August 26, 2012
Nice Beat, but You Can’t Whack To It: A Visit to the Early Ron Jeremy Oeuvre Part II: The Hedgehog Strikes Back!
Ali Moore and the headless cadaver known as Paul Thomas
|Note: I got carried away with my description of the first scene in the 1985 Ron Jeremy vehicle Naughty Cheerleaders last time, as you can see here. Without further ado, then, here is my promised summary of the remaining
eight scenes of this Reagan Era classic.
When we left off, ice cream parlor manager Ron Jeremy's penis had just
spewed all over one of his waitresses (Renee Lovins) like a fraternity
pledge after a beer pong tournament, after which he interviewed "Shelley,"
played by headliner Ali Moore. Here’s Ron perusing her application form:
“Let’s see… National Honor Society, student government, modern dance, cheerleader—I mean the ‘head’ cheerleader (wink, leer)…and you’re, um, eighteen years old. Oh! Eighteen today! Happy birthday!”
To no one's surprise, Ron hires Ali and induces her to change into a waitress
uniform in front of him, but not even the Hedgehog can recharge for a fresh
go-round that fast. Ali is introduced to some customers, among them Paul
Thomas, portraying a musician whose band is on the brink of signing with
a major label. He invites her to a “party” at his “home.”
Going by the establishing shot, Paul Thomas resides in the same motel where Martin Luther King, Jr., was assassinated. The reader may be shocked to learn that the party guest-list consists solely of Paul and Ali, who turns up wearing her cheerleader uniform, though not for long. Ali is quick to accept this unorthodox definition of “party,” as well as a drink.
Paul gets Ali drunk in about twenty-five seconds. He excuses himself for a moment, and when he returns, finds Ali dancing to his band’s wretched Muzak album wearing nothing but panties and (it being the Eighties and all) a headband. Ali’s body brings back fond memories of the strippers we used to see at Mettler’s in my Mankato days, aka the Seventies, on those rare occasions that Mettler's could get someone under thirty-five. She’s ripe, tawny, perky-bouncy, extremely Caucasian, and about as adept at sexy dancing as I am.
There ensues about two minutes of competent sucking followed by several
minutes of intercourse in three positions, one of which seems geometrically
impossible, after which Paul pulls out and ejaculates on Ali’s right buttock.
Paul then gives Ali a pendant, to which she responds, “Joe! Thank you! You’ve given me so much!” despite the fact that, up to this point, Paul has given her two drinks, a butt-cheek coating of semen, and probably three or four incurable diseases.
As this is the first full-blown (wink, leer) scene featuring by far the most alluring actress in the production, this is the place where the home viewer is most likely to get in on the ejaculating fun himself. And yet, not so—not in this viewer’s home, at least.
Oh, there were stirrings, to be sure, but no afternoon delight. Not sure why, really. Maybe just that creeping necrosis of mine. But Paul Thomas doesn’t help matters much. Though more toned
than Ron Jeremy, he is every bit as shaggy. His nutsack looks like a fur-lined coin purse you could buy on Etsy.
And I’d simply forgotten how inherently unhealthy he always looked. It’s not so much that he appears to be suffering from degenerative venereal diseases as that he appears to have already died from them and been reanimated. Come to think of it, he bears an uncanny resemblance to the decapitated evil professor in Re-Animator, which came out the very same year. Check it out.
It’s more than just Paul’s fault, though. There’s something about the very
vintage-ness of the project in and of itself that is both quaint and off-putting
at the same time. It’s the constant static. It’s the washed-out coloring.
It’s the sloppy, epilepsy-inducing editing. All these things conspire to
dilute what might otherwise be the thoroughly wholesome masturbatory experience
that Ali deserves from us perverts.
Anyway, let’s move on.
A bar is the site of another of these underpopulated parties to which Ali
has a knack for getting herself invited. This is where Paul’s band will
celebrate the release of its first album. For reasons that are never made
clear, the bar closes, and Paul and the proprietor go home, leaving fellow
bandsman Mike Horner alone with Ali and her cheerleading friend Nicole
Mike threatens to make the girls listen to his band’s album. Ali enlists Cecile’s help in forestalling this by pulling down Mike’s pants and taking turns fellating him. Believe me, if that's what it took to get out of hearing this music, you'd fellate Mike Horner, too.
“Okay, I see where this is going,” says the inured-to-internet-porn viewer.
