Ten minutes before go time the line was about 15 people strong. The notables: a lady in purple corpse lipstick colored way outside the lines and her companion, sporting all-terrain hiking sandals and pantyhose; a lady in a sagging halter top with a giant butterfly tattooed on her shoulder. A couple from Belfast who'd purchased six books a couple of days prior were stunned by the turnout. "If he were in Belfast," the husband told me, "there'd be queues outside, and placards—"
"There'd be riots in the street!" his wife interjected.
But no, it was just a regular ol' Monday night here.
A dude with long, stringy hair who'd missed a button on his shirt and his drowned rat friend in a braided nautical rope bracelet weren't toting a book. What were they hoping to get signed, then? "Heh, heh," said Stringy Hair. "My balls."
"Only books," Belcoff tersely announced, mostly just to them. "No memorabilia."
Almost 20 minutes late, Ron Jeremy waddled up like an adult Garbage Pail Kid in dirty Adidas track-suit pants, a pinky ring on each hand, grubby Crocs and a Jenna Jameson T-shirt. He looked a little tired and was sucking on a throat lozenge.
The Irish couple were shocked, scoffing a little at his uncomely appearance. I kind of admired his f--k-you-ness. No one likes Ron Jeremy because he's a polite gent or a fashion plate—we like him because he's willfully gross, a hirsute hero with man boobs.
By Page 3 in his book he's already talked about a "syrupy layer of my own sweat," preferring his boners au natural (sans Viagra or suchlike) and having gone through a "dumpster of condoms" for a gangbang. Ron Jeremy is who he is, and that's what made him famous. If he were anything less than crude, that would be disgusting.
Jeremy posed for photos and held miniature conversations with every single person in line, which had grown considerably since he'd shown up. After getting his book autographed, one gleeful man in a crisp suit whispered to the Belfast couple that he got Jeremy to draw "a little sketch of a penis" because he assumed it would increase the value of the book.
When it was my turn I just started giggling like a fool out of nervousness. Foul though he may be, he's still famous. "You know," he muttered low behind a hand, "I sign boobies."
Last time I was in Mandalay Bay a cougar around my mother's age mauled me in a bathroom. It was the worst kiss this side of 16 and ended with a crayon-like hunk of her caked-on lipstick under my front tooth. But I figured if I could handle her, I could handle Ron Jeremy.
I stretched down the neck of my shirt to expose just a little flesh.
He yanked it down, reached in, and helped himself. Fifteen minutes later I was still shaking. As much as I might enjoy reading about the good old days when protected sex was unheard of, and though I might appreciate his yuck factor, this has taught me that some things are better from a distance.