The Hardest (Working) Man in Showbiz (29 page)

Before Slash, Savannah had had a brief fling with Axl Rose, and then went on to mildly insult him in the tabloids. She reviewed every rock star she’d ever screwed, from Greg Allman to Billy Idol. “I love sex,” she was quoted as saying in
London People
and
Spin
. “And I love sex with rockers more than anything.” But apparently she didn’t give huge praises to Axl. You can insult a rock star’s music or his talent, and that’s fine, but if you insult his sexual prowess, you’re begging for a fight.
*

Slash wasn’t the first musician whom Savannah got to know through me. I introduced her to Steve Percy (of Ratt), and I once brought Sebastian Bach to a casting call at World Modeling Agency. His band, Skid Row, was huge at the time, and when the girls saw him walk in, they were flipping out and calling their friends. But Jim South, who runs World Modeling, didn’t have a clue who he was.

“So who’s this skinny guy?” he asked. “Is he trying to break into porn or something?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said, making a joke of it. “Think you can get him an audition?”

“I guess. He’s attractive enough, so it shouldn’t be too difficult. He needs a haircut, though.”

Before long, Savannah walked into the office, took one look at Sebastian, and decided he would be her next rock conquest. She had sex only with lead singers. She never went for the drummers or anyone behind the scenes. Slash was the one exception to that rule. She had her friend and roommate Perry Rosen give me a note to give to Sebastian, which basically said, “I’d love to meet you, love and kisses, Savannah,” and then it listed her phone number. Sebastian looked at Savannah, then back at the note, then back at Savannah. He couldn’t quite place where he knew her.

“Savannah,” he muttered to himself. “Where have I heard that name before?”

I could have left well enough alone, but I had to help out.

“Axl Rose,” I whispered.

“Holy shit,” he exclaimed. “
She’s
the one who insulted Axl?”

“Yeah.”

He crumpled up the note and threw it across the room. “Tell her I’ll be at the Nelson concert at the Universal Amphitheater. I’ll meet her outside at the box office.”

The Nelsons were a popular pair of pretty-boy rockers with bleached-blond hair and a fondness for saccharine ballads. Although I liked them and socialized with them now and again, they were not always appreciated by bands like Skid Row and Guns N’ Roses. Axl once told me, “I have a problem with guys who are better looking than half the girls I date.”

So Sebastian had no intention of going to the Nelson concert. It was just his humorous way of turning down Savannah.

I never performed with Savannah in an adult movie, but I did mess around with her off camera. Mötley Crüe frontman Vince Neil invited me to a party at his hotel room in Hollywood, and I arrived with Debi Diamond, another porn star. Vince was dating Savannah, but he wanted to give Debi a roll in the sack. So we arranged a switcheroo. He had sex with Debi while I took Savannah to the other bed.

Savannah preferred young, cute boys, which I was definitely not. So we didn’t go much further than oral sex. I ate her out, and she had an orgasm in my face, which I always love. And she gave me a few strokes and a little bit of head, but not enough for me to cum. I could sense that she would rather be with Vince and Debi, so I told her to stop.

Savannah liked the freaky stuff, at least if the tabloid stories are to be believed. Billy Idol was up to the challenge. She wrote that he liked to wear high heels while they were having sex, and they once fucked six different times in a single evening. You have to respect a guy with that kinda stamina. He was no Larry Levenson, but still, my hat goes off to him.

I’ve run into Billy a few times over the years. He once invited me to a party at his Hollywood Hills home, and the moment I walked inside I realized that I’d been there before. Back in the early 1980s, long before Billy had purchased it, the house had been used for a porn film, which starred me and a young starlet named Christy Canyon. I believe the film was a takeoff of the comic strip
Blondie
. Billy demanded that I tell him everything, and we took a tour of the grounds.

“You see that corner over there?” I said, pointing to his bedroom dresser.

Billy’s eyes got as big as saucers. “No, you didn’t!”

“Yep,” I said. “I popped right there.”

“Goddamnit, Jeremy,” he said with his trademark snarl. “I don’t know whether to bronze the place or hire a cleaning service.”

