The Honorable Cock of Ron Jeremy

I often wonder how someone who had time-traveled here from, say, 1960 would react when he first heard the words, uttered these days in reverential tones, "President Reagan." Of all the words capable of crossing his lips, I imagine the first five would be: Are you fucking kidding me? Likewise, someone who came here from 20 years ago might burst out laughing at the words "Governor Jesse Ventura" and "Governor Schwarzenegger." Today I heard the words "Senator Al Franken, " and even though I was aware of his campaign and subsequent court battle over the recount--even the fact that he was likely to win the appeal--I still can't believe it's not a joke. Once upon a time, in a land that doesn't exist anymore, the holders of political office were lifelong politicians, or at least they came from the military. They weren't actors, professional wrestlers or comedians. While to many this new trend towards "anything goes" electability is bizarre at best and deeply disturbing at worst, I am fucking stoked! Why? Do you really have to guess?

Today, I--Ron Jeremy's cock--announce my candidacy for the office of U.S. Representative in the 33rd District of California. The current representative is The Honorable Diane Watson, but that ho' is going down faster than Tori Welles on a dick made of frozen yogurt. There is no longer any reason why a porn star's cock can't hold elected office. Naturally, you're wondering which party I belong to. Repubican? Democrotch? Indepenisdent? I'm a big dick...of course I'm Republican! Besides, someone has to put Nancy Pelosi's mouth to better use. What do I stand for? Oh, let's see. How about Change?

Being a politician is not all that different from being a porn star. I read lines that were written for me, I take money from shady people, and squirt my seed on willing women. Let's face it--I know more about acts of congress than anyone in Washington, and I've spent even more time in an oval office with bush than another famous Dick.

So Diane Watson, here's one giant slab of man meat who means it when he says "I'm coming for you." My cumpaign has begun.

On Golden Ponzi

The world knows about Ron’s brilliant abilities in the bedroom, but few are aware that he is somewhat of a financial wunderkind. How else could a guy with only porn, some mainstream cameos, and a hot sauce line to his name be living such a comfortable life? Answer: great investments over the years.

Me—I have not been so lucky. After being left a sizable trust fund by Ron’s grandfather’s dick, Hyatt P. Niss, I made a series of terrible investments over the years. In 1978, I sunk a ton of money into Dontcum Industries. They had just been awarded FDA approval on Controldaseed, a medication used to prevent premature ejaculation. Apparently, it was supposed to intercept some key neurons just before the “point of no return”, and trick the user into thinking he was making love to a squirrel. It was almost immediately recalled after 10 users in Boston test group contracted rabies.

But the worst of all possible investments came just a few years ago. Yes, readers, I was a victim of Bernard Madoff’s unconscionable swindling. I lost everything, and like many of his victims, I hope the man rots in hell. I can’t say I wasn’t warned. Ron was certain that Maddof’s returns were too good to be true. And after almost getting caught in similar trouble (well—not that similar. Ron was once the victim of a Fonzie scheme, but never received justice because the perpetrator couldn't admit he was wra-wra-wrong), Ron’s bullshit detector was on high alert.

But I didn’t listen. Bernie “made off” with all my money.

Thankfully, justice was served yesterday. The scumbag got 150 years. And there’s a silver lining to all of this, which I hope pleases my fellow victims: I’m friends with a lot of dicks who are currently serving time and they have all promised to make a sizable investment in Bernie’s anus.

In the meantime, I’m back to square one. I may not have any money, but every day I look in the mirror and think: “Just look at ya. You’re still young, you’ve got your health, you’re fucking gigantic, you just starred in a feature film, you belong to a great guy, and tonight you’re sampling twins.”

There’s nobody richer.

To Live and Die in LA

Fred Travalena just died. I know the guy was a professional imitator, but Jeez! Did he really think the headlines would follow him?

Still, being a celebrity, I can't help but take in the daily coverage of Michael Jackson's premature and tragic death without wondering (as Fred must have) how my own death will be covered by the media (Fred would be in for a rude awakening if he ever woke up again). Obviously when Ron dies, I die; but I could be functionally dead long before Ron kicks, as happens to many old men and prostate cancer victims. Will TMZ get the scoop, having paid off someone at Ron's urologist's office? Will fans begin collecting around Ginger Lynn's mouth so as to feel nearer to me?

I want all that and more. Hell, I had as much influence on contemporary pornography as MJ had on contemporary music. We were both big when we were young. I've performed as much as he has, and while I may not be able to moon walk, I doubt he was able to stay hard for hours and hours, at least in the presence of someone over 9. He made one Thriller. I made over 2000.

Don't get me wrong--I don't object to the rabid adulation he's received since dying. He was a major talent and pop icon. But I'm a major talent and pipe icon, and I'm just arguing for my due when it's my turn. What will be my third-legacy? For one thing, I hope that, like MJ's body of work, "One-Eyed Monster" shoots to the #1 spot on Amazon and Itunes in the days following my death. I have to admit, I've been very disappointed in sales of the DVD. I really thought this movie would take off--even while acknowledging it's not for all tastes. But I'm not bitter. I believe in moving on. Michael Jackson, on the other hand, was famously against maturity; he wanted to flit around and stay young like Peter Pan. But take it from Peter Pan Am--flying is meaningless unless you actually go somewhere. Case in point, in 45 minutes I'm going inside a vagina. To my knowledge, Michael's been there only once, and it was a one-way trip.

