The Hardest (Working) Man in Showbiz (38 page)

I saw Heather at a few SAG award shows, and while the entire cast of
Boogie Nights
was very warm and happy to see me (especially William Macy, a great guy), Heather would seem a little…well, standoffish. Not as friendly as she used to be.

Maybe law #1 is just silly. Maybe it’s all in my head, and actors don’t really care if they see me having sex on a porn set. I guess I’ll never know for sure….

I
brought the well-known actress Fairuza Balk to the
Boogie Nights
premiere in Los Angeles.
*
After so many months of preparation, it was exciting finally to see the finished product. It was an epic, just as Paul had promised, lasting nearly three hours and never losing its momentum. I can’t say that I (or most of the porn industry) could identify with any of the characters. I’d never been addicted to drugs, never robbed a crime kingpin at gunpoint, never coerced underage kids into having sex. The characters were all based around the John Holmes crowd, but that was where the similarities between
Boogie Nights
and most of the porn industry ended. But even so, it was a major Hollywood movie! People all over the country would soon be watching it and talking about it, and I had played a small role in making it happen.

Well, not a
role
role. I didn’t ever actually appear in the film. Paul had promised me at least a small walk-on part, but somehow it never happened. At first, he cast me as an audience member in a movie theater or nightclub, but he had to cut the scene for length. And then he put me in a prison scene toward the end, when Robert Ridgely’s Colonel character is brutalized by a black inmate. First he made me a security guard, then a warden, and then a prisoner. I’m the Colonel’s cell mate, and I was supposed to interrupt him from being attacked by another inmate. Paul had me ad-lib some dialogue, but none of it really worked. The scene didn’t make a lot of sense. Why would I be talking so much? When you’re in prison, you make a point of
not
speaking. But Paul wanted me to say a few lines to spice things up.

“Is there even any film in the camera?” I asked him.

“What?” Paul said, dumbfounded. “You’re kidding, right?”

“This has happened to me before. Are you just throwing me a bone and pretending to shoot this scene?”

“Ronnie, I’d never do that to you. Why are you being so paranoid?”

I honestly didn’t know. I was just jaded, I suppose. I’d been cut out of films before. The editors told me that my prison scene lasted until the final cut, so I appreciated Paul for the effort.

As I sat with Fairuza and watched the movie, I saw a lot of my friends in the porn business on-screen. Nina Hartley had a pretty big speaking role. Jane Hamilton, who had given the cast a backstage tour of her porn set, had a great part as a judge in Julianne Moore’s child-custody case. Two big-boobed girls named Summer Cummings and Skye Blue had a lot of screen time in a Jacuzzi scene. Even Little Cinderella had a terrific bit as a party guest who overdoses on laced cocaine. Every one of the porn stars whom I had recommended to Paul was used in the movie somewhere.

Except me.

As the closing credits began to roll, the hair stood up on my forearms. I watched the actors’ names scroll by, and then the production crew, the cinematographer, the costume designer, the music supervisor. Just be patient, I told myself. The credits listed the extras, the set decorator, the first assistant editor, the boom operator, the chief lighting electrician.

The audience was getting to their feet, filing toward the exit. I held firmly to Fairuza’s hand. “We’re almost there,” I whispered.

Set decorating buyer. The seamstress. The first assistant accountant. The office staff assistant.

Almost there.

The supervising sound editor. Special effects. Unit publicity.

Almost there.

Caterers, drivers, security, scoring mixers.

Where the hell was I?

And then I saw it:
CONSULTANT
:
RON JEREMY
. It was one of the last credits, just a few lines above the Panavision logo and copyright notice. I could have taken a walk, jogged around the block, had dinner, come back, and
still
not missed it.

Behind me, a few New Line executives were snickering. “Hey, Ron,” they yelled. “
There’s
your credit!” I was annoyed, but it
was
New Line, after all.

Part Three

Love is the answer, but while you’re waiting for the answer, sex raises some pretty good questions.

—Woody Allen

(Courtesy Porn Star Clothing)

chapter 13

GOIN’ MAINSTREAM

I’ve been asked a lot of strange questions
over the years. Everything from “What do breast implants really feel like?” to “Who is your favorite sex partner?” My answer to this second question is always the same: your mom. After getting punched in the face, I’ll explain that I’m only kidding, and then I’ll ask if their mother still has that little birthmark on the back of her arm. After getting punched in the face yet
again
, I’ll tell them the truth.
*

But the question I’m asked most often is this: “Why do you care so much about becoming a mainstream actor? Isn’t being a porn star enough?”

There really isn’t an easy answer to that. A lot of people make fun of me because of my mainstream ambitions. They just don’t understand why I can’t leave well enough alone and be happy with what I’ve got. But the thing is, I’ve never thought of myself as a porn actor chasing after a mainstream career. I’m just an actor who
happened
to get into porn. When I was a kid and decided that acting was what I wanted to do with my life, I didn’t think, Wow, this’ll be my chance to show my schmeckel to the world! I
always
wanted a straight acting career. Porn was just the first opportunity that came along, but it was never supposed to be a permanent thing. I had dreams of breaking into big-budget Hollywood movies when I was a starving actor in New York, and just because I started doing porn doesn’t mean that those dreams went away.

