ron jeremy taste

( This is a true story. )

The normally silent intercom became restless after lunch. Loud static followed by quick broadcasts of surprisingly creative expletives from Old Spice, the wholly threadbare receptionist.

Somebody had committed a war crime in the 9th floor handicapped toilet and Pete was strategically planting evidence against Vin, editor-in-chief of OINK PARADE and CHUB PLUGGERS in the minds of my co-workers. CHUB PLUGGERS was just OINK PARADE with a different wrapper. Pete’s cubicle had been adjacent to Vin’s before Pete had been promoted and moved to an office. He was the most disgusting man Pete had ever known. And Pete rode the subway to work. And worked in the porn industry.

Point of fact, it was Pete who was responsible for the toilet massacre. After a week of shooting heroin, he’d backed off the habit out of a desire to cut his tolerance and amount of money it was costing him just to stay well. Junkies are always worried about that instant their eyes become moist and they start sneezing in multiple sets. It wasn’t Pete’s first time going cold turkey but it was his first time using large quantities of speed to help him through the rough days.

Pete was in the handicapped stall chopping a line into a fine power using a book on his lap. As soon as he felt the donkey kick to his face caused by snorting what amounted to chewed up glass with cuts, he heard his stomach make an attempt at a scream. From there it was a game of gravity.  The shit finally released like an evil geyser, enough force he suspected that it nearly cracked the porcelain. It was all so miserably delicious. the dope withdrawals had made him into a miserable snotty mess, but the speed made it not quite so bad.

As he finally got prepared to wipe, the intercom started broadcasting a long series of cackles. A hiss. A series of tongue clicks. A caustic laugh. Finally, a crescendo of dial tone that got so loud it nearly turned the asspiss flooding his lower intestine back into brick. As he turned and wiped, he realized he had managed to clog the bowl as if it had been damned and diverted upstream by some shit river. There was an automatic flush that was supposed to turn on when the toilet sensed movement. Pete got up off the can  and waited but nothing happened. The little red light blinked slowly, like a POW blinking Morse Code messages.

Back in his office, the speed had hit him and he was now downloading 80 songs from Napster and playing video draw poker on the web. A sucking noise resonated under the pile of magazines and dirty clothes on Pete’s desk. His phone was under there somewhere.

What was this strange noise? He called Ken, who was in with Rob. Rob was in Ed’s office with Ken.Bruce, Carmine, Charles. The entire staff seemed to be having a meeting without him. He checked the calendar. If today was the 14th of December, there was a POACHER staff meeting in progress.

Suddenly, Peter needed the toilet again. He thought he’d seen a new receptionist cowering behind the tinted bullet-proof glass in the “lobby.” The bullet-proof glass was installed after Larry Flynt was shot, but that was 20 years ago. Who could be after pornographers now? Strunck and White?

Pete ambled into the elevator and pressed 8. He needed fresh porcelain.  It might take weeks before the bathroom on the ninth floor was cleaned and pumped out.

The intercom squealed again, launching intermittent showers of urgent, pneumatic thrashing sounds. Elliptical bars of epileptic code.

Fuck. He saw shoes in  the handicapped stall on 8. He walked next door to the woman’s room. Were there any female employees on the eighth floor? There was nobody inside. He settled down on the high handicapped toilet and opened the bomb bay doors.

On the way back to his office he passed on the info that he thought he saw Vin loitering near the woman’s restroom on 8. Some of the girls from PLAYCHICK hurried down to investigate.

I wonder if this is similar to how people felt in Roswell after the weather balloon crashed? He wondered about this as he fixed another line of speed, using only his driver’s license and a $25 gift card to Sam Goody he had received for Christmas five years before.

He set up his mobile phone so he could play two games of chess against an opponent in Russia and one in Alabama at the same time.

Then, the phone rang. He jumped. The phone almost never actually rings. He wondered if that really had happened or if it was like the symphony music he usually heard coming from the walls on the third and fourth day without sleep during a runner.

Out on Second Avenue, a car alarm was going off. Pete waited for the phone to ring again to make sure whoever on the other end was serious but it didn’t ring again. How much of this was real? He felt severe panic like an undertow approaching him and worse he felt himself trying to battle it, a strategy he knew didn’t work but he couldn’t help himself. He  went to his desk drawer and rattled  around looking for his reserve bottle of klonopin. Only a handful left from a bottle of 120? Fucking Mario, that coke fiend had obviously been rooting around in his desk hoping to disarm an eightball’s worth of shaky self-hatred.

The phone went off again. This time a woman said his name and then hung up the line.

“He don’t answer,” said the voice of a woman, a voice like rusty gravel being ground over a bed of dry cement. Then what sounded like a flustered middle-aged receptionist pounding buttons on her phone with a closed fist.

“I’ll let you in and you can go look for him,” said the voice. “His first name is Pete but who knows what last name he’s using this week. He’s easy to spot. He’s the only one not morbidly obese on the entire floor. He’s got a babyface–a cute pudgy face like teenager but with a hairline like a middle-aged heart patient.”

Then came the sound of an old paging chime, like from a department store. Two bings, one bong. He had no idea where that one had come from but he suspected that it had come from his own mind. It was like a museum of vintage business tones. He heard a fax machine going off. Then the theme to the video game Spy Hunter. He used to imagine himself playing Spy Hunter when he couldn’t sleep.