Michael and I have given a lot of pleasure to a lot of people We're two of a kind: the rock star and the cock star...the most important member of the Jackson 5 and most important member of Ron Jeremy....the prodigy and the prodigious...he was planning a comeback next month and I was planning to cum on someone's back next Friday.

Except for this: Billie Jean was not his lover, but the odds are pretty good she was mine.

RIP

They say you always remember where you were when really famous people die. I’m not sure that will be the case with Michael Jackson. That’s because I was inside Sunny Lane’s snatch, and I’ve been there hundreds of times. Ron was filming a scene for the upcoming “Night at the Museum: Fuck My Ass”, when a PA blurted out that the King of Pop was dead. Out of respect, Ron pulled out, but the timing of that action made it look like I was doing a spit take. I wasn’t of course, and those weren’t tears streaming down Sunny’s face.

But yeah, I’m sad today. For all his troubles, both financial and social, we lost an entertainment giant. So as a tribute, I dug up a song of his to which I rewrote lyrics. In the mid-80’s, I was hired by junior high schools around the country to promote abstinence to young boys, and I decided the best way to reach them was through contemporary music.

I know you boys are having feelings down there.
It’s always changing sizes and it’s growing hair.
So take it from a dick who has been ‘bout everywhere
And beat it, just beat it.

And now your face is getting covered with zits.
And girls in your class are getting bigger tits.
You wanna stick it in, just to see if it fits,
So beat it, but you wanna be bad

Just beat it, beat it, beat it, beat it
Guys, you really must concede it.
Now’s not the time to be getting laid.
Just wait ‘til college—pussy in spades.
Just beat it, beat it
Just beat it, beat it
Just beat it, beat it
Just beat it, beat it


So long, Michael.

Game On!

The Game Show Network recently re-ran my 1981 appearance on "The $20,000 Pyramid." Having polished off Betty White and her partner, I moved with my partner Jane into the Winner's Circle.

Dick Clark: Okay, you know the drill. Correctly guessing all six categories in 60 seconds wins you $20,000. Jane, you've chosen to receive, Ron's dick will give

(Betty White calls out from her seat).

Betty: She's in good company!

Dick Clark: 60 seconds on the clock. Ready? Go!



Me: Apes…
Jane: Animals, Things In A Zoo
Me: Apes….My Balls
Jane: Big…
Me: Gilda Radner
Jane: Hairy Things!
Dick Clark: Right! Next!

Me: Butter, Crisco
Jane: Things You Cook With
Me: Baby Oil, Vaseline
Jane: Lubes!
Dick Clark: Good! Next!

Me: A wristwatch….Dudley Moore’s Cock
Jane: Things You Find In Susan Anton’s Ass!
Dick Clark: Halfway there! Next.

Me: Guys want me…
Jane: What Kate Jackson would say, what sports cars would say
Me: I feel good, I make them cum
Jane: What Charo…
Me: Paul Lynde gives me all the time.
Jane: What a blowjob would say!
Dick Clark: Running out of time!



Me: Oh boy, uh, Ang Ez
Jane: Vietnam?
Me: Ah--Eh--Aleh-I-Pah
Jane: Things In the Koran?

The buzzer sounds. The audience lets out a collective “Awww.” Dick Clark walks over.

Dick Clark: Let Me Try… Gah Baz Amaca
Jane: How God Bless America sounds if you sing while giving head?

The audience applauds.

Dick Clark: I guess it helps to have experience. That’s all the time we have, folks! Goodbye.

Don't Cry For Me Governor Sanford

You can say that it’s “to serve the public trust”, or “to make a difference in this world”, but let’s face it: the real reason men get into politics is…(drum roll)….FUCKING! They want to get laid. And let me tell you, there’s more shtupping going on in Washington these days than in the entire adult series “Ginger Lynn’s Gang Bang Follies”, and I’m including “Gang Bang Follies 16”, where Ginger makes love to the entire population of Guam.

Of all the sex taking place in the capital, the majority of is extramarital. Why? Because they get away with it. Governor Mark Sanford is admitting his affair and stepping down for only one reason: because he got caught. I guess I’d be lying if I didn’t take a certain delight in the fact that he’s a Republican, that sanctimonious group of cum-swappers who held Clinton to the fire for getting some sweet Jewish head. The hypocrisy is simply too easy to point out. But make no mistake: there are hundreds of other extramarital affairs happening as I write this. Some will get caught, others won’t.

I’d like to make one other point: guys often attribute their indiscretions to “the power of the pussy”, or will excuse their behavior by saying they were simply “thinking with their dick.”

