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?

The Jeremy Brothers

Yesterday was the birthday of Ron's right testicle. His left testicle descended two days later, so we'll be celebrating tomorrow. Even though they're two days apart, I've always thought of them as twins. Wouldn't you? They hang together all the time--and I mean all the time--they look exactly alike, they function identically, and they're both extremely sensitive guys. I've always felt like an older brother to them, and I suppose it's been difficult living in my shadow (although Ron's knees live in my shadow, too). I've always gotten all the attention, thanks to my size and RJ's career ambitions. Sure, every now and then one of Ron's co-stars licks them and tickles them. But let's face it; they've been neglected (and I'm not even talking about the fact that they've never had a simple haircut). They never get to experience the joy of entering a pussy or an anus. Even the one purpose for which they were designed has been ignored. And yet they're asked, sometimes on a half-hourly basis, to manufacture seed as if Ron was trying to populate Dallas.

Still, don't feel too sorry for them. They have each other. Me, I have an endless series of casual relationships. No, not denying they feel good. But after all these years, I'd love to forge a more serious relationship. A cock needs companionship like anyone else. So I've been thinking of moving back home. I know that sounds crazy on many levels. Why on earth would I give up the life to which I've always aspired--living in southern California and enjoying a level of Hollywood success that most dicks only dream about from the confines of their ordinary routines? And you'd rightly ask how I can possibly separate from the twins. We've grown up together, worked together and made our name together. We go together.

Don't judge me too much. Being away from LA, it'll be a lot easier to provide for my particular needs. As Ron gets older, it's going to be much harder for me to get work. Even now, he's doing more reality stuff and mainstream films than porn. Plus, I don't think it's immodest to say that I've grown accustomed to a quality of life over the years; going back to struggling is not an option. Back in the hometown, I have no idea what I'll do; I only do one thing, and there just isn't the opportunity there that there is here. As the line goes, I'll think about it tomorrow. I've tried to convince the twins to come with me (our whole lives, they've always come with me), and I think at least one of them is considering it. The other one's not taking it well; in fact he's been pretty teste about it.

I didn't mean to alarm anyone. This may not happen for a year or so. In the meantime, I'll be here, plugging away. And if little by little my anxiety grows over the days to come, at least I'll be around the best balls a dick could ever hope to have.

Happy Birthday, guys!

Now THAT'S How You Get A Job

Hollywood is a strange place. Only here would I--Ron Jeremy's Dick--have to actually audition for the part of Ron Jeremy's Dick. I remember when I got the breakdown of "One-Eyed Monster" ("Middle-aged penis of porn legend Ron Jeremy; needs to be same length and girth, menacing, SAG only") I thought to myself, I'm PERFECT for this. I AM this.

But they still made me audition. Don't believe it? Check this out, then. The actual audition footage.

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.

I'm A Little Bit Country

Understanding full well that my acting days are nearing their end, I’ve begun to explore my other passion: music. What may surprise you, though, is that I’m a Country fan, always have been. So I’d like to share with y’all (yeah, I’ve got the lingo down) a song I just wrote last week. Let me know what you think!

In Africa there’s hysteria
People runnin’ round with Malaria
Now Mexico is making headlines too
And causin’ folks a scare.

Darlin’ I hope that this isn’t wrong.
Talkin’ bout these illnesses in my love song.
I wrote it down just to say to you
That I really care.

CHORUS:

Oh you can give me e-ver-y disease
A fella can acquire above the knees.
And I ain’t worried ‘bout the Swine Flu.
I’m just scared over losing you.


Syphilis and herpes don’t mean a thing
If I can fit your finger with a diamond ring.
Give me Gonorrhea ‘till the cows come home
As long as I’m with you.

Honey I would never get rid ‘a ya
Even if I caught me some Chlamydia
My genital warts have inspired this tome
As well as puss-like goo

CHORUS:

Oh you can give me e-ver-y disease
A fella can acquire above the knees.
So I ain’t worried ‘bout the Swine Flu
I’m just scared over losing you.

Yeah, I ain’t worried ‘bout the Swine Flu
I’m just scared over losing you.


©2009 Ron Jeremy’s Dick

Justice Is One-Eyed

I read that U.S. Supreme Court Justice David Souter has announced his retirement. I'm sure speculation in Washington is rampant as to whom Obama will nominate to replace him. May I suggest an unlikely but entirely viable candidate?

Me.

Yeah, that's right. I want to sit on the U.S. Supreme Court. I don't think there are any restrictions on who can serve, as long as he or she has a law degree. I can get a law degree in two days; Ron has friends with connections. What would I have to do--listen to people argue and defend? Ask questions to trip them up? Make up my mind and then have my law clerks write it up? I don't see what the big deal is.

But I do see the value in preventing the inevitably endless nomination/confirmation merry-go-round. And I can provide that because I'm not conservative or liberal. I'm a Pubertarian. I believe in a woman's right to shave her thatch. I support cum control and no cock left in someone's behind. We need to reduce our dependence on Viagra and fund clean hole technology. Constitutionally, I'm a strict cunt-structionist. I want erection reform. I'm for creating or saving 3 million blowjobs within the next four years. I could go on and on, but ultimately, I think having a dick on the bench (besides Scalia) is good for America. If justice is blind, I clearly come a lot closer to that than all the two-eyed judges.

Mr. President, I submit my candidacy for the job. Sometimes I hang left, sometimes I hang right. But one thing is clear: the constitution is vulnerable to gross misinterpretation. Let me be the judge of that.

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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Woody Ailin'

Empires rise and fall. I rise and fall. There's almost nothing more natural than growth and decline. So why am I so bothered that it happened to Woody? That's not my nickname--I'm talking about Woody Allen, my onetime hero. Ron still admires him--we've argued about this for several years now--but I'm giving up. It's time to find a new hero, because watching every new movie--a tradition as regular and disappointing as New Year's Eve--has become too crushing.

I used to worship the guy. I loved his stand-up, his books and, most of all, his movies. From one to the next, he kept upping the ante, the blissfully silly and nerdy jokes making me feel proud for laughing. And I'm not one of those cocks who needed him to be funny all the time. I loved his more mature comedies, too. "Hannah and Her Sisters" and "Crimes and Misdemeanors" are two particular favorites. But then, with the exception of "Sweet and Lowdown," he started shooting out more unfulfilled potential than I do in a day's work. When I was about four or five inches, I remember watching those apes at the zoo throwing up and then eating their vomit, then throwing up again. I could only bear to watch that a few times before realizing two things: it was not going to stop and the apes didn't realize (or care) that it was hard to watch. "Match Point" was nothing more than "Crimes and Misdemeanors" vomit; "Scoop" was "Shadows and Fog" vomit; and "Vicky Christina Barcelona" is a vomit soup of just about everything he's ever done since "Hannah and Her Sisters." Maybe I'm having a hard time because I keep expecting Woody to rise again like I do. To make people laugh and think and feel good again--like I do. Jeez, maybe it IS his name after all; maybe I feel an unhealthy identification with a short, nebbishy, entertaining guy who's had a lot of women, made a lot of movies and is still out there doing what he does. Ron's left nut thinks Woody's comedy is continually evolving. His right nut sees in Woody's movies a coherent and mature thematic unity. But they're nuts!

Okay, I'm not as funny. But at least I didn't make "September."