Later that night, we got involved in a swinging situation. I had brought Heather Hart to the party, a porn actress who had always wanted very badly to be with Billy. After the other guests left for the night, it was just the four of us: Billy and his girlfriend and Heather and I. We broke off into pairs in the living room and started messing around. I remembered Savannah’s stories about Billy’s kinky side, so I was ready for anything.

As I was having sex with Billy’s girlfriend, I glanced over at Heather just to see how she was doing. Billy was lying on the couch, his legs spread-eagled, and Heather was crouched below him, massaging his ass. We’d been going at it for almost an hour, and as far as I could tell, Billy had declined Heather’s invitation for actual penetration. He just wanted…well, I guess you’d call it ass-cheek foreplay.

I felt bad for Heather. Here I was getting lucky with Billy’s girlfriend, and Heather was stuck with butt masseuse duty. She wanted to feel his schmeckel inside her, but he wouldn’t let her.

I smiled and waved at her, and Heather just flipped me off. I had to bite my tongue to keep from cracking up. There she was on the couch, one hand massaging Billy’s butt, the other hand flipping me the bird.
*

T
he Sunset Strip of the 1980s wouldn’t have existed as long as it did without Bill Gazzarri, the “Godfather of Rock ’N’ Roll.”

Bill owned a nightclub on Sunset called Gazzarri’s, and it was a hotspot for up-and-coming bands in L.A. Bill had an eye for talent, having actually discovered such future greats as the Doors and Warrant. But he was picky about which bands he’d allow on his stage. He only wanted acts that were “foxy.” Those were his exact words. “If a band ain’t foxy,” he’d say, “I’m not interested.” So the rockers who appeared at Gazzarri’s always had the biggest hair, the most makeup, the wildest costumes. On some nights, it was like wandering into the circus.

With his white fedora and pinstripe suits, Bill looked like an aging mafioso. He was almost sixty years old when I met him, and he was already suffering from emphysema after a lifetime of chain-smoking Parliament cigarettes. Because of his humor and charisma, you’d see him flirting with girls barely old enough to be his granddaughter. And they flirted right back.

Bill treated me to countless dinners at the Rainbow Bar & Grill, the hair-metal eatery of choice. But while I never picked up a restaurant check when Bill was around, he always made me repay his hospitality in other ways. He was something of a practical joker, and I was usually the butt of his jokes. When I wasn’t looking, he’d sneak a pepper shaker or ashtray into my pocket. And then, as we were leaving, he’d call over the waiter and accuse me of stealing.

“Check his pockets,” Bill would say. “I’ve been watching him pinch stuff all night. There’s probably some silverware stuffed in his jockstrap, too!”

Bill would also use my hand as an ashtray if I wasn’t looking. But nothing would amuse him more than a good, long fart. He’d let one fly in the middle of dinner and then point a finger at me, blaming me for causing the foul stench. He’d walk by me or another guest on his way to the restroom and release a fart, once again blaming somebody else.

“Aw c’mon,” he’d say, waving a hand in front of his face, “couldn’t you hold it?”

He wouldn’t usually do this if there were women present. But Savannah once joined us for a late-night dinner and Bill didn’t notice her. He ripped a fart that nearly lifted the table. Savannah was furious and told him, “You are a disgusting man.” (It really was an accident.) We all laughed, but Bill never spoke to her again. There was no quicker way to lose favor with the Godfather of Rock ’N’ Roll than admitting a lack of appreciation for flatulence.

I finally had a chance to pay Bill back for his generosity. When my father was visiting L.A., I took him and Bill to Ciro’s Pizza Pomo-dora
*
and treated them to dinner.
**
Bill couldn’t believe that the great tightwad Ron Jeremy was actually going to pick up a tab.

“Really?” he asked. “
You’re
buying? Oh, this is too good. Give me a goddamn menu.”

He then proceeded to buy three full-course meals; one to eat there, one for later, and one for his girlfriend, who was waiting for him back at his condo. My dad was a little curious, but I explained that Bill was just getting revenge for a decade’s worth of mooching.

