Hindsight: True Love & Mischief in the Golden Age of Porn

by Howie Gordon

  Soon, the doors to movie star success would swing wide open and I’d be working in feature films with the likes of Dustin Hoffman and Whoopi Goldberg. All the Hollywood dreams would come true. I had my lottery tickets punched for fame and fortune and I was ready to win.

  Thirty years later, I’m embarrassed now to look through old diaries and observe myself in what was the ambitious dementia of such pedestrian longing, but I think that’s only because I failed at it.

  What? Did I ruin the ending for you? Did you somehow think I got as famous as Jack Nicholson and you somehow just missed it?

  Nah, I died at the Alamo next to Davy Crockett, but he had a better agent. I went over the falls at Reisenbach with Holmes and Moriarty, but they got all the press. I got fat next to Elvis eating bacon, peanut butter, and banana sandwiches, but he’s the one who died sitting on the toilet and I’m still struggling at the computer to tell my side of the story. I want to get it right, to pass it on to the children, and them to their kids.

  “Are you shittin’ me? Grandpa fucked schiksas for a living?”

  “Yeah, he did, and he got pretty good at it for a while.”

  But when it came to that great, mainstream Hollywood, movie star dream, I was just part of the huge legion of the Never Was. We came from everywhere and we all wanted the chance to be the next Rudolph Valentino or Cary Grant. We all wanted a piece of that pie-in-the-sky. Didn’t you?

  I don’t know why it didn’t happen for me. I was the long shot that was supposed to pay off. I had a plan and everything. Playgirl was going to give me a half-time job being their centerfold director. I would prep the guys and help them through their shoots. It was perfect. I had resisted moving to LA while I would just be another unemployed actor, but the half-time gig from Playgirl took all the desperation out of such a move. I could earn enough money for us to live and still have the time off for the auditions that would make me a star.

  Carly could quit her job at the Berkeley clinic and then reestablish herself as a therapist in LA. Lord knows that Los Angeles could certainly use as many mental health professionals as it could get.

  We could even move ahead with our plans to make a baby.

  Chapter Five

  My first assignment for Playgirl was to write the following introductory letter:

  So, You Want to Be a Centerfold

  Congratulations! If you are reading this, chances are Playgirl has already selected you as a future centerfold for the magazine.

  This is a little note to help you prepare for your upcoming photo session from someone who has been through it. I was MR. NOVEMBER in 1978 and went on to become the MAN-OF-THE-YEAR for 1979.

  I think we can safely assume that if you have been chosen as a centerfold, you are in reasonably good shape and are sexually attractive in your own unique way.

  What you should know in advance is that as part of depicting you as a sexually attractive male, PLAYGIRL photographers may want to shoot some nudes of you in various stages of arousal, in common parlance — with a hard-on.

  This may or may not be a difficult objective for you, but just in case, here are some pointers:

  1. PRACTICE being photographed with an erection by your photographer, wife, lover, friend, or whatever — before you get to the actual Playgirl session.

  2. EXPERIMENT with whatever you think will help you achieve a state of arousal in a pressure situation. Examples: books, pictures, or having a sex partner present who will help you during the session. Remember to have these things present on the Playgirl set. I used masturbation. It worked.

  3. COMMUNICATE and coordinate with the Playgirl director. They may be as bold or as bashful about this aspect of the session as you are. Speak to them in advance about how you feel about this part of the experience. Relate to them as your ally. They will be there to help you.

  4. IF AT FIRST YOU DON’T SUCCEED, DON’T PANIC. Arousal comes and goes, especially under pressure. Nobody expects you to be Superman. With the proper stimulation, your body knows what to do automatically. The idea is to get yourself into the right frame of mind to let nature take its course — then, to let the Playgirl photographer take a few photographs of you in your full glory.

  5. Keep in mind — We’re not talking about standing on one leg balancing an egg on your nose for two hours with an erection. This part of your session may only take five-to-ten minutes out of what should be a three-to-six hour modeling experience. If achieving the erection proves difficult, do not become freaky; 99.9 % of males are not experienced with getting hard-ons in public situations.