It’s all bullshit. Yes, I think. If there’s one thing I hope this blog has proved, it’s that I have an active mind, full of a myriad of thoughts. But in the end, I have never entered an orifice without Ron’s intention to do so. By the same token, a pussy does not have power, at least in the sense that it can force you to penetrate it. Jenna Haze’s pussy is powerful, but that’s because it can lock around me like a fleshy vice in a perverted shop class.

Governor Sanford did not think with his dick. I know this for two reasons: the first is that I actually met his dick once at the Washington Correspondents dinner. It was very humble and polite, and was more interested in talking sports than pussy. The second reason is simply a summation of my blog today: the man is an egomaniacal, power-loving politician.

No Governor, this was all you. You, sir, chose to tango with your Argentinian friend, not your dick. Now face the cocksequences.

When I'm In There, Your Ass Is Half Full

Being Ron Jeremy's dick has advantages, of course. I've been fucked and sucked more than even the most wildly promiscuous gay man--and by women who, more often than not, populate the fantasies of just about every straight man alive. Big-titted babes of every stripe and size; (if you know the tune, sing along...) white chicks, black chicks, chicks with golden locks; thin chicks, fat chicks, even chicks with chicken pox. The chicks guys love to eeeaat! So to complain about my life might come across as a tad ungrateful.

But it's my part and I'll cry if I want to.

I lost out for the role of the penis in the new HBO series "Hung," which debuts next week. It's called "Hung" for god's sake. And I didn't get the part! The director said he loved my audition (I'm well known in casting circles for my mono log), but that I was simply too recognized as Ron Jeremy's cock. Now I know how Sherman Hemsley felt when he went up for the part of Forrest Gump. The roles that gave us so much success came with a price. Don't get me wrong, I loved starring in "One-Eyed Monster." I really stretched, both as an actor and as a dick. But HBO, man! A regular gig on a network that isn't shy about showing a guy's cock in the service of story! It's not tv, it's HB Oh, fuck, that is one magnificent piece of pipe! This would have been my Tony Soprano.

Post Script

I just read that Ed McMahon died. Very sad. Not about him, per se; he lived a long life with fame and success. But it made me think about Ron. Like Ed, Ron is basically my goofy sidekick, who would have quietly faded into Hollywood obscurity if not for his long association with me. Like Ed, Ron has spent a career announcing me to millions. They both had their reality shows--Ed with "Star Search," and Ron "The Surreal Life." Ah, shit, now I feel really stupid for complaining about being tethered to RJ. He's not holding me back. He's a part of me. A big part. Though Ron's pupik (nice fella, we both hang out a lot) might beg to differ, Ron and I are the biggest parts of each other. Eh, Thomas Jane can have his "Hung." When he can fuck for ten hours straight, toggling between pussy, mouth and ass and making thirty women cum in the bargain, then let's talk. To you, Ed! You're back with your old partner, so may you sit happily on his heavenly couch, laughing at his jokes for all eternity. Allow me the honor of announcing to Heaven, "Heeeeeeere's Ed!"

If Ayatollah Once, Ayatollah a Thousand Times!

I want to apologize to everyone for my absence on Friday. I’ve been pretty consistent with blogging Monday thru Friday, but last Friday, I had a job I couldn’t turn down. I was actually in Japan shooting a TV commercial. They’re a lot less restrictive about what airs on TV and the pay is incredible. I pocketed a million bucks just for saying two words, “Play hard” (it was a Nike ad).

So…I’m guessing a lot of folks are wanting me to weigh in on what’s happening in Iran. As usual, it’s easiest for me to discuss international affairs in terms of my own life. This one’s a no-brainer.

I’ve blogged before about the day I achieved independence from Ron—the day I first detached and began to experience life separate from Ron. I remember thinking “I can do what I want now! I have my own mind, my own opinions. From here on in, it’s going to be a Decockracy.

But I was deluding myself. For as long as Ron exists, there can’t be true freedom. He is the Supreme Leader. In the end, he is the one who makes all the decisions. Sure, I can influence him and god knows I often do—why the hell else would he have fucked Candy Crowley (hey look, it was an election night and those CNN reporters have a lot of energy.)

So don’t kid yourselves, people. Ahmadinejad or Mousavi--it doesn’t matter when an Ayatollah’s in the hiz-house. Call me when a cleric stops really running that country. In the meantime, I’m almost certain that Candy lost weight. Hey Ronnie!!!

Frank Rich Can Suck Me

I’ve said from the beginning that I’d be completely straight with my readers. Still, a lot of people were skeptical about Tuesday’s blog, in which I described my 1988 theatrical flop, “Phallus”. So I dug up this old review. By and large, the critical response was favorable, but sadly, the one paper that has the power to make or break a show, well, broke our show.


New York Times Theater Review

“PHALLUS” IS COMPLETELY LIMP

By Frank Rich
Theater Critic

Broadway is currently home to the sorriest spectacle I’ve seen since “I’m Short, Black and My Folks Ripped Me Off”, the one-man show from actor Gary Coleman which polluted the Great White Way last year. But don’t unpack your bags just yet, because I’ve a feeling this abominable musical, which opened last night at the Winter Garden Theater, has already overstayed its welcome.

