Male porn stars comprise a separate race of high-octane manhood that deserves its own 2,000 words. I went into my first porn convention hardly thinking of male stars; I, like most of the people there, was thinking mostly of the big female stars: Sasha Grey, Jenna Haze, Tera Patrick. But when I walked into the expo I was reminded that the porn industry doesn’t run on estrogen only: one of the first people I saw was Ron Jeremy, big as life and just as round, signing autographs in his too-long hair, unshaped mustache, T-shirt, sweatpants, and Crocs. I guess when you’ve already proven that as a hairy, overweight, middle-aged guy you can still get it on with the hottest women in the world, why dress up?
While other straight male performers I met (there wasn’t much of a gay porn presence at this convention) had different takes on dressing up (Sean Michaels is always dressed to the nines, even at 3:00 am—don’t ask how I know), they all shared an understated confidence. They didn’t ooze sex, walk around with hard-ons, or advertise their wares like the women did because they weren’t selling to the same crowd. Male porn consumers admire them, women already know what they want to know about them, and people like me who are there for the spectacle, well… We’re just interested.
And, as it turned out at the convention, so are they. The porn guys were fascinated by me. As one of very few female press people there, I found myself in a middle ground between a fan and an industry insider. I was there to treat them as equals, and specifically not to sleep with them, which was bait they apparently couldn’t resist. Every single one of the male performers I spent time with that weekend hit on me. One commented to my colleagues that I was “a truly beautiful woman,” and when they mentioned that I had a boyfriend, he raised his glass and told me to “keep on being a lady.”
Another smiled and grasped my hand when we were introduced, then leaned in for a hug and said hello—his voice, embrace, and large hand all very soft. As our paths re-crossed over the weekend, his touches became more lingering, until the last day when I said goodbye. “You’re leaving?” He pulled out of the line of fans to hug me and with his lips near my ear he murmured, “But I was hoping to see you running around my hotel room naked later on.” Dear readers, this may be a column about porn, but I am still too shy to tell you what he said next. Suffice it to say that I was struck dumb. “You can call me any time you want,” he whispered before letting me go. I had a lot of trouble just walking away.
These guys pretty much eat, breathe, and sleep self confidence, and they’re pretty smooth about it. But the Hedgehog, Ron Jeremy, well, he was self-assured in a very different way.
On the first day of the expo, I’d been wandering around and was getting bored when I noticed Ron at his booth. I decided this was probably a chance I wouldn’t get too many times, so why not ask him to sign my T-shirt? It was a white, company-logo job I’d worn specifically for signing purposes.
I swaggered up, hoping to impress him with my boldness, and said hi. “Hey baby,” he intoned, his arm immediately around my shoulder, pulling me close. His head, I noticed, was very large, and his face was close—his moustache bristling at my skin. Oh my god, I realized. He is going to kiss me. I glanced over my shoulder at my friends, who were nearby, snapping photos and laughing. I turned back and started babbling at Ron, trying to stall; I explained about my column, my magazine, my objective. He just puckered.
I allowed it to happen, realizing that I should have known better and couldn’t be surprised or offended, given the circumstances. I was terrified I’d feel his tongue—which I’d seen do a lot of things to a lot of people—slip between my lips, but it was pretty chaste. Feeling the blush rise in my cheeks as I heard shutters snapping, I asked him to sign my shirt, but he already had the Sharpie ready. He leaned in with gusto to sign my chest and I noticed that he wasn’t much taller than I, at least not as much as most people are. He was taking his time over my breasts, smoothing the fabric carefully. I hadn’t thought this would be such a thrill for him. He’d done this hundreds, maybe thousands of times.
When he was done with the shirt, he lifted it up and began to sign my skin (read: breast) without skipping a beat. I made a noise between a scream and a squawk, having kind of seen this coming, but having also thought I’d have been warned first. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Nobody can see.” He’d positioned me so that nobody could see my breast, but they could see my boring white bra. I’d only worn it because of the white T-shirt I was wearing on top of it. To get someone like Ron Jeremy to sign. Oh god. How humiliating.
Ron really had a grip on my breast. It didn’t hurt, but he was taking his sweet time. I glanced down out of sheer embarrassment and realized that Ron could see my entire breast. Well, there it is, I thought. That just happened.