  Take your time and just let it happen. Be prepared to stop, take as many breaks as necessary, and start all over again.

  6. My personal advice is to relate to the whole thing as fun. I thought it was an honor to be selected as a centerfold and found it personally gratifying that the Playgirl people thought of my body as sexy.

  As I stared at the pages of Playboy when I was a young man, I took myself to the promised land while looking at their delicious women.

  Now, women will look at pictures of you and dream themselves into ecstasy. Have as much fun with it as you can. Treat it as the delightful adventure which it is and may the Gods of Eros be with you.

  Best wishes, Howie Gordon

  GOOD LUCK!!!!

  Chapter Six

  It was the age of Studio 54. Cocaine was now everywhere. It was the new marijuana. If you pulled out a joint, especially in LA, people looked at you like you were some kind of dinosaur.

  It was at least a year before all the bodies started piling up on the beach.

  I was far too susceptible to this drug. By myself, I could’ve easily strayed with the lemmings and run right off the edge of the world. It was Carly who eventually saved us from the madness. She said, “Look, I’ll be a mother or I’ll be a party girl. I won’t be both. We have to choose.”

  We chose.

  Chapter Seven

  Playgirl’s Man-of-the-Year! It was a great title, but it turned out to be one of little substance. The tone was really set for me right off the bat.

  The Phoenix Suns were in town. It might even have been the very same day that I’d found out that I’d won the title. See? See what I mean? Just saying it like that sounds like I’d knocked out Mike Tyson or something. Far from it.

  The Suns were in the Bay Area to play the Warriors. We’re talking NBA basketball here. Through my old pal Gary Graham, I’d made friends with Joe Prosky, who was the trainer for the Phoenix team. Gary and Joe went all the way back to the early sixties when Gary pitched in the Cubs organization.

  Whenever Phoenix came to town, I’d often be invited to join them for the game and then a Mexican dinner afterwards. Some of the Suns players would usually come along too. It was as close as I would ever get to the Major Leagues of anything.

  So, I’m the Man-of-the-Year now and both Gary and Joe are tickled for me. After the game, Joe invited me into the visiting team’s locker room. They’d just kicked the Warrior’s ass. Joe introduced me to Gar Heard, one of Phoenix’s starting forwards.

  “Hey, Gar,” he said, “I want you to meet Playgirl’s Man-of-the-Year.” Wearing only a towel and a smile, the superbly chiseled Gar Heard looked down at me. His smile got bigger and he shook my hand. Gar Heard was six-feet-six inches tall. His nipples were taller than me.

  In that instant, I learned everything I needed to know about how seriously to take myself in this Man-of-the-Year thing.

  Chapter Eight

  In the world of centerfolds, I was once again on the wrong side of sexism.

  For openers, Playboy’s Playmate-of-the-Year got a Corvette, a movie contract, a modeling contract, some endorsement deals, and a bushel or two of money.

  For Playgirl…

  Gordon Archive.

  Chapter Nine

  Among my duties for Playgirl that year was to every now and then make a personal appearance at some kind of minor league road show where I’d sit next to a Playboy Bunny or a Penthouse Pet and a
utograph semi-nude pictures of myself for a weekend.

  It was one like that in Hartford at the Civic Center VAN-TASY AUTO SHOW, which featured Cycles, Vans, Pickups, 4 X 4s, Off Road Vehicles, and me.

  I got to hang out for a couple days with Candace Collins. She was Playboy’s Miss December. That was kind of fun. We actually hit it off pretty well, but there was no nooky in it for Bonzo because she had her sights set on Charlie Pasarell, the tennis pro who was playing just around the corner in the AETNA World Cup Tennis Tournament. Life in the big city, what’re you gonna do! Still, wasn’t so bad sitting next to her all day, having people standing in lines waiting to get our autographs. Makes you think you’re somebody!

  Chapter Ten

  And then, of course, there was:

  Gordon Archive.

  The bus ride to New York

  It had been a long weekend, but I was all packed and ready to go. I sat on the bed taping stuff in my diary.