At 4 ½ hours long (with no intermission), “Phallus”, the brainchild of, and starring Ron Jeremy’s dick, is tedium incarnate. Set in London during the 1870’s, the story introduces us to Anne (Judith Light), the daughter of a wealthy shipping magnate who’s been betrothed against her will to William (John Forsythe). Problem is, she’s really in love with the mysterious and rarely seen caretaker of her manor, Dick (Ron Jeremy’s dick).

In the opening number, “I Don’t Want To Marry, I Just Want Dick”, Anne’s intentions are made painfully obvious. One wonders even more painfully why 4 hour and 20 minutes more were needed to spin this ridiculous yarn. Ms. Light’s voice is serviceable enough here, and indeed some of the lyrics show the promise of artistic merit:

"I feel as though I’m drowning in quicksand/No one can fill me like that Dick can."

At the two-hour mark, we are finally introduced to Dick, though Carl Bressler’s moody lighting works overtime to obscure the towering skin-covered behemoth. Dick’s heartfelt plea to Anne in what was obviously meant to be the show’s breakout ballad, “Let Me Rise To The Occasion” is sung with confidence by Mr. Ron Jeremy’s dick, but the music is less than memorable. In fact, of the 46 songs, only one, “You Can Count and Sit on Me”, has bounce and style.

You’ll hear a lot of folks oooing and ahhing over the show’s one special effect, an enormous helicopter which descends from the ceiling. But it is no sooner drowned out during the unfortunate climax when our hero is gruesomely decapitated. I’m not giving anything away here, since the musical is based on the beloved children’s book, “Anne And The Giant Cock.”

Do yourself a favor. As you find yourself at the theater, go two buildings down to the Helen Hayes Theater instead and see “Out To Lunch”, the new musical told from the perspective of coma-ridden Sunny Von Bulow. I guarantee you it shows infinitely more signs of life.


“Phallus” A New Musical. Starring Ron Jeremy’s dick, Judith Light, John Forsythe, Jeff Blumenkrantz, Marietta DiPrima, and Nunzio Galippo. Music and Lyrics by Stephen Schwartz. Book by Ron Jeremy’s dick. Produced by James Ivory and Ismail Merchant. Directed by Fran Soeder.

Headline News

I don't particularly like it when a black comedian's routine is almost exclusively about the differences between black people and white people. Yes, it's fertile comic ground. Or was. But after Pryor and Murphy that subject is played out. But so many black comedians still take it on. Maybe they think it's expected of them? All by way of saying--I've avoided holding forth on the recent news about HIV in the porn world because it's expected of me to weigh in for obvious reasons. I realize that expounding on the moral hypocrisies and self-righteous "gotcha" hysteria among people who aren't in the business has not really been mined by many--or any--porn star cocks, but still, I generally like to focus on pussy. Yeah yeah, that's expected of me too. I'm the Chris Rock of blogging cocks.

Oh, fine.

One single case of HIV is discovered and it's headline news? Friend, it's only headline news if Lynne Russell has HIV (a reference for followers of hot CNN anchor history. Ah, how many times did RJ fantasize about her pussy while drilling even the most delectable porn star? That woman maintained the expression of someone who was gettin' it in the ass whether she was gettin' it in the ass or reporting about Bosnia or both). One single case! There are HIV cases diagnosed every day! Thousands diagnosed with cancer from smoking, thousands diagnosed with liver disease from drinking or diabetes from obesity! Every fucking day! But news of those illnesses only gets reported as a statistic. One single case of HIV, and all because it's in someone who works in pornos. Not even a porn star! And why? Because everyone needs to judge us. Everyone needs to cluck their tongues and shake their heads in disapproval. Preventable? Sure. But so is lung cancer from smoking, liver disease from drinking and diabetes from obesity. And yes, we do judge those people, but we don't write an article about it.

Look, I'm all for safe sex among civilians. But while RJ may disagree with me, I think wearing a rubber in a porno is no different than having Angelina Jolie wear a catcher's mask all through a movie. We want to see her face. She has a pretty one. We want to see it. If we can't, then the part might as well be played by Martha Plympton. If appearing in a movie without a catcher's mask came with the risk of a terrible infection--which only happens if you're in a scene with Tom Sizemore--then I imagine many actors would get out of the business. But not all of them. Some would realize that the product is what it is and that to compromise its quality for the protection of the talent is to create an inferior product. And watching a condom slide in and out of Jenna J's mouth is simply inferior.

You know, since I mentioned her, I haven't stopped thinking about Lynn Russell. She looked like a young Joan Crawford, but with Lynne you had the sense that she could use her taste for the nasty in very pleasurable ways. It was like watching the news delivered by a $50,000/night hooker. I toast you, Lynne! You put the head in Headline News. Had it been you who reported the HIV story, I've no doubt a barely perceptible smile would have adorned your face, a smile that suggested you were imagining the size of the cock that put the virus into that actress. You never dressed like a slut, which seems to be de rigeur among local LA news shows. No, your sex was in your eyes. You could fuck someone just by looking at them. And on CNN, you looked at all of us. Or was it just me?

