at least I tried.

“You ready for the pop?” I ask Matt.

“I’m ready if you are,” he says.

The girls surround me, sitting on their knees in a semicircle. After almost five hours of fucking, this is the moment of truth. I spray my goo over them, trying to hit as many faces as I can.

“You’re missing Tamia,” Matt barks at me. “Share the wealth, man. We need total coverage.”

“I’m doing what I can here,” I yell back at him, furiously beating myself off. “Just make sure you get it all. I’m not doing this again.”

After every last ounce of protein has been squeezed out of me, Matt calls it a wrap. The girls and I retreat to the back bathroom for a shower. A half hour later, I finally stumble back to the living room to find my clothes.

As I’m getting dressed, I notice a guy in the corner staring at me. He’s young and buff, probably in his early twenties at most. I assume he’s somebody’s boyfriend, as he’s the only guy here who doesn’t seem to have an actual job. It’s not unusual for boyfriends to loiter around the set to watch the action. The business calls them “suitcase pimps,” which isn’t the kindest nickname. Most of them are pretty nice guys, and this one seems like no exception.

He eventually wanders over and introduces himself. “I’m a huge fan,” he tells me. “I’ve seen all of your movies.”

“Thanks,” I say, pulling a shirt over my head. “You’re too kind.”

“When I heard my lady was going to be screwing Ron Jeremy, I nearly flipped out. You’re a legend, man.”

“Well, I don’t know about that.”

“It was an honor just to watch you work. I can’t believe you boned fourteen girls. That has to be some kind of record.”

He asks for an autograph, and I’m happy to accommodate. After some small talk, he finally musters the courage to ask the question that has clearly been on his mind all morning.

“So how big is it?”

“It?” I ask, though I know full well where this is heading.

“Your penis,” he says, looking a little embarrassed.

“Oh, that. It’s two inches…from the floor!”
*

It’s my standard joke, but he howls with laughter anyway. I thank him again for his kind words, and gather my things to leave. As I’m walking toward the door, I can hear him repeating my line under his breath, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard in his life.

“Two inches from the floor,” he giggles to himself. “I wouldn’t doubt it.”

Part One

I remember when the air was clean and the sex was dirty.

—George Burns