The Hardest (Working) Man in Showbiz by Ron Jeremy Page A

a hedgehog, my friend,” he said with a smirk. “A walking, talking hedgehog.”
    “Will you please shut the hell up?”
    “Ron ‘The Hedgehog’ Jeremy. I think it has a nice ring to it.”
    “You’re an asshole,” I told him.
    I could only pray that the nickname wouldn’t stick. That’s the kind of thing that could haunt a guy for the rest of his life.

    I never wanted to be a porn star. But once the wheels were in motion, I became insatiable. It wasn’t enough just to do one or two films, I had to do everything . When there weren’t any jobs for me in New York, I’d jump on a plane to L.A. or San Francisco or anywhere that I was booked for an adult production. I didn’t care where it was happening or what the film was about, I wanted to be a part of it.
    It was a large part of why I became so famous in the porn world so quickly. I worked more than most because I was willing to do the legwork. At the time, porn actors tended to live either on the East Coast or the West Coast, and they didn’t travel unless it was absolutely necessary. If a movie was being shot in their neighborhood, they’d do it. If not, well, they’d just wait until one was. But I didn’t have that kind of patience. I wanted to stay busy. I wanted to work. And if that meant leaving one set at midnight and driving to LAX to catch a red-eye to New York for another movie the next morning, I’d do it.
    Although it wasn’t the career I’d hoped for, I was still a working actor. I studied my scripts and tried every day to give the best performance I could. Except for the “having sex on camera” part, I was living the life that I had always dreamed about.
    Granted, there were days when it wasn’t much fun. There was one shoot * in Majorca, Spain, that promised to be a paid vacation. And for the first few days, that was exactly what it was. The sky was crystal clear, the water was blue; it was paradise on earth. But on the last day, I was scheduled to do a scene on an eighty-foot yacht. Because of my tendency to get seasick, I took a Bonine pill before boarding, just to be on the safe side. Nobody else in the cast or crew bothered to take anything, and after just a few hours out at sea, they all became deathly ill.
    Not just a little queasy, mind you. They were puking in buckets, puking over the sides, puking in anything that so much as looked like a container. It was disgusting, and not exactly conducive for a morning of hot hard-core action.
    But the show must go on, and, despite the fact that she had been throwing up all day, Caroline (the actress I was scheduled to work with) refused to cancel the shoot. She arrived on the ship’s deck right on time, slipped out of her clothes, and gamely tried her best to perform. When your leading lady has a green complexion and her “come hither” eyes are really saying “I may hurl chunks at any moment,” it’s not the sort of thing that puts me in a sexy mood.
    We tried to make the best of a rotten situation. We obviously couldn’t do any positions where her face could be seen, primarily because of all the vomit coming out of her mouth. So we decided to stick to doggy-style. That way, she could remain perched near the ship’s edge, where she was free to throw up to her heart’s content.
    But even with our careful choreography, I still couldn’t bring myself to do it. It just didn’t seem right. I stood behind her with my hard-on, watching the poor girl puke her guts out, all while her ass was aimed toward me, waiting for me to enter her.
    I’m a gentleman. When a girl is puking, I like to hold her hair, not fuck her silly. Call me old-fashioned, but that’s how I feel.
    “Ron, just do it,” she assured me. “I’ll be fine.”
    I did the best I could, under the circumstances. If you’ve never had the chance to fuck a woman while she’s vomiting over the side of a ship, I wouldn’t recommend it. It’s about the furthest thing from erotic that you could ever experience.
    It was