“It’s not even a drop in the bucket compared to what he’s spent on me,” I said.

After Bill had gorged himself, he lifted a glass to toast my father. “Mr. Hyatt,” he said, “there are people all over the world who object to what you did.” He was referring, of course, to me. Or more specifically, my father having sex with my mom, which led to my birth. The entire table burst into laughter, but my dad didn’t even flinch.

“Objection denied,” he said.

Bill really showed his colors during our many trips to Las Vegas. He’d pick me up in his Cadillac and drive me for the weekend to Caesars Palace, where he’d always get free rooms and comped dinners. He had a passion for high-stakes gambling, especially blackjack, but little patience for losing. If the dealer gave him the wrong card, he’d flip it over and say, “I don’t want this card. Give me another one.” I once saw him actually rip up a card in front of a dealer. The poor pit boss would just sigh and say, “It’s okay; it’s Bill.” They loved him at Caesars. He’d practically built the hotel, so they let him get away with anything.

I preferred to stay at the $5 tables, but Bill would always drag me to the $100 tables. “I can’t gamble here,” I told him. “It’s too rich for my blood.”

“What? What’s the problem? Are you worried about this stupid goddamn sign?”

He’d take the table’s $100
MINIMUM
sign and fling it across the casino like a Frisbee.

“There,” he said, pulling up a seat for me. “Now the minimum is $5.”

Bill was legendary for making a scene at the blackjack tables. During one ill-fated gambling spree many years before I knew Bill, he ran out of money and the pit boss refused to extend his credit. Bill was losing badly, and nobody at Caesars wanted him to lose his shirt.

“Bill, go home,” the pit boss told him. “Come back in a week.”

“You won’t give me any more markers?” he barked back. “Okay, bet
this
!”

Bill dropped his trousers, pulled out his penis, and slapped it down on the table. The pit boss just stared, not sure how to respond.

“I’m sorry,” Bill said. “Is this too small an ante?”
*

B
ill died in 1991. The emphysema he’d been fighting for so many years finally caught up with him. I heard rumors that he may have accidentally taken too much pain medication. He was in constant agony because of his lungs, and I guess he just wanted the pain to stop.

I took my roommate Veronica—a striking brunette beauty—to Bill’s funeral. Bill had introduced us, and within a few weeks we were living together. We became best friends, the closest I’d come to a relationship since Tanya. Veronica adored Bill as much as I did—she considered Bill and me to be her only family—and we were devastated by his death. The funeral was attended by rock royalty, with hundreds of the biggest names in music showing up to pay their last respects. Veronica and I brought Axl Rose, who kept handing us tissues because we were bawling so loudly.

After the service, Veronica and I went to McDonald’s for a late-night snack. We glanced at the menu and saw a full-color ad for a new breakfast sandwich called the Sausage Biscuit. We just stared at it, not really comprehending what we were seeing. And then, our faces still soaked in tears, we burst into laughter.

It was stupid, really. In the circles we traveled in, sausage was slang for “penis” and biscuit meant “pussy.” So to our eyes, the McDonald’s menu might as well have read: “Penis-Pussy Sandwich.” We were standing there in the middle of a nearly empty restaurant, laughing like idiots, so happy for even a brief reprieve from our sadness.

“Sausage Biscuits” soon became an inside joke between Veronica and me. Whenever I’d come across a newspaper ad for the sandwich, I’d cut it out, draw a heart around the words, and give it to Veronica. It never failed to make her laugh and, weirdly enough, think about Bill. And our pet name for each other was Biscuit, or just Bis.

It may not be the legacy that Bill would’ve wanted. I’m sure that he’s looking down from heaven right now, thinking, After all I’ve done for you, Jeremy, you reduce my memory to a goddamn McDonald’s joke? Then again, a man who got so much amusement from farting and dropping trou in a casino probably has just the sense of humor to appreciate something like that.

Veronica and I have been best friends for almost fifteen years. And it was in part because of a dead rock icon and a penis-pussy sandwich.