“They’re going to take off their clothes and then take turns writhing on top of him. After seven
minutes or so of that, they’ll all instinctively align themselves into
position for the Money Shot” but no. No, that’s not how they rolled in
the Eighties. Instead, Mike Horner does exactly what you or I would do
after two charming legal teenagers have take a couple of turns each at
toking away on our wiener like a pair of nursing newborn calves.*
That’s how they rolled in the Eighties: Male performers might haul off
and ejaculate in, on, under, or just any old place in the area code of
a costar—and well before making all the usual rounds of her orifices. You
know how most baseball players have to get a signal from the manager before
they can try to steal a base, while a few stars have a "green light"
to go whenever they want to? I guess it was sort of like that in the Eighties.
Before leaving this scene, I must note some surprise at seeing Mike Horner sans mustache here. When people speak of an “Eighties porn mustache,” it is always Mike’s porn mustache that I envision.
That said, there is no doubt that it’s Mike in this scene, given his signature nonstop special-ed giggling while being serviced:
Huh-huh-huh… Huh-huh-huh… Ahhhhhhh… Huh-huh-huh-huh-huh-huh… Haaahnnn!! Ahhhhh!Hoooo!! HOOOOOO!!!......... Ohhhhh-ho-ho-ho-ho-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-haaaaaa…
Yes, always a happy ending with good old Mike.
Meanwhile, back at the ice cream parlor, waitress Catherine (Ashley Welles)
has been forced to stay after hours to clean up a tray of condiments that
she spilled. When Don Fernando (!) and Jon Martin drop by to pick her up,
she signals a possible desire to mate by standing on the other side of
the glass door, topless, licking it.
Ashley proceeds to perform oral sex on Jon, Don, and, inexplicably, a banana.
Having paid for the location, the director is determined to milk the ice
cream parlor setting for all its worth by having the performers perch precariously
atop various dispensers and machines and counters, and liberally pour food-stuffs
on one another. At one point Don Fernando weirdly foreshadows the Mel Gibson epithet “Sugar Tits.”
In keeping with the “anybody can ejaculate anytime and anywhere” rule,
Don Fernando orgasms in the midst of a gooey countertop blowjob midway
through the scene. A few minutes later, Jon withdraws from Ashley's other
end and reminds us why he is remembered as one of the great distance-sprayers
of his generation. I tell you, if the ejaculating for distance could be
installed as an Olympic event, it'd be another guaranteed gold for my native
land. U-S-A! U-S-A!
For all that, there is something sterile and tiresome about the whole enterprise.
Or maybe it’s just that both of the boys look younger than any of the actresses
purporting to be cheerleaders in this opus. Ashley towers over these runts.
The scene has one of those female-high-school-teachers-in-heat vibes to
That said, I can't get over this whole Don't-hold-back protocol. Wouldn't
it be great if this applied to all walks of life? Say you're sitting in
a Starbucks and the mood just overtakes you, and you can ejaculate right
there on an apple bran muffin. Or, say you're the vice president, and you
feel your sap rising in the midst of the State of the Union Address. I
mean, we're talking Biden here. Don't put it past him.
Actually, two scenes unfold simultaneously at this point: a femdom threesome set at the MLK motel, but sans Paul, and a Ron-Ashley pairing at the ice cream parlor. I’d forgotten how fond porn directors used to be of this gimmick of cutting away from one sex scene in progress to another sex scene in progress. For some reason, they seemed to think that this technique would double the erotic yield, when in fact it had the opposite effect, making it impossible for the viewer to project himself into either scene. It would probably be less distracting to intercut a sex scene with scenes of your grandmother watering her lawn than with an entirely different sex scene. But I’d rather not find out.
Anyway, we shall treat the scenes separately here.
At the motel, someone named Billy Dee, playing a sleazy music promoter, auditions Ali and a “neighbor” played by someone credited as “Gypsy” for modeling roles in the promotion of the band’s debut album.
If I told you that Billy Dee sports a gi-normous Afro, you would assume
from that fact and his name that he is an African-American with a huge,
erect cock, but you would be a racist asshole for assuming that, because
in fact, he is a white man with a gi-normous reddish Afro and a tiny, almost lifeless penis. If I had ever seen him in a porn
scene before, I would surely remember it, and yet I possess no such memory.
I smell a financial backer’s brother-in-law here.
As for Gypsy, she stays just long enough to reveal a hideous crescent-moon
tattoo on her boob and fellate Billy’s droopy little sparrow for three
minutes before excusing herself. That’s right, she just up and walks out
of the scene halfway through! Not that she is to be missed or anything
but… Eighties porn, I’m telling you. You just don’t know what’s going to happen next.
With Gypsy out of the way, Billy finally attains the minimal rigidity needed
to penetrate Ali for about forty seconds before withdrawing and sputtering
a few sad little droplets of jism on her. He does this with a great deal
of higher-primate-like grunting. If you only listened to the scene, you’d
think he was trying to extinguish a small brushfire with his load.
