Born: August 8, 1944
Died: March 13, 1988
He went by many names: John Duval, John Estes, Big John Fallus, Big John Holmes, John C. Holmes, John Curtis Holmes, Johnny Holmes, Bigg John, Big John, John Rey, Johnny Wadd, John Sacre, Bernard Emil Weik II and Long John Wadd.
Didn’t matter, because the only cocksure thing about John Curtis Estes was the size of his wiener: 12 inches.
Or at least that’s what he claimed, since no one actually every measured the prodigious flaming love sword. Johnny’s first wife, Sharon Gebenini, says that her hung hubby was 10 inches “when he first measured himself.”
Holmes later stated his dong was 15 inches long, while his manager, Bill Amerson, recalls that he “saw John measure himself several times, it was 13 and a half inches.” Porn legend Seka recalls: “John had the biggest penis. I never saw a bigger one than that. I mean, it was huge! I don’t know if ever want to see a dick that big again.” (Yes the movie Boogie Nights was about him. Sort of.)
All this dickering around for a few inches of man meat!
Let’s rewind a bit.
Johnny was born in Ashville, Ohio, to the son of an alcoholic father who abandoned his family when Johnny was an infant. His step-fathers were no better: No. 1 would puke on the kids (guess it cut down on food costs); No. 2 would beat Johnny.
Johnny’s mother was a devout Southern Baptist, and would lug her children with her whenever she needed to repent and fall on her knees.
Later in life the blond, blue-eyed Johnny would fall on his knees, performing cunninglus and crazy sex acts. He came and went in at least 2,500 porno films and loops of the ’70s and ’80s—straight films and at least one gay one, though this is a flaccid fact that’s probably higher.
But all that fun caught him in the rear, err, end and Holmes died from complications from AIDS.
So we come to ask: How did the former door-to-door salesman, Coffee-Nips factory employee, forklift operator and ambulance driver become “The Sultan of Smut?”
It’s straight out of a Hollywood script: One night, while Holmes was urinating in the bathroom of a men’s card-playing club in Gardena, California, a photographer standing next to him, gasped at what he saw. (Why he was looking is a whole other query.)
The photographer suggested Johnny do porn. “Big wiener, big money,” he cooed.
And so Johnny posed for “dirty” mags and made 8mm loops . . All the time keeping his secret life as a porn star a secret from his wife at the time.
But just for a time.
As his career grew in size, so did his drug problem.
And so he turned to drugs.(No, not Viagra.)
Holmes began selling drugs for the Wonderland Gang (name after the street on which the row house hideout sat). After stealing money during some drug runs, Holmes was in deep doo-doo with the gang; in June 1981, in exchange for his life, he led gang leaders to a house that oodles of money, jewelry and drugs. Four people were killed in that June 29 massacre, now known as “The Wonderland Murders.”
Holmes was sent to prison in connection with the murders (bet he loved to pick up the soap!), but was released because of lack of evidence. He spent six months on the run with gal pal Dawn Schiller, was arrested in Florida and returned to Los Angeles and was charged with committing the four murders. Eventually, Holmes was acquitted of all charges except contempt of court.
Once his life in crime petered out, he went back for sloppy seconds.
But the porn industry had turned; Holmes had bigger, stiffer completion (rumor was that despite his size, Holmes could never get fully erect).
Holmes was diagnosed as HIV-positive in 1986. Holmes lied to the pres and public, claiming he suffering from colon cancer. He began wasting away; he was bed-ridden the last four months of his life.
A life finally gone soft.
According to his death certificate, Holmes died from cardiorespiratory arrest and encephalitis due to AIDS, associated with lymphadenopathy and esophageal candidiasis. He and his penis were 43.
He was cremated, and his ashes were scattered off the coast of Oxnard, California.
A life gone soft. At last.
Morbid Curiosity, By Alan W. Petrucelli