John Holmes - Porn King

“I never regretted bringing John into this world,” Mother confesses, “even though the circumstances in which John was born were difficult. That’s why I could never blame him for the way he lived his life. I can never do that.”

Hearing Mother say those words has brought me a kind of peace that I haven’t felt in many years. How wonderful to know that she has found a way to accept the man that I came to be. Before, she had struggled over this. Even now, I don’t think she really approves and I am sure she had wanted my life to be different, but having her acceptance now is all I need.

How lucky am I? I am finally at peace with myself and I am in the company of the two women that I love more than anything or anyone in the world. They have both been a very special part of my life and an important part of my final days, as well. They are two very special ladies, indeed.

On the evening of Sunday,March 12, 1988, John Holmes died at the age of 43 from complications of AIDS. He had suffered from encephalitis (swelling of the brain). During his final months, John had many seizures which brought on hallucinations, and often he would black-out. He had never completely healed from his hemorrhoid surgery, which was probably more painful than anything we could imagine. During his last days he slipped into a coma. On Friday evening, after I got off work I came to the hospital to visit John as I always did. When I arrived, I saw John’s brother David and their Mother sitting at John’s bedside. I was wearing a brand new dress that I had bought—a black one. John woke up from his coma for a brief moment when he heard my voice.

“I like that dress,” John said, sitting halfway up in bed. “You look beautiful.” He complimented me, as he tried to swallow a big lump in his throat. John was awake for several minutes and he was attentive to our appearance, however, I had to leave to attend to my son, Ian.

“I love you, Daddy,” I said with tears in my eyes, standing in the doorway of the room painted so blue.

“And I love you, Baby!” John suddenly lay down and never woke again. This would be the last time I would ever hear his voice.

The next day I returned to the hospital while Mother watched Ian. I sat by his bedside for most of the morning. I had brought a tape player and played the song Everything I Own, by Bread. I believe that even though he was deep within a coma, he heard everything. I told him that I was going to proceed in dropping the law-suit against Bill and do as he wished. I was going to get as far away from California as I could. I know that pleased John. It was just heart wrenching seeing John this way. At least in a coma, I knew he wasn’t suffering as he had for so many months. I found a sitter for Ian on Sunday and Mother and I were by his side all day. At about eight o’clock that night, we left the hospital in hopes of getting some much-needed sleep. We couldn’t have been asleep for more than an hour when the phone rang. John had died around ten o’clock that night. We immediately got dressed and rushed to the hospital. There, John lay dead within the walls of his blue hospital room. His blue eyes were opened wide as if he had looked up to God and said, “I’m ready Lord, take me.” I have never seen a more peaceful look in someone’s eyes before. I will never forget it as long as I live, either. Mother and I each took turns saying our good-byes. All night we waited for the coroner to come. The coroner didn’t show up until early morning at which time John was pronounced dead. The death certificate, therefore, read that John had died on March, 13, 1988.

As they wheeled John down the long corridor in a body bag, Mother and I fell to our knees and cried. There was nothing left of John Curtis Holmes. At maybe 60 pounds, there didn’t appear to be a body in that body bag, let alone our John.

I tried to compose myself as best as I possibly could for Mother’s sake. I took Mother to David’s house and dropped her off as I felt the need to be alone for a while. It wasn’t until I was driving away that I think it really hit me. That deep sinking feeling that my “Daddy” was gone forever and I would never talk to him again. Wow! All this time I had thought I had prepared myself for this moment, only to find such grief and despair. I have never cried so hard in my life. This death stuff was new to me, how could I have possibly known before it happened of the feelings it would bring? After all, I was only twenty-four years old.

I had tried to carry out all of John’s last wishes. John was adamant as to his last wishes. First, he insisted that he be cremated. He wanted his ashes to be buried deep at sea, beyond the polluted waters of the California coast. He insisted that I view his body to ensure that he was all there before putting his body in the oven. He didn’t want his most strategic body part to end up in a jar, sitting on some demented coroner’s shelf or sold as some prize collector’s trophy. I did exactly as John had asked, just as I always had. I lifted the yellow hospital gown and confirmed that all was intact. Then I placed a picture of Jesus on his heart and watched as they put what was left of his body into the oven. I stood there for what must have been a good half-hour, knowing that his body was being cooked to ashes just feet away.

On March 15, 1988, Mother and I, along with David, stepped onto an over-night fishing boat in Oxnard, California. I slept with John’s ashes that night. Nobody else on the boat knew who we were and what we were about to do. John had been insistent about NOT having a funeral. Between the three of us we couldn’t think of anything John would want more than to fish in his memory. In the past, John and I had often taken this very same boat out to and past the Channel Islands.

At about four-thirty the next morning, Mother came and woke me. It was time to lay John to rest. David had drilled holes in the urn and placed tape over the holes the day before. We said our final words to John, peeled the tape away and we threw the urn into the deep blue sea on the other side of San Clemente Island. We stood there alone in silence, breathing in the cool ocean air. We fished that day in his memory as planned.

A couple of weeks after John had passed, I went on NBC News as well as The Larry King Show and spoke out against the industry. I was angry, as the news had previously reported that insiders in the industry had claimed that John was a needle-junkie, that he was gay, and that he had caught AIDS outside the industry. None of this was true. Between 1985 in which John had first tested negative for HIV and 1986, when John tested positive, John had only done a handful of heterosexual films and almost every one of the movies was for Penguin Productions. His party days were all but over; he worked in the day and was with me at night. John couldn’t stand the sight of a needle, he had always hated the needle. We had often tried to track down where John had actually contracted the disease but were unsuccessful. None of the girls that John had worked with were reported as having AIDS. On the news, it was reported by industry insiders that it was actually safer to have sex within the industry than it was on the outside because people in the industry only had sex with each other. I felt as if it were my responsibility to set the world straight and so I did. I’m quite sure that I pissed off a few people within the industry but frankly, I didn’t give a damn.

Bill Amerson held a memorial for John up at Forest Lawns Cemetery, knowing damn well John never wanted that. He invited everyone in the industry to come and pay their last respects, everyone but his widow. Later, I was mocked for not even showing up, not that I would have anyway, that wasn’t what John wanted.