I saw a heavyset woman charge the stage, waving her arms overhead. She stuffed a dollar bill in the dancer’s G-string, then grabbed his head, and planted a long, deep kiss on his lips. Women in the audience were screaming and cheering, lights were flashing, and “Let’s Get Physical,” by Olivia Newton John, was booming throughout the smoky club.

It was late at night in 1983. My friends and I had come to The Main Attraction in La Mesa, to see the hot, new thing--male strippers. The dancer was Ron Jeremy. He was 5'8" and stocky, with a chocolate-brown complexion, much darker than his eye color. An abundance of black curls surrounded his head, and thick mats of hair stood out from his upper lip and chest.

I sighed, then turned to my friend, Joanie. “God, he’s gorgeous,” I said. “Dark and hairy--I love it.” Months had passed since I had split up with my last boyfriend. This guy’s “ample assets” reminded me of what I had been missing--and then some.

“Don’t you know who that is?” Joanie asked. “He’s huge in porn. Claude and I watch all his videos.”

I didn’t know a thing about his videos--all I cared about was right in front of me. When the final note of the song died out, Ron left the stage and I soon spotted him signing 8 by 10 glossies on a table by the door. I left our circular booth, and went to the back of a long line of ladies who, like me, wanted to have a moment with him.

When it was my turn to talk, I realized the wine I'd been drinking was having a profound effect on my speech.

“I wuuuv your dancing,” I said. “You’re so hain-sum.” Even I knew I sounded like an ass, but Ron overlooked my indiscretion. He simply looked up at me with his golden eyes, and said, “Thank you.”

I took my autographed photo back to the table. After a few minutes, I approached him again. We talked for awhile, then someone offered to take our picture. Ron kissed me on the cheek, the guy snapped the button on the camera, and I subsequently bought the Polaroid photo for $4.

I was stunned when Ron leaned over and began kissing me. I tingled in places I didn’t know I had. Like the crazy women who threw their panties at Elvis, I started trembling, and allowed him to lead me to a dressing room. I felt the bristle of his mustache on my upper lip and neck, his soft lips on mine, and his warm hands roam over my body until the club closed at 2 a.m.

“Ron’s invited me out to breakfast,” I told Joanie. "Can you find another ride home?”

She nearly choked on her Mai Tai. “Breakfast, huh?" she said. "Girl, you have no idea what you’re in for.”

Later, I learned that “what I was in for,” measured a full 9.75 inches.

Ron drove my car, since I was in no shape to do so. We cruised down Friars Road, bypassing the all-night Denny’s, without even mentioning it. On the way to his room in Hotel Circle, he assured me that porn actors were completely safe to have sex with, because they were constantly required to get tested for disease. If I had known about AIDS in those days, I probably would have leaped from the car.

Once we arrived at the room, he tossed his bag in the closet, then turned to me with heavy eyelids.

“I’m sorry I’m so tired,“ he said “I’ve been on the road for two weeks.”

I shrugged off his apology. “Go ahead and sleep,” I told him. “I don‘t care.”

He wouldn’t even consider it.

We abandoned our clothes, and slipped under the covers. After stretching out on the King-size mattress, Ron was starting to fall asleep. I insisted that he lay down, pulled the blanket up to his chin, and kissed his eyelashes, before we both drifted off.

When I awoke, the drapes were glowing with sunshine. The sound of I-8 traffic down below, was enough to make my head rumble. For most of the night, the room had swayed. Now, I felt seasick.

When Ron woke up a minute later, he held his head.

“I can’t believe I fell asleep,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s no big deal. You were tired,” I told him.

"No, this is terrible. If word gets out that I fell asleep during sex, my reputation will be ruined.”

“You can’t be serious, even porn stars need their rest.”

I smiled at the last remark, but he continued to stew. I finally promised him that I’d never tell anybody--and until now--I haven’t.

I had to be in class at SDSU within the hour. Ron had to get back on the road. We dressed, said good-bye, and as I turned toward the door, he promised to call me. I filed his promise in the back of my mind under, “Yeah, right.”

But two weeks later, he called in the middle of the night. “I’m back in town,” he said. “Want to get together?”

