The Hardest (Working) Man in Showbiz (28 page)

“You bastards,” I yelled at them. “You knew that was gonna happen, didn’t you?”

David explained that Katey had a reputation for snubbing nude models and porn actors. When Traci Lords or Teri Weigel or Jessica Hahn did guest appearances on
Married with Children
, Katey was not too cordial with them. She had supposedly grown up in a religious household and didn’t think too highly of the adult industry.
*
So I didn’t let it bother me. I could certainly understand her attitude, even if I didn’t completely agree.

Less than a year later, I was at Gene Simmons’s birthday party at Jerry’s Deli (and bowling alley) in Studio City. It was packed with celebrities, from Lita Ford to Roseanne and Tom Arnold. The minute I walked in, I saw Katey Sagal standing in the back, and I almost did a beeline toward the other end of the room. I was in no mood for another public rejection. But then I noticed something. Katey was talking with none other than Pamela Des Barres, the world’s most famous groupie.

I walked over to Gene Simmons and asked him, “What the hell is Katey Sagal doing with Pam Des Barres?”

“They’re best friends,” he told me.

Now
I was furious.
Now
I wished that I’d let Devon Shire throw her drink right in Katey’s fucking face. I thought she disliked everyone associated with the sex trade. But here she was, chatting up a woman who was famous for
screwing
. Pamela had even written a book titled
I’m with the Band
, in which she revealed intimate details about her backstage sex antics at rock shows. What right did Katey Sagal have to judge
me
when her best friend was selling books about her tales of screwing rock stars?
*

I’ve also been snubbed by Lisa Marie Presley and Christina Aguilera (prompting Ashton Kutcher, who was standing nearby, to mutter, “What a bitch”
**
). And Secret Service guys have prevented me from getting
too
close to the president. Charlie Sheen took me as his guest to the opening of the new Planet Hollywood in Las Vegas. Everyone was there and saying hello—from Whoopi Goldberg to Bruce Willis—and in the middle of it all was former President George H. W. Bush. Coincidentally, I had said hello to him and his wife, Barbara, a year earlier on a flight to Texas. Most likely he didn’t remember. But the Secret Service certainly did—I could tell by their smiles. After I shook his hand and walked away, a photographer asked if he could get a shot of us. I walked right back and said, “Certainly!” Right as the photographer was about to take the shot, however, a very smooth Secret Service agent put his body in front of the camera. “Come on, Ron,” he said with a smile. “You got a handshake.” I should have known there was no way I was going to get a photo with the former leader of the free world! Then there was the snub by the brilliant actress Rosanna Arquette, which I actually didn’t mind because it almost made me a richer man.

I was at a party hosted by Gregory Peck’s daughter, Cecilia, at her Hollywood Hills home. It had all the ingredients of a stellar shindig: great food, great music, and more celebrities than you could shake a stick at. Rosanna Arquette was at the party, and she was one of the few people to whom Cecilia didn’t introduce me. I wanted to say hello, if only because she had once dated Sam Kinison (according to Sam). But when I tried to wave at her, she looked right past me. My every attempt to get her attention was ignored. I was with Adam Rifkin, my good buddy and a very successful movie director and writer, and he was convinced that Rosanna was purposely dissing me.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “I’ll give you ten thousand dollars if you go over there and put your dick in her drink.”

“What?” I said. “There’s no way.”

It wasn’t the first time that Adam had tried to bribe me into doing something like this. When I was interviewed by Barbara Walters on
The View
, he offered me $25,000 to pull out my penis on the air and lay it on her shoulder. I didn’t do it, of course. Live TV isn’t exactly the best place to be using your schmeckel for a prop-comedy routine. But here, in a private party with a limited number of witnesses, I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was tempted.

Steve Bing, a very wealthy film producer
*
who was standing nearby, turned around and said, “I’ll double that offer!”

“That makes
twenty
thousand dollars,” Adam said. “And all you have to do is take out your cock and stir her cocktail.”

“It’s not going to happen,” I insisted.

“Just think about it. That’s all I’m asking.”

