Dear Ron Jeremy's Dick

It’s Friday Mail Day! About a third of the letters I receive are from folks asking for advice. I usually respond privately, but I thought this one warranted wider exposure. Have a great weekend everyone.


Dear Ron Jeremy’s Dick,

Ever since I was 12 and accidentally saw my sister performing songs from “The Little Mermaid” in her underwear, I have been a premature ejaculator. I’m 32 now and it’s still affecting my relationships. I have what’s known as PE-Extreme. Two nights ago, my girlfriend asked if I wanted to have sex, and I came in the middle of the word “have”. I’ve read all of the standard techniques, but nothing works. So I’m turning to you. Any advice?

Sincerely,

Big and Burly, But Much Too Early



Dear Big and Burly,

First, I hope you find comfort knowing that a third of the male population suffers from PE. But they don’t have to. As you can imagine, this hasn’t really been an issue for Ron, but here are a couple of a tried and true methods that he has used over the years in difficult times.

1. Use “Speed”. No, I’m talking about going faster. I’m referring to the 1994 thriller starring Keanu Reeves. So while you’re having sex, pretend that a bomb has been planted in your partners vagina, set to go off if sperm activates it. The only danger here is if this leads you to start obsessively thinking about Sandra Bullock, when she was arguably at her cutest.

2. I’m well aware that men try to think of awful things (their taxes, puppies being killed, cancelling “Arrested Development”). These images are good, but often not extreme enough. Solution: The Holocaust. Now, I’m not suggesting you go as far as to conjure up awful images. I recommend one step removed, and thrust your body to the theme from “Schindler’s List”. It sounds odd, but the languid eighth-note pattern of the solo violin times very well with a coitus stroke, and the music will be enough to tell your brain: “Hey, if you come now, that is HIGHLY inappropriate.”

3. Justify it. This technique should never be used by the prose-challenged. For it to work, you have to be Lloyd Dobbler times 10, overflowing with words. Essentially, you act as though it was absolutely your intention to reach orgasm this fast. You can say you’re training for a new Olympic sport, or that you’ve beaten a Guinness record and you’ll both be receiving cash, or that she’s the only girl with the power to do that to you and now you want kids with her, or that now you can spend more time talking about her feelings and candles. Just keep it positive and keep it flowing, until you’ve talked through your refractory period and can enter her again. Repeat as necessary.

Sincerely,

Ron Jeremy's Dick

Penisocchio

When I was just a wee-wee, there was one bedtime story that always confused me--angered me, even. It was Pinocchio. He had this kind, old father figure who dreamed of bringing his wood to life. Yes, it's a fairy who does (turns?) the trick, but that didn't bother me; to each his bone, I say. You might think I took exception the fact that a part of him would grow big and long only after a moral lapse. Yes, that made my foreskin crawl, but I also understood from an early length that such an erection was simply too suggestive for Disney and had to be viewed negatively. I don't share that point of view, of course, but I do accept brand management; it's why I've never been seen with Tim Conway's dick--that thing is a fucking garden hose.

Coming to life wasn't good enough for P. No, he needed to transform into something else, because being someone's sentient wood puppet wasn't real fulfillment. That I didn't buy. And back then I wasn't even enjoying the bountiful rewards of being Ron's sentient wood puppet. But I didn't feel like my life wasn't real just because I was mostly wood.

This may be why I admire dildos. They don't suffer any such existential challenge. They know they're fake, but they get to fuck real pussies, so they don't complain. There are dildos out there that were literally made in my image. You can buy them. I can't imagine how I'd feel if one of them wished upon a porn star and magically became real, but I suspect those old gripes about Pinocchio would return. Be happy with yourself! You get to be you, so why become something you're not?

Oh crap, was this about Michael Jackson?

It Matters

Since the dawn of time, humankind has questioned just about everything. Sometimes the questions are big and profound: is there a God? Why do bad things happen to good people? Sometimes the questions are, well, less significant: why does Scarlett Johansen continue to get cast in films? Why are mattress stores ALWAYS having a sale?

But let’s face it: there’s one question that has been asked—and will continue to be asked—throughout the ages.

Does size matter?

I’m going to answer this one, once and for all, since I’m the ultimate authority. Not because I’m so huge—but simply because I’ve been in thousands of vaginas. I’ve heard thousands of opinions, thousands of stories, and I’ve recorded and compiled them into a kind of WikiPenis.

Here we go.

