In June of 1986 I came back from France to write porno scripts with an old girlfriend strung out on H. North Hollywood, the ground zero of the XXX film industry. Obviously I was not thinking straight, but I had confused lust with love, especially since Sharon was a porno actress skilled at faking orgasms.
One rainy night Sharon drove her big gas-guzzler over to rescue Harry Reems for an OD. She called 911. the dispatcher said EMS had been to that address too many times.
"It's a waste of time," said the dispatcher.
A junkie herself Sharon knew better and on a very rainy night we drove over the Hollywood Hills to a Laurel Canyon cottage. The nocturnal gloom was thick with the scent of eucalyptus trees. The door was open. I recognized Harry, having seen DEEP THROAT once in a Times Square theater. We were in time to revive Linda Lovelace’s co-star from death. He groaned, “Stop slapping me.”
I sat by the bed, as she rummaged through the desk, closet, and under the mattress without finding a stash. Sharon left to score and never came back.
The rain worsened to a deluge. I was going nowhere and settled into a lounge chair with a blanket over me. It was cold and damp. I was going nowhere.
The next day Harry woke around noon and asked, "Who the fuck are you?"
I explained, And then threw me out. My parting shot.
"You have a small dick."
I walked outside.
It was a sunny California day, but weren't they all.