Forbidden Broadway

I get a lot of inquiries about “Phallus!”, the musical I wrote and starred in back in 1988. Told as a "Beauty and the Beast"-type fable, it was a critical darling but a box office flop, closing after a sold-out dress rehearsal. Here’s the well-known song “My Love, My Heart”, when my character, Dick, finally comes out of the shadows to reveal himself to his true love, Anne.


ANNE

My heart cannot contain this feeling that I feel.
I need to see you now, to know that you are real.
A love like ours is like no other that I know.
Reveal yourself and let your inhibitions go.

My love. My heart. My Dick.


DICK

Oh Anne I fear that when you see me you will leave.
And if it happens that’s a loss I cannot grieve.
A love like ours is like a rainbow in the sky.
So many colors, so much beauty, I could die.

My love. My heart. My Anne.


ANNE

Come out now from the darkness.
And show yourself to me.

DICK

I’m vulnerable and stark, miss.
Prepare your eyes to see!


Dick finally reveals himself to Anne.


ANNE

Good Christ, sir, you’re enormous.
A ten-inch tower of love.

DICK

A quarter of an inch less
But ten when I’m with glove.

ANNE/DICK

I’m sure that you’re the one for me.
And I’m the one for you.

DICK

Your eyes.
Your laugh.

ANNE

Your balls
Your shaft.


DICK

You penetrate my soul.

ANNE

And you my hoo-hoo hole.


DICK

Yes, you’re the one for me, miss.

ANNE

I want no other penis.


ANNE/DICK

My love. My heart. My all!

iFun

Imagine the hottest, wettest ride into Cristy Canyon fur trap while Samantha Fox is tonguing your asshole. That's how excited I am to pick up my new iphone on Friday. Ron still uses his Nokia piece of shit, and maybe it's because I'm just a giant worm, but I'm all about Apple. These days, budding entrepreneurs aren't racking their brains for the next big dot com business; they're inventing apps for the iphone. Here are a few of my ideas:

Cock-a-doodle
Full-length pictures of celebrities appear and you can draw a big dick between their legs. This week's featured star--Chastity Bono.

Blow By Blow
Find out who is sucking me at any given moment of the day. If I'm not getting blown, you see a little hand, pussy or ass icon.
If I'm not getting any action at all, you watch an episode of "Green Acres."

SYTYCF
Upload a video of yourself fucking. At the end of the day, a panel consisting of me, Ron and Jim Belushi offer critiques of the best three submissions and then viewers can text votes for their favorite. If you don't make the final three, your video gets riffed on by the MST3K guys and posted to the main page on PBSkids.org.

Measure Up
Slap your big buddy against the glass and see where you land. The interface is a simple ruler. If you need more than one screen (and I hope for your sake you do), hitting the "whew" button adds the new inches to the total from the first screen. A photo of Jenna Jamison in suck posture is superimposed over the ruler to help you find your potential. If you need it, Dustin Diamond also available.

Mahzel Love
Learn your Jewish pornstar name. Example: Frank Hanna turns into "Kosher Frank Hanucock"

Alpha Mail

Hi RJ’S D—

Do you participate in any sports?


S. Kest, Renton WA



Hi S,

Well, as you know, I’m quite fond of baseball and have begun training to reach my ultimate goal of hitting one over the fence. But what I’m not proud to report is my involvement in a series of cock fights back in the mid-eighties. Yes—traditionally “cock fighting” is that sport where roosters fight each other to the death. This, unfortunately, was as literal as you can think. Ron was working hard in those days, but a couple of shady producers left him dry for a few months. To make some quick cash, he entered me in a series of fights. There wasn’t any cock I couldn’t destroy within minutes in the ring. Until July 17, 1986 when I was put up against Charlie Sheen’s dick. Jesus that thing had strength and stamina. I had a feeling this would be the case. We traveled in the same circles, banged the same porn stars.
So I knew I’d met my match—albeit one that was still a couple inches shorter. I’ll spare you the details, except to say we both ended up in the ER, forever changing the life of an unfortunately fresh new resident.



Dear Ron’s Monster,

Have you ever been in love?

G. Earls, Walled Lake, MI


Hello G,

I have to admit that when I read your letter, the wind was temporarily taken out of me. Your question brought me back swiftly to 1991 when, yes, I fell deeply in love. Her name was Loretta, and I think about her to this day with a combination of gratitude and pain.

She wasn’t a porn star. She was simply a fan, who’d contacted Ron on the occasion of her 21st birthday, wanting to lose her virginity to the most famous porn star in the world. Now Ronnie doesn’t normally k’noodle with the fan base, but she was quite pretty and, even more to Ron’s liking, exceptionally funny.

So Ron took her out for a nice meal, then returned to his place to pop some champagne and her cherry.

MY GOD—WHAT IS THIS FEELING I’M NOT USED TO?!!! Her walls hugged me so tight, clinging to me with such intensity. A warm embrace like a mother hugging her crying baby. Now I’ve been in more caves than I can count, but this was so different. I could feel my surroundings! Extraordinary.