YES. OF COURSE IT MATTERS. Size matters for everything. When you’re hungry, would you rather have a Sloppy Joe, or a Manwich? When you’ve settled down to watch “Harry Potter and the Wizard of Poontang”, wouldn’t you rather watch it on a 60 inch plasma? (By the way, not everything should be seen this way. It’s been officially recognized by the AMA that it is not only unpleasant, but actually physically dangerous to watch Larry King on a 60 inch plasma. At that size, one is able to see actual bugs crawling on Larry’s embalmed face and the sight is known to cause nausea and/or seizures.)

And finally—apologies to my lesser-endowed comrades—women care how big our cocks are. If they love you, they’ll tell you it doesn’t matter. But they are disappointed with anything below the 7-inch demarcation, unless the girth compensates (but it rarely compensates.)

I happen to have both length (9 ¾--confirmed by two different labs, and a 1987 study which compared me with a rolled up yoga mat) and girth (3 inch diameter). My girth tickles their walls, my length tickles their spleen.

The sad conclusion: you better either have great looks, a lot of dough, or a giant sausage. Any one of them guarantees you a lay. Two of them get you an Olsen Twin. All three gets you the Olsen Twins.

It matters.

At A Loss For Words

I'm drawing a blank today. I got nothing. I'm usually not lacking for subject matter and opinions, as I think you know by now. But today...
It doesn't feel good, being blocked like this. This never happens to me. Jesus, I sound like a guy talking about his limp dick, except I'm the limp dick!

I blame Michael Jackson. Ever since he died, the mental energy of the country--maybe the world--has been focused on him. The economy is crumbling, we're fighting two wars, my movie is on DVD and yet the only thing anyone wants to talk about is Jacko. And this morning, of course, is his memorial service, so even the roads are blocked.

Well, I'm not going to join that party. He's had his time in this blog. If I have to be the only living thing on this planet not thinking or talking about Michael Jackson, so be it. This is one monster cock that is spending the morning otherwise engaged. Why did Lisa Marie Presley marry him? Clearly she wasn't looking for someone who reminded her of daddy. Yeah, they were both superstars who knew how to move; one of them a white guy who wanted to be black and the other a black guy who wanted to be white. They had their famous estates with fairy tale names. Fans loved to impersonate them. But Elvis was a man's man, and MJ was a man child. So what did she see in him--God knows she didn't need the money. Maybe she wanted to save him. She saw a great talent going down the drain, personally and professionally, and she resolved to succeed where her mother failed.

I wonder how big his cock was. Black guys are justifiably celebrated for the size of their dicks, but it's hard to picture Michael with any dick, much less a substantial one--ironic, considering how many times he'd grab it during his performances. It's almost as if he wanted to remind people (or himself?) that he had one. I always thought it was an absurd gesture, devoid of the sexual potency it was meant to convey. You know what conveys sexual potency? Fucking. But I don't think he ever fucked anything in his life. "He's got three kids" you say? Trust me, whatever sperm made those kids were not motivated by vagina.

To this day, there are only two songs that can literally force me onto a dance floor--"Brick House" and "Don't Stop Til You Get Enough." I can't resist those grooves, I just can't. Maybe that's what I should do to overcome this block. I'll put on "Off the Wall." Damn, the guy could sing.

Whore Is Hell

I see in the news today that former Defense Secretary Robert McNamara, the so-called “architect” of the Vietnam War, has died. His passing immediately brought me back to the summer of ’71, when I found myself in a quagmire of my own.

Ron was 18 then, and despite massive protests back home by his parents, he shipped himself off to Southeast Asia for a summer of solo travel. I think he was scared to go, but in the back of his mind, he knew there’d be loose women there and the chance to service a cunt.

Almost as quickly as he arrived, he met Ursula, a hooker whose years of experience weren’t enough to be unrattled by the sight of me when Ron took off his pants.

She was impressed, and within seconds, Ron found himself in the clit.

After some shaky foreplay, Ron nervously used me to penetrate Ursula’s foreign terrain, and I found myself deeply entrenched in her moist Thai land. Now, everyone knows Ron can last longer than a line at Sav-on, but not this time. I started firing my salty ammunition erratically, and sensing the inability for more rounds, Ron was ready to withdraw.

Except that he couldn’t.

Ursula’s pussy was so mind-numbingly tight, that Ron found himself complete stuck—unable to remove me from the area. In an act of desperation, he tried to gain leverage by pressing his hand—nay, palm—against her pelvis to force me out.

But it was futile. Ron was mired in this conflict.

I can’t really remember how Ron finally got out, but I do know that he immediately left Thailand for a trip to Paris, where he found peace, according to his journals—except for a nasty bout of posttraumatic syphilis.

Land of the Free, Home of the Brave

5:09 a.m.