Meanwhile, back at the ice cream parlor, Ron has arrived the next morning to find the detritus of the Sugar Tits party all over his countertops and Ashley smoking marijuana in the back room.
In high dudgeon, he launches into a tirade that recalls the late Sir John
Gielgud’s Lear, and continues in it undaunted as Ashley, seized by munchies,
liberates his coiled snake from his trousers and starts feeding on it hungrily.
After an ill-timed cut-away to the aforementioned threesome scene and Billy
Dee’s flaccid performance, Ron shows us how the pros ejaculate, withdrawing
his monstrous, elbow-having appendage from Ashley’s innards and producing
a magnificent geyser of goo. You’ve just got to love Ron Jeremy. I tell
you, you've just got to.
Immediately after the previous scene, Ali arrives for work, late, and quarrels
with Ron, who cackles evilly as he fires Ali and Ashley. The girls resolve
to do what any pair of girls suddenly thrown out of work would do: have
lesbian sex. For no apparent reason, they go to Paul’s apartment, which
is Paul-less at the time and yet wide open, to do this.
I’m skipping over this one because lesbian scenes—even contemporary ones—have
never really worked for me. Can’t really explain it. Anyway, if you must
know, Ashley licks Ali for a while, then they sixty-nine with Ali on top,
followed by the obligatory kissing and cuddling and cooing. Hope that helps
someone out there.
The slider on my online video player tells me that only seven minutes remain
in the movie’s run-time, while the summary informs me that there are still
two more sex scenes to go. What we need here is old Quick-Draw McGraw himself,
Billie Dee. Or me. Paired with Ali, I’m confident that I could ejaculate
in sixty seconds, disrobing time included.
But it’s not Billie Dee, it’s Paul again. Entering his dressing room at
the back of the bar before a performance, he catches Cecile trying to steal
the only existing demo of his band’s album, presumably so that no one will
ever have to listen to that abomination again.
“I would do anything for this album,” she tells Paul, and, in case that
wasn’t quite clear enough, adds, “I would suck your cock for this album.”
Meanwhile, Ali arrives in the bar, where four other bandsmen drink somberly, their record deal having falling through. Foregoing this golden opportunity for a group sex scene, Ali storms back to the dressing room and flies into a jealous rage upon finding Cecile fellating her “boyfriend.”
There would seem to be a continuity error here in that, since their initial
sexual encounter, Ali has had sex with one flaccid man (Billy), one semi-retarded
but fully erect man (Mike) and one woman, with most of these encounters
occurring in Paul’s own apartment, while Paul, for all we know, has spent
his evenings knitting socks and memorizing Bible verses.
Anyway, Paul withdraws unsatisfied and both girls leave; end of scene. The Eighties, man, I tell you…
In what passes for a moral to this story, Ali slinks back to the ice cream
parlor determined to blow Ron so that he’ll re-hire her, and that is exactly
what transpires. “What happened to your groovy boyfriend, eh?” he inquires
snidely, before sliding that remarkable cylindrical wind-chime of his down
Ali’s eager larynx. “Ohh-ahh-ohh-ahh-ohh-ahh,” he muses later on, but fails to ejaculate before the closing credits start to roll.
So here is your final scorecard for Naughty Cheerleaders. In eighty-two minutes of run time, there are a paltry seven ejaculations,
three of which occur with surprising suddenness, and NONE of which occurs
in the entire final quarter of the movie.
A total of five actresses inspire these ejaculations, one of whom (Cecile) never removes her clothing, and two of whom (Renee, Gypsy) probably should not.
That said, this was an amusing little excursion down memory lane. And watching
Ron Jeremy work always carries with it a sort of anthropological charm.
It boggles the mind to realize that the opportunity to view this sort of
production--what with the having to walk into a store, carry the box to
the clerk, get out without being ID-ed, and so forth--once left me weak
in the knees. Though this was my first go-round with "Naughty Cheerleaders,"
I remember renting another Ron Jeremy vehicle from this era, For Your Thighs Only, featuring the magnificent Angel as “Agent Vacuum,” and deriving endless
hours of frictive delight from it.
But times and tastes do change, and for all its sweetness and (relatively
speaking) innocence, Eighties porn just doesn’t do it for me anymore. Even
so, I remain proud to be a citizen of the country where a vision like Naughty Cheerleaders could be realized.
God bless Ali Moore. God bless Ron Jeremy. And God bless the United States
of America. Thank you very much, and good night.
|* In case that was insufficiently clear: He ejaculates. Fairly early in the process, to boot. Not as early as I would have done, but still.