Ron slept the whole next morning away like it was no big deal. But I was smitten. I snuck outside for a walk, returning at the base of Ron’s window holding a boombox over my head. Yes—I was inspired by “Say Anything.” I wasn’t able to find that Peter Gabriel track, but I lucked out with the even more appropriate Weird Al Yankovic song, “In Your Thighs”.

Goodnight Loretta, wherever you are.

The System

This was my bible when I was studying to act in porn. The author, of course is the legendary teacher, Constantin Penislavsky. Here's a chapter.

A Sex Actor Prepares

Chapter 1: The First Test

Our first lesson with the Director, Cockovich, began quite unexpectedly, when the great phallus entered the hall and announced that we would commence rehearsal for a sex film that very afternoon. I turned to Fyodork and saw that he, too shared my exhilaration, and there was much discussion among the others--Cuntya, a bushy hole of some meekness and Vulvanova, whose stout lips suggested a life spent spoiled by powders and oils. What would we perform? A tragedy? A comedy? What great characters would we play? I was tempted by the figure of Othello's dick but secretly hoped it would be Henry VIII".

I was suddenly overcome with a desire to act. My glans, shaft, base--everything pulsed with the surge of blood. I grew tall and substantial, and I felt full with milk. The Director, alarmed by my condition, looked at me reproachfully.

"This is unacceptable! Control is everything, and you debase our art with such amateurish antics. To arouse a desire is easy. To save it for the proper moment is difficult, but such is absolutely required of a sex actor!"

I deflated with shame and resolved to achieve a discipline worthy of his respect. I have much to learn, which is perhaps my first lesson after all.

Appropriate Response

Turns out the letter I reprinted yesterday was a copy, and the original was actually sent to Johnson & Johnson. Following is their response.


September 23, 1953

Dear Mrs. Hyatt,

Thank you so much for your letter! Your comments and helpful suggestions are what continue to make us a better company, and they are truly appreciated. As you know, we are dedicated to serving the public trust, and it is our highest priority to provide healing and comfort, while maintaining a product line that is both safe and affordable. So again, thank you very much. Now, to your specific matter at hand.

Your son has a huge fucking cock. There’s just no other way to put it. Mrs. Hyatt—it’s a big honking, Jesus-loving baby cock. Do you not see this? I’m the president of consumer affairs here at Johnson and Johnson, and I only have one more inch on your 4 month old. Do you not see how demeaning your letter was? I told my wife about it and she’s filing for divorce.

But I digress. That’s not really your problem, is it?

We could spend 20 years in product development trying to create a diaper that would accommodate your son, and probably never achieve results. So yes, cloth is probably the answer for now.

In the meantime, my suggestion is to embrace this circumstance. My team here at J&J has discussed this (for hours already—it’s hard to get work done) and we think your son has a bright future ahead of him. Some of us believe he’s headed straight to the Supreme Court. Others think he could have a future in medicine.

And while it’s definitely the most challenging career, we also believe that if he worked hard enough, he might find success in the adult film industry.

Regardless, please accept our heartiest congratulations, and if you wouldn’t mind, we’d love to see a photo of your baby! Preferably one without the diaper (so we can try to figure out if there’s a diaper that might work for him, of course.)

Yours truly,

Reginald Clybourn
President of Consumer Affairs
Johnson & Johnson

Johnson & Johnson....and JOHNSON

Unsent letter found in storage unit in Queens, NY.

September 3, 1953

Johnson and Johnson Corporation


To Whom It May Concern,

I hope you can help me with a problem that is admittedly delicate. I have a 4 month old baby boy. Ten fingers, ten toes, a happy, healthy baby in all respects. On the recommendation of friends, I decided to abandon cloth diapers in favor of your disposable ones, and I must say the convenience of them has been remarkable! Congratulations to your product development team.

In the last two months, however, a challenge has emerged, so to speak, that is making the disposables less and less of a fit for Ronny (I say challenge because, as my husband keeps reminding me, "a problem it most certainly isn't").

To state it bluntly, Ronny was born with a larger than average penis. This is not unusual, our pediatrician told me. But in the last two months, we've noticed that the penis has grown substantially. It's currently three inches long. This is unusual, our pediatrician told me. Not a health issue, mind you. Just, well, unusual. To the matter at hand, though, what this means is that his diapers don't fit properly. In all other respects, he needs a size 2. But when I try to put it on, he cries and covers his groin, and it's clear the diaper is uncomfortably tight. A size 3, however, while it gives him the room he needs up front, is simply too big otherwise, and the seal is not tight enough to contain his urine.

I haven't even mentioned the escalation of the difficulty that occurs when Ronny touches himself (as Dr. Spock says babies are prone to do) and grows to four inches (as they are generally not prone to do). He can remain erect for over an hour, but to put on a size 4 diaper, well, I might as well not put one on at all, for all the good it does.

For the time being I am forced to return to cloth and simply pin it tight where it needs to be tight...and loose where it needs to be loose. But that, as you can imagine, is both arduous (Ronny's an active baby) and time-consuming. Fortunately, we have a neighbor girl who watches Ronny while I'm at work, and she doesn't mind the effort (changing him more than is necessary even). But I could use some help. I realize that your success is built on the ability to mass manufacture, and yet I can't imagine there aren't other mothers out there--colored ones, for example-- in my predicament. Is there any way you could design a diaper with our needs in mind?

