The Hardest (Working) Man in Showbiz by Ron Jeremy Read Free Book Online Page B

together.”
    We counted down, like we were preparing to launch a rocket.
    And then we both let go.

    W hen the October 1978 issue of Playgirl came out, I went to the nearest newsstand and bought two dozen copies. The salesman looked at me like I was some kind of pervert. He probably thought that I was gay, and very, very lonely. I considered explaining, but I was in too good a mood to be bothered. I almost wish that I had added a jar of baby oil to the stack, just to spook the poor guy a little more.
    As you’ve probably guessed, my pictures had made it into Playgirl ! I had hoped they might call me in for a professional photo shoot, but instead, they used the untouched pictures for a new section called the Boy Next Door. They sent me a couple hundred bucks, and that was the end of it. It would’ve been nice to be on the cover—that honor went to John Ritter, the lucky bastard—but I was happy just to be in the magazine. *
    Now that my face (and the rest of me) was finally in print, I sat back and waited for the calls from producers to come pouring in. And just as I had hoped, they did. But they weren’t from producers. And worst of all, they weren’t calling me .
    “Ronnie,” my grandmother told me one morning over breakfast. “Some sissy called for you last night.”
    I nearly spat out my eggs. “I’m sorry, what ?”
    “A sissy boy called and asked if you’d be willing to meet him at the gas station downtown. Does that make any sense to you?”
    “Uh…”
    “I assume it was one of your drama friends. He sounded like a sweet fellow, though he was breathing awfully heavy. I’m guessing he has asthma.”
    It didn’t take a huge leap of logic to figure out what had happened. Because I lived with my parents, I didn’t have my own phone number. But my grandmother, Rose Hyatt, did. She lived downstairs in our house and was listed in the phone directory under “R. Hyatt.” Anybody who had seen my pictures in Playgirl , where I was credited as “Ron Hyatt from Bayside, Queens,” would surely think that “R. Hyatt,” also residing in Bayside, must be the same person.
    But when they called, expecting to talk to a young stud with a big cock, they ended up getting a very annoyed elderly woman who was in no mood to be pestered by, as she called them, “sissies.”
    “A lady called for you,” she told me the next day. “She asked me to tell you that you’re very handsome, and she loves your body. Ronnie, what in the world is she talking about? Do you know this woman?”
    “Oh, yeah, sure,” I lied.
    “Well, when you talk to her, tell her that it’s not in very good taste to call a complete stranger and tell her intimate details about her grandson’s physique. It’s just…it’s inappropriate.”
    We expected the calls to stop after a while, but it only got worse. Rose even moved out of the house because she couldn’t take it anymore, and it took a month before we could get her number changed. My dad was furious, and, of course, he blamed me.
    “Listen, Ron,” he said. “I don’t have a problem with your getting into this naked, crazy business. But if you use the family name again, I’ll kill you.”
    “Don’t worry,” I assured him. “I’m done with it. No more nude photos, no more magazine layouts. I’m going to stick to serious acting from now on.”
    And I meant it, too. Little did I realize that my idea of “serious acting” was very different from what was in store for me next.

One of my first professional photographs.

LIONS AND TIGRESSES AND BEARS, OH MY!
    “You must be Ron Hyatt.”
    “Ron Jeremy ,” I corrected him with a nervous smile.
    “Ah yes, of course.” The production assistant scribbled on his call sheet.
    “I’m using my middle name,” I told him. “My dad, you see. He doesn’t want me…It’s a long story. I—”
    “Yes, that’s fine,” he said, cutting me off. “I’ll make sure the director knows.” He opened the door to the house and pointed