John Holmes - Porn King

Before John died, he felt that because he had led such an extraordinary and unusual life, in which he was truly a landmark in American society and filmmaking, it was his responsibility to candidly share his life experiences once and for all. Throughout his career there had been many tall tales told of John Holmes. Some of them John even created himself in the interest of keeping his private life a mystery. However, John knew that someday he wouldn’t be around anymore and that this was his last chance. In his attempt to do this, he left behind many cassette tapes and writings, hoping that someday his fans would know exactly who he was and how he came to be something that some years back had no place or title of being. However, forty years since his first film and having starred in over 2,000 additional films and many compilations since, John Holmes is undoubtedly the King of Porn.

Following the horrific experience of my husband’s passing and the events that took place directly after, I became very disenchanted with people and society as a whole. I withdrew inside myself, figuring that people were only going to believe what they wanted to believe anyway, so it didn’t matter. The industry in which John had fought so hard and eventually died for had turned their backs on him before and after his passing. The other society in which we never quite fit in, I was struggling with more than ever. I was too stubborn to subdue to its ways.

In my heart I knew that it was my husband’s wish to have his book, Porn King, published. However, it wasn’t his family’s wish that the book be printed, so between the aching emptiness in my soul and the overwhelming feeling to not hurt those who loved John dearly, I decided that immediately after his passing was not the time for me to proceed in publishing his extraordinary story.

After many years of struggling with what I felt in my heart was my destiny, and in spite of any hurt feelings it might have caused, I was committed to sharing John’s story, as he told it, with the world.

Never in my wildest imagination did I ever realize that in my fight to tell John’s story, my story would be destined to become an extension of his. This book has been updated to reflect the years since the book was first published in 1998.

It took less than five minutesto get from the men’s gym to the art building on the UCLA campus—unless I detoured through the women’s gym. Then it took a lot longer. The women’s gym was a good place to study, and a great place to get turned on. On the second floor, at the back of the building, was an outside walkway that stretched from one end to the other. No one ever came up there; it was always deserted. Yet the view was incredible, overlooking the huge swimming pool and grassy area bounded by high brick walls. Except for those rare days when the weather was bad, the pool and surrounding deck were almost always crowded with nubile coeds in clinging swim wear. Some took to the water like trained seals, playfully bounding in and out before emerging exhausted along the sidelines. There they stood, hands on hips, drawing attention to their rounded bottoms, flat stomachs, and high, heaving breasts. Others took to the grass, sitting cross-legged on towels while massaging their young bodies to glistening with globs of lotion, or stretching out in seductive positions to soak in the sun.

The entrance to the girls’ locker room offered an even better view, particularly when the double doors swung open wide. From the corridor, it was impossible to see past the wooden half-doors that had been installed at eye level just inside. Opposite the entrance, however, was a stairway leading to the second floor. By sitting midway up, on the six or seventh stair, it was easy to look over the half-doors. The panorama was ever changing and often spectacular. I’d often eat my lunch on the steps, or spend my study hours there casually flipping through books that seldom got read. I never considered myself a voyeur. I didn’t peek through windows or go on the prowl to catch glimpses of ladies in various stages of undress. I looked openly, enjoying the passing parade from near and afar. There weren’t many girls taking gym classes at UCLA in 1965 that escaped

1 my glances as they wandered into the showers. Few of them bothered to wrap themselves in towels.

Not a day passed that I didn’t think about sex. In fact, my overactive libido had gotten me in trouble before, and it would again. I was about to start a new job, one that demanded absolute composure and concentration. For a few hours, at least, I had to keep my mind relatively free of everything sexual. That meant going directly to the art building without dawdling in the women’s gym. I didn’t need the tension. What I did need was the job, and I couldn’t afford to screw it up.

The classroom door was closed and posted with a sign that read— DO NOT ENTER! But I went inside anyway. A pale, fleshy, middle-aged woman with Lucille Ball hair and Cleopatra eyes was lying stone naked next to a potted lily on a wicker settee at the far end of the room, stretched out with one ample leg propped over a paisley print cushion, the other hanging over the side. If she noticed me, she didn’t let on. Except for her surging breasts—two partially filled sandbags studded with backup lights—she remained deathly still. Not even the slightest eye movement or the fluttering of a heavily-mascaraed lash. The twenty or so students who faced her at their easels ignored my arrival as well, thank God. With their backs to the door they probably didn’t hear me. More likely, they were too engrossed in capturing the breathing still life on canvas. Only in the instructor, a tall, flashy dresser who had ‘GO’ written all over him, turned in my direction. He approached looking somewhat quizzical.

“I’m the model,” I said flatly.

“Of course,” he replied. “You’re Mr. Holmes.” He smiled faintly and checked his watch. I tried to return his smile but one wouldn’t come. “Looks like I’m early,” I answered instead, trying to sound nonchalant. The attempt backfired as my throat suddenly turned dry. Either that or an errant heartbeat had escaped from the pounding in my chest and had gotten in the way. Instead of sounding like a mature twenty-year old, which I definitely considered myself to be, I came across as a crackly-voiced, sputtering adolescent.

“Not at all,” said the instructor, reassuringly. “We’ll be breaking in a few minutes; you might as well get ready before Miss Nichols needs the ro om.”

“The room” was a dimly-lit storage area adjoining the classroom, little more than a windowless closet crammed with books, old files, and canvases, some rolled and piled on makeshift shelves, others stretched on frames and stacked against the walls. The air inside was heavy with the smell of turpentine, linseed oil, and paint; not a bad spot, actually, for anyone into breathing fumes. The stench was so strong in fact that lighting a match could have been dangerous. A dusty fluorescent fixture supporting three tubular lights dangled from the ceiling, held by fragile chains. The one light that still functioned sent out a flickering bluish glow accompanied by static buzz.

The storage area was a poor substitute for a changing room, but not worth complaining about. The building’s days were numbered, at least as far as the Art department was concerned. An impressive new structure, the nine-story Dickson Art Center, was rising on the north side of the campus. Within a few months, beginning with the fall 1965 semester, classes would be held there.