  “Appearing Live and In Person — Playboy’s Miss December — Candace Collins and Playgirl’s Man-of-the-Year — Howie Gordon at the Hartford Civic Center’s VANTASY Auto Show!”

  I had carefully cut the ad out of the newspaper. It would be something to show the grandchildren one day, wouldn’t it?

  “Wow, grampa,” they’d say, “was that really you?”

  “Sure was, young’uns,” I’d tell them. “Your grampa was one hot tamale!”

  Next up was a major-league commercial for Martini & Rossi in New York City.

  When the limo dropped me off downtown at the Hartford bus station, I stood there curbside with a suitcase in each hand. After three days of lines of women waiting for my autograph, nobody even looked at me twice. I understood how Cinderella felt when her royal coach turned back into a pumpkin. I headed into the bus station to pick up my ticket for New York.

  Actually, I was late. I was the last one to board that Greyhound bound for New York City. As soon as I got on, the driver closed the door and began backing out of the station.

  I was greeted by what I thought was an odd sight. You know how buses have all the seats in rows of twos? Well, there was one person sitting in every single row. I was the first person who was going to have to take a seat next to someone else. What made the selection odd was that there were all male passengers and only one woman. She had blond hair and was fairly attractive. In a fit of bravado — I was still feeling my oats — I made my way toward the back and sat down right next to the only woman on the bus.

  “Hi,” she said with a big, warm smile. That was nice.

  “Hi,” I returned her greeting, “how are you?”

  “Fine,” she said. “Going to New York?”

  “Yeah.” We were in seats 33 and 34.

  Within ten minutes, I had out my copy of Playgirl and she was checking out my centerfold spread. I showed her the clippings in my diary and we chatted and chatted. After a while, she said, “Mind if I ask you a personal question?”

  “No, not at all,” I answered.

  She told me her name was Veronica LeBlond. Could that possibly be her real name? We chatted into the miles and into the dark. Then, Glory Be, we were making out. Not all the way out, mind you, but from the kissing, she allowed me to unzip her jeans and slide my hand down under. I found Xanadu. We were hiding from everybody. It was a delicious ride to the finish where her thighs squeezed my hand in spasm. What a thing to hold onto!

  Then it was my turn. She unzipped me and began the gratitude. We had me covered with a jacket or something. Who knew what those around us were aware of? Nobody said nothin’. I concentrated on the pleasure. There was no hurry.

  Y’know, this kind of stuff happened to Jamie Gillis and John Leslie. It did not generally happen to me. When my orgasm was getting close, bright lights suddenly filled the night. I opened my eyes to see that we were in some kind of tunnel. I was too far along to care and she mercifully did not stop her handiwork. When I came, we were just pulling out of the tunnel and into Manhattan. What an entrance! New York never looked that good.

  Chapter Eleven

  Speaking of Jamie Gillis

  Jamie Gillis just died. It’s 2010 now. My story pauses here.

  Gordon Archive.

  Jamie Gillis Passes Away

  Posted Feb 19th, 2010 07:26 p.m.

  NEW YORK — Adult industry legend Jamie Gillis succumbed Friday to a battle with cancer in his hometown of New York City. He was 66.

  A longtime New York acquaintance of Gillis’ tells Adult Video News (AVN) the strain of cancer afflicting him was melanoma. The disease was diagnosed a mere four to five months ago, the source said.

  Gillis will be cremated at a private ceremony. He requested that in lieu of flowers, contributions be made to the NYC Police Athletic League, an organization that assisted him as a boy and continues to aid New York City children. Donations can be made at www.palnyc.org/800-PAL-4KIDS/donate.aspx.

  Veteran adult director Wesley Emerson forwarded the following email from long-time Gillis friends Ashley and April Spicer to AVN Friday evening regarding Gillis’ death:

  “It is with great sadness that I report the passing of Jamie Gillis. A wonderful and charismatic man and most treasured friend, he will be greatly missed by his partner Zarela, his family, his many friends, and countless fans around the world.