Word began to spread around the party, and all night I was approached by random celebrities, offering to put more money into the pot. By midnight, there was almost $50,000 on the line. I wasn’t seriously considering it. I was annoyed that Rosanna wouldn’t even acknowledge my presence. But did that really deserve having a porn star’s schlong dunked into her drink like a party favor?

Still…it was a
lot
of money.

The clincher came when a bodyguard walked over to me and tapped my shoulder. “Mick Jagger just heard about the wager,” he said. “He wants a piece of that action, too. He’ll double whatever’s on the table.”
**

“Okay, fine,” I said, loosening my belt. “I’ll do it.”

O
h, come on! Do you really think I’d be that stupid? Do you know what would have happened to me if word got out that I’d used my wang as a swizzle stick and publicly humiliated a major Hollywood actress? I’d be escorted across the California border by armed policemen. Of
course
I didn’t do it.

Which isn’t to say that my penis hasn’t made the rounds in the home of a Hollywood actress or two. Like Lynn Redgrave.

Yes,
that
Lynn Redgrave. The celebrated British actress and staple of
Masterpiece Theater
. The 1966 Academy Award nominated actress for
Georgie Girl
. The Broadway legend and two-time Tony Award nominee. The sister of Vanessa Redgrave.

You may recall a minor scandal that surfaced during the late 1980s. Tabloids like the
National Enquirer
and
London People
were reporting that Lynn Redgrave and her husband, John Clark, were letting a group of porno actors into their Topanga Canyon house to make adult films. My name was bandied about as the main culprit, and it was insinuated that I was hosting nothing short of sex orgies in their home.

When John and Lynn were questioned by reporters, they of course denied everything. Lynn was a spokeswoman for Weight Watchers at the time, and it would not have looked good for her to be associated with such a nasty business like porn. I stood by their story, though I admitted to directing at least one porno movie at their home. But, I was careful to add, we had used only their backyard for some exterior shots. Lynn and John had not been involved in any way and were not present during the filming.

But I lied.

John and Lynn
did
know what we were doing. John had allowed us into their home with the specific intention of letting us shoot a film. And not just one film, mind you.
Two
films. John Clark even appeared in one of them. He played the father of Paul Thomas in
Sore Throat
(a takeoff of
Deep Throat
). We gave him a wig, and he disguised his voice (using a southern twang rather than his usual British accent). He never performed any sex scenes—he was married to Lynn, after all—but he did have a speaking role.

As for Lynn, she never participated in any of the movies. During a good chunk of filming, she was in New York, appearing in a Broadway production of
Aren’t We All?
She returned at the end of our shoot, so, in all fairness, she was never there during the actual filming.

The next afternoon, I walked into their kitchen and saw Lynn and John tying up some trash bags. It was a staggering amount of trash—at least four or five bags—and they were touching them like they thought they might contain medical waste.

“I really appreciate your keeping the place so clean,” she said in her adorable English accent.

“My Lord, Ron,” John added. “How many disposable douches do you people use in a day?”

Disposable douches are the
sine qua non
of the porn profession. No performer can work without them, so it was not uncommon for discarded douche boxes to litter the floors of an adult film set. But I had given my actors specific instructions that we were not to leave the Redgrave’s house looking like a gynecologist’s office.

“Well,” I told John and Lynn, “at least they’re putting them in the garbage.”

“Yes,” Lynn sighed. “I suppose I should be thankful for that much.”

Lynn was, if nothing else, a good sport.
*

A
s much as I adored the peaceful and breathtaking Topanga Canyon countryside, my heart still belonged to the dirt and grime of Hollywood at night. I loved the rowdy parties that raged till dawn, and, most of all, I loved the rock and roll. Los Angeles during the late 1980s and early ‘90s was ground zero for the rock universe. Hair metal reigned supreme, and the Sunset Strip was home to all the great bands, from Mötley Crüe to Ratt, Poison to the L.A. Guns. I was happy just to be around the excitement, watching the bands from the audience like any other fan. But a porn star at a rock nightclub couldn’t go unnoticed for long.