He released and conscientiously pulled my shirt back down, then turned me toward the cameras and smiled for them. I guess I was bright red, but nobody was really looking at my face now, were they? Thanks, Ron.
He leaned in again, puckering. I let his moustache get a second go at my upper lip, really thinking that now he’d seen my nipple, he’d go for the French kiss. Thank god he didn’t. The man was pretty down to earth, really, and while definitely horny, he was not about to go further than he could get away with in public. Desperate for an end to this scene, I handed him my card and blathered something about getting an interview sometime.
He shuffled through a stack of cards held together by a rubber band (I guess his outfit denoted something about his willingness to spend money on a card holder), and pulled one out. A standard hotel card with his initials and room number written in Sharpie. He invited me to stop by later on. I laughed, blushed again, and walked back to my colleagues (who I called “friends” before) on shaky legs. They were laughing. I am never going to live this down, I thought.
That night, after partying in the room with some female performers, we wandered down to the after-party at the hotel bar and got into the roped-off VIP area with our new friends. I spotted Ron nearby and avoided eye contact; I had showered in the room but had been careful not to wash off the autograph—a simple RJ with a heart. I wasn’t sure what had taken him so long down there, or why I’d decided to keep the reminder of such a creepy episode, but then, it was proof of a pretty funny story.
My colleagues said I should go say hi to Ron and tell him I’d kept the autograph. I told them to go to hell. But he was slowly working his way toward us, saying hello to people as he passed, and when he came near, my editor—the bastard—jumped in, grabbing the Hedgehog’s shoulder and pointing at me: “She just showered but she didn’t wash off your signature! Look!”
I glared at my editor, but what could I do? Ron’s face had lit up at the sight of me, and Christ, the man had already seen my breast. At least we were in the VIP area with no cameras this time. I obligingly moved the collar of my dress aside to show—very modestly—my RJ tattoo. Ron nodded and moved toward me, saying something to the editor about the “neck experiment.” He assured me it would only take a second.
I braced myself. I wasn’t sure what was coming but knew it would be weird. He moved in behind me, clasped me firmly around the waist, moved my hair to the side, and began to… kind of… gnaw on my neck. It wasn’t the worst thing that had ever happened to me, but neither was it the best. He was a little high on my neck to hit the sweet spot, and even if he’d found it I think I’d have been too freaked out to melt like he obviously hoped I would. I told myself to be nice. Stay calm. He meant nothing by it.
He finally stepped away. “See?” he said to the guys, noting the scarlet cast of my cheeks. “Gets ’em every time” He turned to me. “I’ll see you later.”
And in a puff of cologne, he was gone.
My friends burst into laughter. I glowered at them. “You just threw me to the wolves, you rotten bastards!” They kept laughing.
Teagan Presley, a huge adult star who was sitting nearby, motioned to me. “Did you just get attacked by Ron?” she asked.
I nodded balefully. “What should I do?”
She laughed. “Get a penicillin shot.”
We stayed at the bar till the party let out at 2:00 A.M. A few other performers came up to offer their condolences, saying they’d seen Ron with me earlier. I was mortified, but had to admit that it was pretty funny. We spent some time watching the slowly degenerating scene as the fans upped their games to try to nab a performer (a phenomenon I’ve never understood; what would make these guys think professional porn stars would want to get it on with random fans?).
As the bar was closing up I checked my phone and saw a missed call from a number I didn’t recognize. Just then a text popped up from the same number. “Hi, Lynsey,” it said. “This is Ron Jeremy. Please give me a call when you have a chance.”
The phrasing of the text was worrisome. It seemed serious. I called him back and went straight to his voicemail. I didn’t hear from him for the rest of the night.
The next day, curious, I checked the voicemail he’d left: “Hi, Lynsey, it’s Ron Jeremy. So I noticed we’re staying in the same hotel and you’re just a few floors below me. Why don’t you give me a call and stop by my room later? I’d love to see you.”
I ran into him a few times over the course of the next two days, but he paid me no special attention. He’d probably found some other chick he’d met that day and convinced her to go sex him up. I was fine with that arrangement. I didn’t tell my “friends” about the voicemail until we got back to New York, and I haven’t heard from him since. But, right now I’m on a flight to Vegas for the biggest porn convention of the year, and he’s going to be there… I’ll report back later.