A Diary A Diary A Diary A Diary A...

Every now and then I go to a live show in Hollywood called "Mortified." People get up on stage and read stuff they wrote when they were in middle school or high school. Sometimes it's from their diaries, sometimes it's poems or songs. But it's always mortifying and gets big laughs, which is the point. The distance between now and when they wrote it is big enough (one hopes) to make the evening full of laughter instead of pain. But it's the pain that makes the experience so universal and thus appealing and communal. We've all been there.

Case in point:

March 12, 1965

Dear Diary,

Today is my 12th birthday. But is it a happy birthday? I dare say not, for I am one sorry freek. Everyone else in gym looks the same. You ask how I know this? Fine. During showers after swimming. It's clear as daylight. I'm twice the size of the biggest guy! Why doesn't Ron go on a diet??????? Nana is on a diet and it seems to be working. Ron just needs to buy dietetic food like ice milk. Then the guys would stop staring at me all the time. Especially Coach Smolka. He even told Ron that if I weighed too much it could drain blood from his brain and that if he held it he'd know how much it weighed. Ron said no. Maybe he's in denile. Anyway, I'm just glad that none of the girls in school have seen me. I think they would run in the other direction. Except for Carrie Jarvis, the neighbor who stays with Ron when Mom and Dad go out. She tried to kiss me! And I thought I was weired. Ron tries all his new jokes on her, but she never laughs. She just stares at me and scratches herself between the legs. Maybe she's got lice like Eric Hurst because she does it all the time. Aaagh! I'm feeling full again! This happens to me 50 times a day and it always ends with a seizure. Am I dying? God? Are you there? Why me??? What have I done to deserve this?

One Giant Leap for Ronkind

The summer of 1969 was historic. But not because of the full-scale Vietnam protests, Woodstock, or the fact that a man stepped foot on the moon. No—something WAY more monumental happened that balmy summer in New York.

Ron Jeremy lost his virginity.

Without question, the number one question I get asked all the time: what was that like for me?

I remember it like it was yesterday. It was a Tuesday and, as usual, I had fallen asleep to the sounds of “My Three Sons” (the whistling got me every time). Ron was nestled safely in the arms of his girlfriend, Mindy Friedman, and I was nestled safely under his sweaty boxers. I was at peace. Suddenly, without warning, I was awakened by that awful “zipping” sound, and a harsh burst of light exploded into my eye. I was awake, alright, and feeling a head rush like no other.

Oh sure, I’d had this strange head rush before—many times, in fact. But it usually happened more gradually, and always after being lovingly cradled in Ron’s greasy hand.

This was uniquely different.

Before I could collect my bearings, I was headed at full speed towards a dark patch of hair. What is this, I thought? I’m going to crash into someone’s head. Why would Ron inflict this kind of pain on us both? Why would Ron---

MPHHHHGHGGGHGHG!

I’m somewhere I’ve never been. It’s completely dark, but I can make out bits of glistening skin and some weird tubes. I’m suffocating. I can’t breathe. Where am I?

NGGGHAHHH!

I’m out. I’m free. I can breathe. What the hell was th---

MPHHHHGHGHHHHHH!

Goddammnit I’m in again. What the fuck is he doing? I’m feeling sick. I’m really feeling nauseous. Oh my god I’m gonna be sick!

And as if Ron knew, he freed me one last time, and I instantly threw up all over Cindy’s abdomen.

It seemed like the longest night of my life, but in truth, the whole experience lasted about a minute.

Big, Hard and Single

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The Miracle Jerker

For the life of me, I can't understand how a dead Finnish composer is going to handle the swine flu problem in this country. I heard Ron practicing that line before doing his act in Wichita the other day. At least I think that's what he said--it's difficult to tell from within the confines of his pants.

That became a major problem when I went into acting because, thanks to learning English through jeans, with everything sounding muffled, I had a terrible speech impediment. Casting agents thought I was deaf. I suppose it could have been worse; most people's dicks spend the day inside pants and underpants. Because of Ron's career, I was often free of the shackles of clothes. But because of Ron's career, I had scant time to take in the air, as I was usually in a dark wet hole. And except for one of those holes, you can't hear shit in there! I'm not sure where I'm going with this, but I like to think of myself as the Helen Keller of giant cocks. My world was often quiet and dark. In Ron's youth I was a wild thing, almost feral. Working in hardcore gave me discipline, but it didn't give me anything in the way of communication skills or mastery over my instrument, to use an acting class expression. And unlike Helen, I didn't have Annie Sullivan guiding me out of the darkness. Best I had was Penny Sullivan, who guided me into her darkness, but who reached me with her kegels (this whole "One-Eyed Monster" experience has given me renewed appreciation for kegels, which you'll understand when you see the movie). She taught me something akin to Morse code while I was in her--a series of patterned contractions that I came to decipher during Ron's thrusting. Achieve that, Keller! Where's MY stamp?? Anyway, when women say that Ron's dick speaks to them, that's my coded throbs they're talking about. How I learned to type is another story.

Ron then said something to the effect of "There's no evidence to suggest your governor can manage a flu epidemic, since she clearly hasn't been able to do that for the epidemic of reactionary Red State bullshit thinking in this state." No mistaking what I heard then: crickets. Stick to fuck films, Ronny!

Cinema Jeremé

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