You probably think you already know me because you've seen one of my two thousand porn movies, or maybe you caught me on VH1's The Surreal Life, or rented my movie Pornstar, or heard me rapping in someone's music video. . . . Yeah, that's me. But believe it or not, that's not the real me. The real me is just an average guy trying to make it in the world like everyone else.
Well . . . sort of . . .
I always wanted to be a legitimate actor (that's right, don't laugh). But when the gigs didn't come I didn't let it get me down. Instead, I'd fall into the arms of beautiful women and let them heal my bruised soul. One of them insisted on taking nude pictures of me and sending them to Playgirl. For some reason I agreed, and when it was published, I got tons of phone calls. One of them was from a casting director who wanted me in his next picture. There was only one problem: it was a porno.
"What do you think?" I asked my dad.
He rubbed his chin and paused for a moment.
"I think you should do it," he said. "I mean, you're already halfway there, and . . . at least you'll be performing, right?"
That's exactly what I thought. From there, my life only got better. I traveled all over the world, made tons of money, and got more famous every year. But more than anything, I wanted to be legit, so I started doing stand-up comedy, moved to Hollywood, and kept my acting hopes alive by mingling with every major--Wait a minute, you don't care about any of this, do you? You just want to know about the celebrity orgies, the constant sex, and how I learned to blow myself. . . . All right, fine.
But keep reading. . . . I guarantee you'll get more than you bargained for. . . .
With more than 1,750 porn films under his belt (and director of more than 135), Jeremy is still cranking them out two decades after most adult film performers have retired. His memoir (co-written by humorist Spitznagel, author of Fast Forward: Confessions of a Porn Screenwriter ) details a life of relentless self-promotion that often borders on the excessive (who else would call himself "the biggest porn star on the planet" and attach an appendix of the mainstream projects he was almost cast in or was cut out of the final product). Fans won't find much introspection, and the incessant celebrity name-dropping is daunting, but the book is like Jeremy: self-effacing, affably vulgar, eager-to-please and constantly on the run. The anecdotes fly by: trying to direct a performance out of John Wayne Bobbitt's reattached organ in Uncut; having sex with an 87-year-old co-star; battling the LAPD on pandering charges; offering instructions on autofellatio; and hanging with Sam Kinison and Rodney Dangerfield. "I've given confidence to millions of men across the world," Jeremy boasts. "They look at themselves in the mirror and think, Y'know, compared to Ron Jeremy, I'm not that bad looking at all. At least that's what I tell myself whenever I go back to the buffet for seconds." (Feb.) Copyright (c) 1997-2005 Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. -- PUBLISHERS WEEKLY.
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February 06, 2007
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Excerpt from Ron Jeremy by Ron Jeremy
Portrait of a Hedgehog as a Young Man
There are two stories involving my birth that may very well tell you everything you need to know about me.
I was born on March 12, 1953, in Bayside, Queens. As my father remembers it, my mother didn't experience much in the way of contraction pains. She just woke him up in the middle of the night, calmly announced that it was time, and had him drive her to the hospital. After the doctors wheeled her into the delivery room, I plopped out less than a half hour later. It was as simple as that. No epidural was necessary. My mother didn't even need to push. I did most of the work. I knew that it was time, and I just . . . came out.
"Oh," she apparently said. "That was it?"
I like to think that I just wanted to cause my mom as little physical discomfort as possible, but my dad has a different theory. "You were in a hurry to get out," he's told me. "You knew you had things to do, and you didn't want to stick around in the womb any longer than was necessary."
The other story took place later that morning, just a few hours after my shotgun delivery. My mother was taken to a private room to rest and recover. Though it was an altogether effortless birth, she was still feeling a little groggy; the doctors had injected her with too much anesthesia, having anticipated a birth at least slightly longer than a sneeze. But she was conscious enough to overhear a pair of nurses talking in the next room, where they were bathing me and getting a first glance at my unusual physical gifts.
"Good Lord," one of them muttered. "Would you look at that kid's penis?"
"It's pretty big," the other said. "And on a baby, no less."
The nurses giggled nervously. If they had any idea that my mother was listening, they certainly didn't let on.
"Well, he's a very lucky boy," one of them concluded.
And that, as the dramatists like to say, is what you call foreshadowing. Even as an infant, I was an impatient little fucker. And I had a bigger schmeckel than most guys my age and older.
If there's a better indication of the man I was to become, I don't know what it is.
Doing a cartwheel out of my mom's womb was just the beginning. Most of my infancy was spent trying to escape the boring inactivity of babyhood. I just couldn't sit still for it. During the first few months of my life, my parents would put me in a crib and quietly leave the room after I'd fallen asleep. But within a matter of minutes, they'd hear loud thumping sounds, and they'd come in to find me banging my head against the crib, like an irate prison inmate desperate for freedom. On some nights, they'd catch me crawling the crib's walls, literally balancing on the edges, teetering dangerously close to falling off.