  Despite the immense grief we feel for the loss of our friend, we are comforted by a quotation from Albert Camus that Jamie often quoted to us: ‘Happiness, too, is inevitable.’”

  AVN will provide in-depth coverage surrounding this news in the days to come.”

  Adult Video News

  Remembering Jamie

  It started out as a class. It ended up as an event that actually surprised itself. In another era, it would have been called a happening. It was a happening too, the real deal. An experience that could only happen because it was The Mad Satyr, Jamie Gillis himself, who had sounded the call to the congregation.

  Maybe he was beginning to understand that we’d all come out of the woodwork for him. With Jamie Gillis, it was like Robin Hood calling out to the Merry Men of Sherwood, and the Merry Women too for that matter. Jamie always liked to mix the sexes. On a good day, it always made everyone just a wee bit merrier.

  “Jamie Gillis’s ‘An All Day X-rated Seminar,’” said the ad, “with guest appearances by porn stars Annette Haven, Kym Wilde, John Leslie, Richard Pacheco, and others.”

  It was billed: “Learn the ins and outs of making amateur and fetish videos.” It was held on July 16, 1994, at the downtown San Francisco Holiday Inn. And the place, dear friends, was packed.

  Some of the “others” turned out to be John “Buttman” Stagliano and Ed “Dirty Debutante” Powers. The Adult Video News (AVN) sent Mark Kernes and Yoram “Don” Dahan. San Francisco’s own Empress Madeline of EROTICA SF TV was there. Joe Elliot came to tout his new line of videos. There was Steve & Sindy from Candyman Video, Dr. X from High Society, REDBOARD’s Duck Dumont, starlets Taj Mahal, Valeria, and Sherri Parks, Mistress Vicky Gold, actor J.P. Anthony, and Bay Area Talent Agent Dan Barros.

  And we were all hosted by the charismatic Mr. Gillis. He was the grand ringmaster of this dog and pony show. “Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, step right this way.”

  My lord, did those people ever get their money’s worth! After nine hours, nobody wanted to leave. The hotel had to kick us out. Speakers at the end of the day were jammed for time. Nobody expected what happened to happen. Not even Jamie.

  Flashback Within a Flashback

  It’s 1982. We’re in Hollywood. We’re staying at a remarkably seedy motel in a blighted neighborhood. They serve a weird Chinese breakfast here. Naked women, naked women that you really don’t want to see naked, are standing out by the newspaper racks in the late night. They scream and cackle and they talk to themselves. Lots of bottles get broken in this neighborhood. It’s like New York City. Jamie feels right at home. That’s Jamie Gillis; he’s in the next room. Jerry Butler lives across the hall. We are makin
g an X-rated movie (Bad Girls IV). We are working for Svetlana, the wicked witch of the West, Los Angeles by way of Hungary.

  They serve us new, young female porn stars for lunch. And we have to memorize lines and work in this second grade production that passes only for adult fare because there is naked sex in it. The movie is being illegally shot on the city streets of LA. There are no permits. They didn’t offer them back then in LA. We have an Israeli production manager who watches out for the police. He is the kind of guy who can make Orthodox Jews cheer for the Arabs.

  Jamie Gillis got me through that job. Svetlana was a sadist who practiced improvisational sadism on her actors. We just didn’t get along. She fired me three times. I quit twice. She got under my skin. She appeared to enjoy it. Some guys pay extra for that, but I never responded well to abuse. Wasn’t my thing. It was all Svetlana’s turf, though, she was the director.

  The witch was paying very well. I wanted to be able to finish that movie. Svetlana just didn’t get to him the way she got to me. They had a history. He was a big star and she owed him for past kindnesses. I had no such diplomatic immunity.

  She put the itch in bitch and ran me ragged. Never would have made it without Jamie. He got between us and defused things before they boiled over. At night, back at the crazy motel, he’d get me to chill out and we’d laugh at her chaos. Made it through three weeks on that job. Got my big fat paycheck. Earned every fucking penny. Never would have made it without Jamie.