I'd planned to write something about the birth of our country in celebration of its anniversary tomorrow. I feel very lucky to have been born here, where I've had opportunities that cocks in other countries have never had. One thing you can say about our founding fathers: they had some balls on them to do what they did. And perhaps on some level I identify, since I also have a famous pair and I sought independence from Ron, although he was much more open to the idea than King George III.

Instead, however, it's a little after 5 a.m. and I woke up from a dream I can't remember and now I can't get back to sleep. I usually can, but my thoughts started drifting to a very bizarre and sad scenario in which I become pinned between a subway train and the wall of the station platform, my lower half twisted and crushed. I become the living dead, because as soon as the train moves, everything inside me will fall out. Until then, though, I'm conscious, so I call for my loved ones to say goodbye while I can. Veronica Hart, Samantha Fox, Cristy Canyon and Nina Hartley rush to the station and, sobbing, caress me, say sweet things, and with their mouths try to summon one last drop of their favorite nourishment. But my balls have been pulverized, so they give up and, holding each other for support, leave the station.

Then the real heartbreaker. Ron shows up. He's got spaghetti sauce on his shirt and he's out of breath. We talk about old times, and he thanks me for making him famous. I tell him lots of guys have big dicks, but he knew what to do with me, and that has made all the difference. He looks at me so sadly: only four inches of me is visible, and he hasn't seen that since he was two years old. I feel so ashamed and guilty, I tell him. This would never have happened if I hadn't asked to separate from him on occasion. Where did independence get us? He took me by the shaft--how many times have I felt that hairy hand!--and said, "Now listen to me. Independence is always worth fighting for! And it's always worth the risk of failure. The patriots who've died fighting for our liberty would have been proud and gratified to know that because of their sacrifice, 200 years later millions of guys would jerk off watching a chubby schlub fuck hot women, giving them reason to believe that anything is possible. So you, my friend, have helped to fulfill America's promise."

I couldn't understand what he said next, either because I was dying or because he was crying too hard. Didn't matter, because I noticed I was very hard by this time. RJ was still sleeping, but, god bless him, even in his sleep he was sympathetic enough to give me a few strokes until his red rocket flared and, like bombs bursting in air, our seed took flight until it hit the window pane. A declaration indeed, signed, naturally, "Ron's Hand, Cock."

As Obama might say, god bless Ron Jeremy, and god bless the United States of America. Happy 4th, everyone!

Little Ditty, 'Bout Dick and Diane

I want to thank everyone who’s already pledged their support for me after I announced my candidacy for the United States Congress. A special shout out to Fred Shimmel of Canton, Ohio who suggested the campaign slogans, “Cock We Can Believe In”, and “Putting America First, Right After A Solid Ass-Fucking”

As I stated yesterday, I’m going for Diane Watson’s seat—she represents the 33rd district of California. So it didn’t surprise me to receive a phone call from her yesterday afternoon. Following is a transcript of that call:

ME: Hello?

SECRETARY: I have Representative Diane Watson calling for Ron Jeremy’s dick?

(I always chuckle when a secretary phrases it like that. I wanted to give my stock “get in line, Sister” answer, but I tried to remain respectful, considering the caller.)

ME: Speaking.

SECRETARY: One moment please.

DIANE: Well, I think a congratulations is in order? I understand you’ve decided to run for congress?

ME: Representative Watson, it is an honor to speak with you.

DIANE: The honor is all mine, sir. I’m a longtime fan.

ME: Thank you, I really app---excuse me, did you say you were a longtime fan?

DIANE: Yes, that’s right.

ME: You mean of Ron?

DIANE: Are you his dick?

ME: Yes ma’am.

DIANE: Like I said, longtime fan. You were brilliantly menacing in “One-Eyed Monster”, and I loved your work in “Angels and Semen.”

ME: Wow, I’m blown away that you even SAW that, since it was only released in Kenya.

DIANE: I serve on the subcommittee for Africa and Global Health, so I’ve travelled to Kenya many times .

ME: I must say, Representative Watson, you’ve really disarmed me here. Kinda making it a little difficult to want to take your seat.

DIANE: Competition is what makes this country thrive, sir. I welcome the challenge from such a venerable opponent, and look forward to debating the issues with someone of your stature and prowess.

ME: I—I don’t know what to say…maybe…maybe…I won’t run? You’re doing such a great job for the district.

DIANE: Oh, you’re too kind. I do apologize, but I need to end our delightful talk. Please give my best to Ron, and whatever pussy you’re sleeping in tonight.

END OF CALL



MAN, she’s good! Um, now what do I do?