I looked at my clock. Two a.m. “Sure, what else have I got to do?”

The situation was awkward, now that I was sober. He was still enticing--even with his clothes on--but I suspected he wasn’t there just to see me. I really didn’t know what he was there for, unless he wanted to prove he had “it.”

Ron made himself at home on my couch, and told me he was trying to go “legit” with his acting career. He said his family name was “Hyatt,” and after his picture appeared in Playgirl, his dad threatened to kill him because women began calling his grandmother, whose name was listed as "R. Hyatt" in the White Pages. From then on, he went by “Ron Jeremy.”

He followed me into the kitchen, where I went to get us something to drink. When I opened the refrigerator door, he said, “My sister used to keep her nail polish in the refrigerator--I just remembered that.”

I gave him a fake chuckle and stifled a yawn.

Once the glasses were drained, I fidgeted nervously in my seat. The next logical step was to retire to the bedroom. Ron was quite sexy--but for me--having sex without an emotional connection was as exciting as putting a pencil in a sharpener and turning the crank. I excused myself, went to the bathroom, and pondered how to get out of sleeping with him. Finally, I chose a direct approach.

I went back to the living room, and confronted him.

“You mean we aren’t going to have sex?” Ron said, after I offered to let him sleep on the couch.

“That’s what I mean,” I said.

“Well, if we aren’t going to do anything, I might as well go.”

Normally, I would have written him off as a giant tar ball; but he wasn’t out to use me, he was offering to let me use him. Despite having a master’s degree in special education, he saw himself as nothing more than a party favor.

I didn’t see Ron again until he appeared on The Surreal Life in 2007. Although he was significantly older and heavier, he still mesmerized me as he consoled Tammy Faye Messner. I could totally see why I had fallen into bed with him so easily, and for a moment, was tempted to do it again.

                                ***

In January of 2010, I froze when I saw an e-mail from Ron Jeremy’s agent in my inbox. “He wants to hear from you,” it said. “Call him at …”

A few days earlier, I had sent a message via Ron’s official Web site. It had been thirty years since I had met him at The Main Attraction, and didn’t really expect to get a response. I figured the only way he could possibly remember me was if by some slight chance, he recalled that I was the only woman out of the 4,000 he claims to have slept with, that he really did just sleep with. Nothing had happened. For a man who is famous for not requiring Viagra, that particular detail may have had a lasting impact.

My hands trembled as I dialed his phone number. When the phone was picked up, I heard, “Hi, this is Ron. Please leave your number.” Hearing the voice mail was a relief because I had to muster up my courage before I could talk to him. His career had changed considerably since the days when he appeared as a male stripper. He was now somewhat of a celebrity.

I'd watched him console a crying Tammy Faye Messner, and tussle with Vanilla Ice on "The Surreal Life." He had dated Kathy Griffin on “Kathy Griffin: My Life on the D List,” and raised hell on Springer. In short, and by all standards of American wisdom, he was a celebrity--the most famous person I had slept with and yet, not had sex with. My daughter, who is 21, said “all the kids at school knew who he was,” although I had spared her the dirty details of how exactly, I knew him.

For two weeks, I tried to get a hold of Ron. I figured he may have kept the same schedule he had thirty years ago, which amounted to a life on the road. Or, he could have been just blowing me off. I got increasingly anxious each time I called, thinking he may get fed up with my numerous attempts and tell me off. Finally, at about 9 p.m. one night, I gave his number one last try. “Hi Ron. This is Mindy. You aren’t only the hardest working man in show business (a take off on his memoir, “The Hardest (Working) Man in Show Business"), but you’re also the hardest man to get a hold of.”

In the early morning, the phone rang, but I was in bed, too warm and comfy to get up. I decided to let the machine pick up the call until I heard, “Hi Mindy. This is Ron Jeremy. Either you are borderline or your phone is. I DID call you, in fact, I called you twice.”

I sprang out of bed and picked up the handset. “Hi Ron,” I said. “It’s me.” I caught myself smoothing my bed head, even though he couldn’t see me.

I was thrilled about the call until he began rambling about the club and someone named Diane. Then I realized, he hadn’t been returning MY calls, but those of someone else.

