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

all eventually fixed in editing. Back on shore, Caroline recovered from her seasickness, and the director got a few “reaction shots” of her face faking an orgasm, with the ocean and the sky in the background. In the finished movie, nobody would ever know that the woman who appeared to be moaning and groaning with ecstasy was, when the camera wasn’t on her face, puking like a Roman at a vomitorium. It’s all part of the magic of moviemaking, but I still can’t watch the scene without grimacing. *
    Those were the bad days.
    On the good days, however, it was hard to believe that I was actually being paid to do this for a living. I remember being flown to Maui for a Hustler photo shoot in 1980. It was me and a female model named Danica. They took us by helicopter to a secluded beach, where a shipwrecked boat could be seen in the distance. They put me in a tuxedo and her in a cocktail dress, and we’d sip champagne on the beach and then eventually simulate sex. But on our first day, the photographer, James Baez, looked at the sky and said, “The sun isn’t quite right today. Let’s try again tomorrow.” So we’d all take the day off and go Jet Skiing. Althea Flynt, Larry’s wife, came along and paid all the expenses. **
    The next morning, Baez looked at the sky again and it was still no good. “Okay,” I said, “let’s do some sailing.” Althea came along again and, you guessed it, paid for everything.
    This went on for days. Every day that we didn’t shoot, we’d end up snorkeling or lounging on the beach or taking a catamaran out to the ocean. Every night we had huge lobster dinners. (It was then that I realized that food tastes so much better when someone else is paying for it.) I was spoiled rotten. I was the only one I knew who actually came back from work with a tan. I didn’t need a vacation. Hell, my job was a vacation. ***
    The best part of my travels was when producers would fly me to Los Angeles. I made the most of my visits, using every free moment to advance my career. When I wasn’t on a porn set, I’d be driving my motorcycle around Hollywood, dropping off head shots with agents, hustling my way into TV auditions, trying to get my foot in the door of the mainstream.
    Joel Zwick, my old movement teacher at Queens College, got me an audition with Bobby Hoffman at Paramount. He was directing episodes of Laverne & Shirley , and he briefly considered casting me as Laverne’s fireman boyfriend. I ended up losing the job because I was too short. Another Queens College alum, producer Mark Rothman, helped me get an audition for Happy Days , for a guest stint as “Satan’s nephew.” It was just one episode, but it was still a very big deal. Happy Days was responsible for a lot of spin-offs. Robin Williams played Mork on Happy Days , and the network gave him his own show. Jimmy Brogan played an angel and got his own show called Out of the Blue . I would’ve given anything for that kind of opportunity. I had stars in my eyes. I would’ve dropped porn in a heartbeat. But I think they gave the part to some comic named Richard Levin. He never got a spin-off, but it was small consolation.
    Some mornings, it wasn’t worth getting out of bed. Jesus, I’d think, who does a porn star have to blow to get a break in this town?

    E ven with all my travels, I still called Queens home. I never bothered to get an apartment in New York. It would’ve been pointless because I was hardly in the city for longer than a day or two. And besides, when I did return to the East Coast, I wanted to spend time with my family. Particularly my mother, who had Parkinson’s disease. Though I tried not to think about it, I knew that she was getting sicker and would probably not be around for much longer.
    During the late 1970s, she underwent experimental cryogenic surgery. It’s a process where damaged tissue in the brain is removed by freezing it with liquid nitrogen. The doctors told us that freezing the tissue rather than