So why did I stay in porn for so long? If I was so damn determined to make it as a legitimate actor, why didn’t I just quit porno once and for all and devote myself full time to pursuing mainstream acting jobs?

The answer is, I’ve learned to like porn. I may never quit, but at the same time I’ll never stop sending out my résumé and checking the mainstream casting listings, just in case other things come along.

And over the years, they have.

W
hen you’re a porno actor looking for his shot at the mainstream, you have to try a little harder than everybody else. You can’t just assume that because you have a little bit of fame, you’re going to get every audition that comes along. It’s unlikely, if not improbable, that a producer will call you and say, “Hey, Ronnie, I just saw you in
Big Boobs in Buttsville
. You were great! We’re putting together a buddy-cop picture with Al Pacino, and we think you’d be great for the lead.” If you want to talk to producers,
you’re
the one who has to call
them
. And even then, you’ll probably get a response like, “Who is this? How did you get this number? No, I never saw
Big Boobs in Buttsville
. If you ever call here again, I’ll be notifying the police.”

Porn may be enough to get your foot in the door, but it won’t get you inside the white walls of Hollywood. If you want to break in, you sometimes have to be sneaky about it. You have to find a back door. (No, I’m not talking about anal sex. Didn’t we cover that in the last chapter?)

I’ve been lucky enough to be approached by filmmakers who wanted my services in a capacity other than acting. Once I’ve developed a relationship with the director, I’ll hit him up for a role. It almost worked for me on
Boogie Nights
. And it almost worked for me on my first consulting gig, on Adrian Lyne’s 1986 erotic thriller
9½ Weeks
.

The movie, which starred Mickey Rourke and Kim Basinger, followed a steamy affair between an art-gallery dealer and a Wall Street executive. Adrian hired me to consult on the Show World scene, when Mickey and Kim visit the infamous Times Square sex club. I provided him with several porn actors to simulate sex during the scene. In return, he offered me a small, nonspeaking part as a swinger who kisses Kim Basinger.
*

On the day of the shoot, Adrian took me aside and told me that Kim had requested another actor. She wanted somebody a little taller and somebody she knew better. I was certainly upset. I told Adrian that I’d wear platform shoes. But the role had already been given to David Everard, Mickey Rourke’s personal assistant and somebody with whom Kim felt more comfortable. I was still in the scene as a silent bit player, but my face never made it into the final cut.

Mickey knew that I was depressed about losing the part, and he tried to console me. During a break in filming, we took a walk through Times Square to look at the sights. Mickey was not yet a major star. He had achieved some fame with
Diner
, but
The Pope of Greenwich Village
hadn’t yet been released, and he was not yet a big player in Hollywood.
**
So he wasn’t being recognized by the crowds out on the New York streets.

But
I
was.

Remember, this was Times Square during the mid-1980s, when it was still the porn capital of the world. To the smut peddlers who called Forty-second Street home, I was a bona fide celebrity. We couldn’t walk a few feet without somebody stopping us and asking for my autograph. Men would come running over with copies of my latest movie on VHS, and women would ask me to sign their boobs. But when they looked at Mickey, their expressions were blank.

“Why do you even care about losing the Basinger scene?” he said with a laugh. “You don’t need it. You’re already famous. These people think you’re a god.”

Finally, one of my fans—a hunched-over old man who looked like he had spent the night sleeping in a cardboard box—was curious enough to ask about Mickey’s identity. “So who is this guy?” he said, eyeing Mickey suspiciously.

“Don’t bother,” Mickey whispered to me. “It’s not important.”

“Oh, him?” I said, nodding toward Mickey. “This, my friend, is none other than John Holmes.”

The old man nearly did a cartwheel. He grabbed back his pen and paper and threw it at Mickey. “Can I have your autograph?” he asked, his voice trembling with glee.

Mickey signed it, all the while muttering, “Ronnie, you’re an asshole.” The irony was not lost on either of us. Here was an actor who made millions signing an autograph for an actor who made thousands.

I glanced at the autograph, and Mickey had indeed signed John’s name. The old man thanked him, mumbled something about John’s (or Mickey’s) remarkable penis, and slithered away.

“So how does it feel to be John Holmes?” I asked him. “I bet you grew a couple inches down there, huh?”

He just smiled. “I shrank,” he said.

And for the record, if anyone ever finds this autograph, it’ll probably be worth lots on eBay.

L
ike anyone looking to break into Hollywood, it helps to have friends in high places.

I’ve been fortunate enough to know many directors and actors who believed in me and even fought to include me in their movies when everyone in the business thought they were crazy. Mickey Rourke helped me get parts in
Spun
and
Domino
. Don Johnson used his clout at CBS to get me a small role on his show
Nash Bridges
.
*
And John Frankenheimer was probably one of my most devoted allies. Even after the Laurel Canyon fiasco, he always tried to find parts for me in his movies. He put me in
52 Pick-Up
, and then again in
Dead Bang
, and then again in the TV miniseries
George Wallace
. When he was casting
Ronin
, he gave me a small role as a fishmonger and flew me to France for the shoot. He didn’t care that I was a porn actor. As he told me once, “You’re much more talented than people give you credit for. If I could help your career, I’d work for scale.”