The door buzzed and a woman entered, her head searching every direction.  She was a bleached blonde who had recently gone redhead. From a distance it looked dirty brown. Was there a color called dirty brown? There was dirty blonde. But that didn’t imply actual dirt. She was very short and was tipping over on four or five inch heels. She was built like a snowman. Her face was covered with enough layers of pancake to cover her freckles. She had curves but so did parking decks in practical terms.

***

The staff at POACHER may have been dopes, but they weren’t any more perverted than any other men in their demographic. Ken was obsessed with the idea that his penis was leaking piss. Rob volunteered at a no-kill animal shelter and adopted a new mutt every month. He had at least a dozen of them that had overtaken his house. He had a pretty big heart. The art guys were more into freelance graphic design work and phoned the POACHER sets in. Pete was a loose cannon, a substance abuser and a thief, but he hardly ever thought of sex, especially when he was living with a $200 a day heroin habit. When he was on the speed, his life turned around completely but he’d mainly jerk off before work and that was enough. His life seemed amply out of control enough that it would be easy for a female to detect right away. There had been a few girlfriends but when he preferred buying dope to taking them out to eat, spending $80 on a meal seemed unreasonable but he’d regularly spend twice that on dope… well, he found himself sleeping alone most night. That was fine. Even this event they had today with this woman. The prospect of seeing live sex once would’ve titillated him, maybe when he was 15, but now… not much.

This woman, who introduced herself as Christine or Connie, was an elementary school teacher thinking of changing professions and becoming a full-time porn star. The guys at POACHER actually tried to talk her out of even considering it.

“Maybe teaching young children isn’t for you,” said Pete, “and I’m just saying this because I think anybody who would voluntarily let Ron Jeremy lay siege to their anus  may not be in the right career, but I can assure you that porn isn’t a career. Sure, that $500 check you’ll be getting from us in 10-14 weeks for this may seem like a lot of money…”

She was doing a scene with Ron Jeremy down in Chelsea at the studio of Anelli Adolf, a well-known Eurp photog, not just of smut but specializing in celebrity also. IT was rare that anything was shot in NYC actually. Most of it was shot in Chatsworth in Southern California and recently we had started seeing a lot of stuff coming out of Eastern Europe, where the girls would do the same scenes for half the price.

POACHER had just signed Ron Jeremy to be its “mascot” for another year so he had to come to NYC to sign the contract and pick up the check. Being the mascot for a porn mag was like being the “Executive Editor.” It was a sinecure. You picked up a check and wore a POACHER t-shirt once in a while.

Aneli’s studio was huge, right down near the Chelsea Hotel. When Ed and Pete got there, they were greeted by Aneli’s huge Boxer called Master 7. The 7 was from a patch of white on his fur that looked like a seven. Master was because he was huge.

“Fucking Marmaduke,” said Ed, as the dog licked his face.

“Rob’s going to love this guy,” said Pete. “He loves mutts.”

Aneli heard from across the studio. “Master is a pure-bred champion,” said Aneli. “I sire him for $5000 a day. Those are what it costs for stud fees.”

“How much does Ron Jeremy make in stud fees?” said Pete.

Ron heard him and mumbled something. He was already in full sweat. He was being made up and appeared to be wearing some kind of giant diaper.

“What is the story for this set?” asked Aneli.

Ed and Pete looked at each other  exchanging shrugs.

“They have butt sex and he cums on her face,” said Ed.

“Boring,” said Aneli.

Ed and Pete huddled  for ten or 15 minutes and came up with a lame story line. Christie or Cinnamon, whatever her name is, will be giving Ron a sexual test and grading Ron at the end. Do anybody have a clipboard?

Pete made it up in a minute. Wrote “REPORT CARD” at the top of the paper and sketched little boxes for the teacher to mark off if Ron performed well.

“What a great, inventive  idea!” nobody said.

The sex got underway quickly. Pete watched for a bit and then went into the other room and started reading a book on Richard Avedon.

When they were finished, the teacher’s asshole was gaping and there was jizz pouring out of both her holes.

Pete checked Ron’s grades on the clipboard and then dropped it on the couch. It was covered with Ron Jeremy’s voluminous ejaculate.

Aneli’s dog Master 7 didn’t seem to mind. He was into it. What was a little jizz after all.

Just then, the front door opened and Rob and Ken came in.

“I can’t believe we missed it,” said Rob, who saw Master 7 and whistled.

“Good boy!” he said, the dog coming at him full speed. He jumped up against Rob and started licking his face, Ron Jeremy’s jism coating his tongue and soon the whole of Rob’s face, including his glasses.

Pete saw Rob lick his lips and take quite a bit of Ron Jeremy’s hot ball mud into his mouth. Master 7 kept up the second-hand facial until Rob’s face was drying tight with the fuck legend’s cum.

Pete excused himself to Aneli’s bathroom. No question about this one. Straight vomit. Then, he sat down and added a dark mix. The smell was horrific. He heard an intercom from a speaker in the bathroom. White noise so that nobody has to be embarrassed while fluids pass from them. That was a nice touch, he thought.

He passed Ed on the way out.

Ed asked where the bathroom was. He found himself equally as sick and knew the situation on the ninth floor bathroom back at work. If he wasn’t sick now, he would be when he saw what wouldn’t flush in Aneli’s crapper.

“Down the hall, second right,” said Pete. “But I’d be careful. I think I saw Vin hanging out eating goldfish from an ashtray. Probably waiting for the jism on Rob’s face to dry so he could get a fresh lick,” he said.

“We’re surrounded by some pretty sick fucks,” said Ed.

 

 

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