It’s been argued that rock music and porn are two halves of the same bastard child. They’re both embraced by outlaws and outsiders; they’re both considered vulgar and uncouth by polite society; they’ve both helped thousands of ugly guys get laid. If you’re not conventionally attractive and you’re still getting more tail than a toilet seat, odds are you’re either a porn star or rock musician.
*

Whenever I’d show up for a concert, I’d invariably be taken backstage to meet the band members or, in some cases, even asked to introduce the show. I partied with CC DeVille and Sebastian Bach, and I got to meet Hole lead singer Courtney Love on several occasions. During one night at Ben Franks in Los Angeles, Courtney came over to my table and told me that her boyfriend wanted an autograph. Her boyfriend at the time was—you guessed it—none other than legendary Nirvana frontman Kurt Cobain. Kurt waved at me but was too shy to come over and say hello. I signed autographs for both of them, and Courtney still claims that I’m one of the few celebrities whom she’s ever asked for an autograph.
**

I had some memorable times hanging out with Lars Ulrich, the drummer from Metallica. On one night, I was driving around Hollywood with him, and he was messing around in the backseat with porn stars Heather Hart and Devon Shire.
*
I’m not sure exactly what was happening back there, but it was very sexual. When I dropped him off at his hotel, I realized that Lars had dropped his driver’s license, credit card, and a bracelet. I called him the next morning and asked, “Lars, are you missing anything?”

“Oh dude, I don’t have my bracelet,” he said.

“Anything else?”

“No, that’s it.”

I gave him back his bracelet and decided to hold on to the rest of his stuff until he figured out it was gone. Over the next few days, I’d call him just to ask again if he was missing anything.

“No, everything’s fine.”

I didn’t say a word. Finally, as he was getting ready to leave town to go on tour with Metallica, I called him and said, “Lars, I have your driver’s license and credit card!”

“Oh no, really?” he said, laughing. “I didn’t even realize.”

Typical rock star behavior, huh? He loses one piece of jewelry and his world comes to an end. But his credit card disappears and he doesn’t even notice. Amazing.

I also befriended a fledgling rock outfit called Guns N’ Roses in the days before they became rock’s newest superstars. During an evening at the Rainbow Room, lead singer Axl Rose told me stories about hanging out with video-store clerks. He would rent my videos almost every week, he told me, and even cheer along during my sex scenes, chanting, “Go Ron, go Ron, go Ron!” When he learned that I could play the piano, he insisted that I give him a private recital, and he was amazed that I could still perform an entire concerto from memory.
**

But it was Slash, the scruffy and top-hat-wearing lead guitarist from Guns N’ Roses, who was probably the one I hung out with the most. We would cruise the Strip together, or hang out at his house in the Hollywood Hills.
Rolling Stone
and an episode of
Beavis & Butt-Head
both mentioned that rock stars liked to keep me around because I introduced them to women. Nothing could have been further from the truth. No rock star on the planet, much less somebody like Slash, needed my help getting laid, trust me. When a woman had sex with me, it was often for a paycheck. But they had sex with rock stars like Slash because they
wanted
to. If anything, I was getting his leftovers. I’d show up backstage with a date, and she’d jump into Slash’s lap. I’d think, Well, I guess I’ve lost her for the night.

Sure, there were a few times when Slash and I would be with the same woman. And sure, I might have hooked him up with the occasional porn star. I introduced him to Savannah, the platinum-blonde queen of porn, at the Rainbow Bar & Grill. She probably would have found a way to meet him anyway, because she was hell-bent on screwing rock stars. But Slash always gave me credit for introducing them, and they managed to make quite a splash in the media. I still remember a
People
story about the two of them. They were apparently getting a little frisky outside of a New York nightclub called Scrap Bar, and the reporter called it “full-tilt whoopee.” I love that expression: “full-tilt whoopee.”

Slash eventually stopped seeing her, but their relationship became a part of rock mythology. Years later, Slash was being interviewed on Howard Stern’s radio show, and once again he mentioned that I was the one who introduced him to Savannah. Now, I
believe
that his wife at the time was so upset that she revoked my backstage pass at all Guns N’ Roses concerts. She didn’t want me bringing around any more women for Slash to diddle.