Sincerely,
Mrs. Arnold Hyatt
Douglaston, Queens, NY

Jeremy Land

The phone woke Ron up uncharacteristically early this morning, and the news isn’t good. They’ve scrapped plans to move forward with Jeremy Land, the proposed 600 million dollar theme park in Las Vegas, which was to be a shrine to his legend. The excuse they gave? Fucking economy! Please, I know for a fact that investors were lining up around the block to fund the park, so it’s clear to me that something else was at play. Word on the street is the NFC (Nevada Family Council) was launching a major boycott plan in response to several of the planned attractions, among which were:


Too Much Space Mountain—Thrill-seekers take a high-speed ride completely in the dark, through Nina Hartley’s vagina. Built to scale, the ride lasts 15 minutes from beginning to end, and that’s before it loops around.


Butt Pirates of the Caribbean—Pleasant family ride on water where boaters pass through different animatronic porn stars engaged in anal play. Unlike typical boat rides where patrons are splashed at the end of the ride, the dousing comes right at the beginning from loveable theme park mascot, Lubey the Lion, who grants riders access to the tunnel.


It’s A Small World—riders on this slow-speed ride are exposed to a collection of celebrity penises to demonstrate the enormous disparity between them, and the rod of Ron. Featured penis for Summer 2009—Max Von Sydow’s.


The Hedgehog 3-D Experience—An elaborate music video featuring Ron with Yo-Yo Ma and the Academy of St. Martin in the Fields.


The Tea Bag Ride—Thought at first to become an instant classic, male test-riders were disappointed to learn the ride was literally an exploration of the world’s finest teas, including Zhu Ye Qing Green Tea, Pearl Jasmine, and Premium Kuding.


Needless to say, Ronnie was pretty devastated. I could see the distraught look on his face between the fast strokes of his hand (the action Ron normally takes to get himself back to sleep.)

Mail Genitalia

Dear RJ's D,

Have you ever acted in commercials?


Thanks for your question. Back in the 80's, a woman named Clara Peller became a celebrity for the catchphrase she uttered in several Wendys commercials. "Where's the beef?" I wasn't in that commercial. But it catapulted Clara to the national stage when Walter Mondale employed her catchphrase to denigrate Gary Hart in the 1984 Democratic debate. Long story short, when Clara's star had faded, she was too identified with the catchphrase to land other roles. Struggling financially, she found herself reduced to doing the catchphrase in a commercial for KY Jelly. She sits on a series of dildos, angrily exclaiming "Where's the beef?" Then she takes me in and screams, prompting the announcer to say "When you finally find the beef, make sure you have some KY in your buns, too." Sadly, Clara died of a ruptured rectum shortly thereafter.


Hi RJ's D,

Do you write poetry?

When Ron was in college, he started fucking a lot of women for the first time, and, feeling the rush of empowerment, I began scribbling verse inside his various scores. I like to think that on some level of consciousness, they read it. Here's one....

Cock!
The long arm of the law
Patrolling in your jaw
Cock!
A preacher in your pulpit
Teste-fy and gulp it
Cock!
A pipeline through your country
A sappy, happy fun tree

Sit on My Facebook

I am done with Facebook.

To be honest, I don’t even know why I signed up in the first place. I mean, RON isn’t even on the site. I guess I’m just afraid being left out of the cultural zeitgeist, and so I have to at least try everything.

So I signed up.

Next thing I know, I’m getting friend requests from old high school classmates that I was never friends with! Wait—you’re confused, I can tell. Yes, I went to school separate from Ron. I realized very early on that Ron was doing most of his thinking through me, so I did everything I could to be educated scholastically, and street-smart—all so Ronnie wouldn’t do anything too stupid.

Back to Facebook. There’s a reason I wasn’t friends with you in high school. You’re boring as shit! 20 or 30 years hasn’t changed that. And don’t get me started on the applications. I don’t give a flying fuck how you scored on the WHICH CHARACTER ARE YOU IN “SCHINDLER’S LIST?” quiz.

Mostly, people just want to see my pics and what became of me. In high school, I was voted “Most Likely To Spreadceed.”

But the worst—I mean the WORST thing about it is the status report feature.

“Cindy Fein is watching 30 Rock”—Don’t care.

“Marla Cotner is stuffed after a delicious meal at Applebys”—Please die.

“Frank Simmons is raping a cat.”—Boring!

So I’m done. But my movie is not, and at the risk of obvious bias—the “One-Eyed Monster” fan page is cool, and frequently updated. Hell, my tweets end up there.

I know what your thinking. “Why Ron Jeremy’s Dick—you opportunistic fuck!” Yeah, well screw you! There isn’t anything I won’t do to promote this film. To wit, I took the WHICH CHARACTER ARE YOU IN “ONE-EYED MONSTER?” quiz.

I was The Dick.