“I don’t think I’m who you think I am,” I said, weakly.

I explained that I had met him at The Main Attraction in ‘83, but I tread softly about the part where his reputation as a super stud had been in jeopardy. I simply mentioned that after we met, we had gone back to the hotel.

“Back to the hotel,” he said, allowing his mind to filter back thirty years. Nope. Nothing. Of course he couldn’t remember me. A man who claims to have laid 4,000 women as he does online, is bound to forget at least one. On the other hand, I had slept with only one porn legend in my entire life.

To make him feel better, I told him that I probably would have forgotten him too, except that I’d seen him on The Surreal Life.

“That’s the nice thing about celebrity,” he said. “You can reconnect with people from your past.”

I agreed.

As we began chatting, I told him I wanted an interview, and that led to telling him about how I got started in writing, after my children were grown and gone.

“And their father?” he asked.

“He died from drinking and drugging last year,” I said.

“Oh,” Ron said, his voice crumpling with emotion. I just love it when a guy pretends to care.

He went on to say he had been performing in Vegas, under the name, “The Fatso From El Paso.” "I’m not really from El Paso,” he said, chuckling. “But the words go together.”

The gravel at the bottom of his laughter, reminded me of the voice of my former fiance--a song writer--who coincidently lived in Vegas when he passed away in 2007. In hearing Ron’s voice, I missed the talks I had with Sterling, and was sorry I’d ever left Hollywood.

As Ron and I wrapped up our conversation, he said, "Okay, Doll, I'll talk to you later." I found I really didn’t want to get off the phone. He was a very kind and charismatic person, and I discovered I had a crush on him. At 51, and with menopause just a hot flash or two away, I didn’t think it was possible.

And he said “yes” to an interview. I couldn’t wait to get up to L.A. to really get inside his head, to discover the details of how a legendary porn-actor turned reality-T.V. star, lives his life. And, with any luck, I might get to see his turtles, if he still has them.

We agreed that I would call him on Monday--when he’d know his schedule--to set up a time. On Monday, I was nervous--but not as much as I had been--when I called his number. I got the voice mail, and left a message. Knowing he may call, I didn’t even get in the shower for fear I may miss it. But when I ventured out to get the newspaper, the door closed and locked behind me. And, the sky had decided to bless us with a downpour that day.

I stood in the rain--pondering what to do next--as my three dogs stood at the sliding glass window, smiling at me from the warm sanctity of our home.

Then the phone rang.

Oh sh*t, I thought. I didn’t even bother to run for cover. I watched the cold rain splash my bare feet, felt it seep to my scalp, and seriously doubted that Barbara Walters would have survived a day like this one.

I asked my next-door-neighbor if I could use his phone, but he insisted on climbing through my dog door to get me back inside. Buddy is a 76-year-old veteran who has to prove at every opportunity, that he could still fight a war if he had to. As he was pushing through the 18 by 14-inch door, I realized that I had forgotten to tell him about my new dog. They soon met when the 45-pound pit bull flew off the couch and began barking just inches from his nose.

“I’m sorry!” I shouted through the window up above the door. “I would have crawled through myself, but my wide-load wouldn’t fit.”

He didn't respond to my apology. He simply unlocked the door, and left without even telling me.

After wondering where he was for awhile, I figured out he'd left, and hurried back inside, hoping to hear a message from a telemarketer on my machine. No such luck. “Hi Mindy. It’s Ron Jeremy…”

I returned his call as quickly as my fingers would allow me to punch the numbers, but I got his machine again. I left a message asking him if Wednesday was good for him, because it works for me. Now, I await his reply. But despite the phone tag and a couple of awkward moments, I’m glad I contacted Ron. He is a fun, and exciting guy, and I fully expect the interview to be an adventure.

UPDATE: JANUARY 23, 2010.

The following message was left on my answering machine:

"Hey, it's Ron Jeremy. Hi Mindy. Wednesday's no good 'cause I have to leave town--early, early morning--to go to Canada. I'll just be gone for a couple of days. So I will be free right after that. So--uh--give me a call in about five days. I'll be back in town on Thursday or Friday. All righty? I look forward to speaking with you. Thanks. Bye-bye."

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