Because It's There

I suppose it could just be coincidence, or it could be a meaningful coincidence--a synchronicity--but within two days of each other, I watched the documentary "Man on Wire" and began reading the book "Into Thin Air." (Yes, I read--so does Sandy Duncan, so did Sammy Davis, Jr.--so let's get on with it.) Both stories revolve around a man who is utterly driven to achieve a longtime dream. Both dreams entail almost superhuman physical challenge. And as both challenges force them to take on colossal structures--The World Trade Center and Mt. Everest, respectively--both carry with them the risk of certain death. And yet, both men ignore the risk, at least enough to persevere and achieve their dreams. Truly inspiring, both of them.

Yes, of course, I have met extraordinary physical challenges. You try to put out a pint of cum in three hours, it ain't easy.

Still, that's what I was made to do. These men weren't built to scale mountains or walk between them. But they had to. So I started wondering: what is my mountain? And on a certain level, if you have to ask, you don't have one. Which is normal; most creatures don't. But I'm not just any creature. I was sure that somewhere inside my head there lay, dormant these many years, a passion, a goal, a mission that required enormous strength. Yesterday, in therapy and under hypnosis, I remembered it.

I want to hit a major league fastball over the fence. Ron was nine years old when Roger Maris hit 61* home runs to beat Babe Ruth's single-season record. It was the most exciting thing we'd ever witnessed. I guess I couldn't help but identify with his bat, even then, and I resolved that one day I'd know what it felt like to hit the long ball. Now I've been batting balls around my entire career, but it's not the same. And all my home runs have been, you know, inside the park. To smash a four-bagger, I'd need to be harder than I've ever been. And my rejection of steroids is a matter of record, so it would require intense focus and physical training.

I realize that taking on a fastball could mean certain death, but like Petite and Krakauer, the dangers are secondary. I must do this. The training begins. Stay tuned...

October 15, 1979

Excerpted from my personal journal.


October 15, 1979

Something happened.

Well, actually, it happened a couple of nights ago. It’s taken me some time to recover and be able to write about it. God, where do I begin? I guess, the party.

It was the usual crowd of producers, porn stars, hangers-on. And Ronnie was in rare form. His jokes were the usual stale oldies, but somehow he’d always get the crowd to laugh when he made that popping sound with his hand and mouth.

And of course, everyone wanted to see me, and Ron wasn’t shy about showing them.

One woman was particularly bent on seeing me. Her name is Veronica Hart. Ron says she’s a real up and coming talent and he’s seen a lot of talent coming.

So around midnight, the two of them snuck off to the bathroom. Ron, in his usual soft-spoken romantic way, asked Veronica to blow him.

“Of course I will. If you blow yourself first!”

That made Ron laugh and I have to admit, it made me smile, too. I’m big, but c’mon, was this gorgeous starlet really showing that much disregard for the laws of physics?

But then the laughing stopped, and Ron removed me from his pants. Oh my god no! No, I thought, this cannot be happening. But I was frozen stiff, and unable to move. I’ve certainly penetrated orifices covered in hair before, but Christ that mustache! A giant follicle-covered boomerang descending toward me. And then Ronnie’s mouth opening—I can still see the bits of Cheetos lodged between his teeth.

He’s going to suck me! He’s going to suck me! And then…

MMMPHHHGHGH!

He…he sucked me.

Please don’t misunderstand me. I love my man, Ron. I’d be nowhere without him. But this is one place I never should have been.

It was only a few sucks, and afterwards, Veronica asked if she could cut in. But I think this has changed me, and I don’t know what I’m going to say to Ronnie tomorrow. And I’m done with Cheetos.

My Hard-On Will Go On

Millvina Dean died yesterday. At 97, she was the last survivor of the Titanic. She was only two months old when she, her mother and brother made it to safety aboard a lifeboat. Her father, however, went down with the ship. It's hard not to think about all the women I've worked with. In their own way, they too went down on something referred to as titanic. I can't honestly say what it feels like to suck me; while my co-stars have moaned and whimpered, I've always assumed they were just doing their 'job and, you know, acting. It must be more fun to suck something that isn't quite so unwieldy. I'm sure it feels good in their pussies, but even chicks with an oral fixation can't possibly be satisfied by me because they can't take me fully in to suck. Not that I haven't been deep-throated. But that's less sucking than, I don't know, safe passage. Back to the Titanic, though. I wouldn't mind getting head from Celine Dion. I'd like to touch that famous larynx of hers while she hums the love theme from that movie. Am I being too crude today? You forget--I'm a cock. If YOU think about sex a lot during the day, consider how much I do.

--RJ'sD

P.S.

I find "getting head" so much more appealing a phrase than "getting a blowjob." Blowjob? First of all, there's no actual blowing. It ain't a birthday candle. And my line of work notwithstanding, I don't like to think that fellatio is a job. Getting head, on the other hand. The idea that a woman is putting me inside her head. Now that's a turn on. No, I'm not touching her brain, but in that I am occupying the majority of cavity above her shoulders, how can she not be at least thinking of me? That's pretty close to touching her brain. Have a nice day, y'all.