Private Parts (41 page)

"Underwear, but not a bikini," she said.

"Are you wearing thong underwear right now?"

"No."

"God, am I turned on," I moaned. "What I would do to you sexually ..."

"What would you do?" she asked me.

"In three seconds it would be over. But we would do it ten times in one day," I said. "You're practically a virgin, aren't you? Fresh as a daisy. Now, why are you in love with me? Physically you can't be," I said.

"Physically I am," she said. "I love you because you're witty. I'm physically attracted to you. You're smart."

"Ram your tongue down my throat," I pleaded. "What a tease you are, telling me you love me."

"Why should we be tormenting ourselves?" Stacy wondered.

"You give me a definite boner. You're cute, you're fresh. You're not a bimbo. I'm masturbating as we speak. Can I give you a massage?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"Oh, great! I'll kick the guys out of the room. You mean it?"

"Yeah," she said.

"Fred, let's leave while he doesn't have sex," Jackie said.

"I'm a little nervous. I'd rather massage you," Stacy said. "What are you doing?"

I pulled off my pants, put on a towel, and we dimmed the lights in the studio.

"Are you naked under that towel?" Stacy asked.

"What do you want?" I said.

"Naked! Naked!" Stacy laughed.

She began to rub me down.

"I love you so much," Stacy said.

She was very clinical in her approach. Tula did more for me. "What kind of a rubdown is this from a woman who loves me?" I asked. "You're rubbing me down like my wife rubs me down."

"I love your hair," she said.

Just then, my paradise was punctured by the appearance of Stuttering John. Which could mean only one thing. Alison was on the phone.

"My wife ruins everything," I moaned.

"I'm nervous," Stacy said. "It sounds obnoxious," Alison said. "You're leading her on!" Stacy stopped rubbing. "What happened to the rubdown? There's something so dirty when a woman rubs you down with your wife yelling at you," I said.

"I'm really getting offended," Alison said. "I'm not happy listening to any of this."

"You're not happy because I'm a desirable man. Well, how about giving me sex every once in a while and maybe I won't be so damn horny. You know why my wife's mad at me? Last week I made love to her and it lasted thirty seconds because I didn't give her any foreplay with her stupid vibrator," I said. "None of that is true," Alison said.

"I bet you give me good sex tonight. You want me to bring Stacy home for a threesome?" "No, I don't. And I bet you don't either." Alison was fuming. "Give me a kiss, Alison," I said. "You're embarrassing me," Alison said. "You're shaking, Stacy. You're so filled with lust," I said. "You sound like a dirty old man," Alison said. "The same position every time." I yawned. "I'm hanging up," Alison threatened. "This sounds like cheating to me."

"I don't want Alison to be mad at me," Stacy worried. "She's not mad at you, she's mad at me," I said. "Robin, I'm counting on you," Alison said. "I love you," I said sweetly. "I love you, too," Alison said and hung up. "Where were we?" I plunged right back in. "Now that I've talked to Alison," Stacy sighed, "the party's over." "That bitch wife of mine can't handle that I have a little fun," I said. Stacy complained that her stomach was cramping up.

"I guess I have to say good-bye to you. Come over here. Sit on my lap," I said. "I'm so depressed," she said, as she sat on my lap. "Your breath smells great. I'm getting aroused," I said. "It's weird," Stacy said.

"Love is difficult that way," I philosophized. "You'll have to get another man and fantasize it's me."

She kissed me good-bye.

"I don't want her to be happy," I said. I wanted her to suffer and miss me. She got all upset again. I searched for some words that might make this separation a little easier.

"Before you go, will you flash me?" I finally asked.

"I can't," Stacy said. "I have a padded bra on." Then she walked out of the studio and out of my life.

But that's what usually happens. I'm doing my job, entertaining people, and my wife gets a call from one of her yenta friends whose husbands are cheating on
them,
and they get Alison all pumped up and she calls in angry. Then I go home and we fight. Who needs her to call in the first place? If I worked in the leather business like my sister's husband, do you think Alison and my mother would be so quick to call during the day to see what I was doing? I'm lucky Alison doesn't drive into the station and try to watch through the glass walls of the studio. But she doesn't have to. She's got Robin there.
"Robin, I'm counting on you!"

Well, one April Fool's Day, we got Robin back for all the times she's been Alison's police force. Let Robin tell the story.

First, let me explain what it's like being the only woman on the show. Sometimes I feel like an anthropologist studying male behavior when I'm sitting in my studio overlooking Howard and the guys. It's as if they're in a men's locker room and I'm getting a dose of how men really talk to each other when they aren't afraid that women might hear them. That's why I don't object to what's happening, because they're pretending that this is a boys' room. They're not doing this to offend women, they're just being guys.

If you look at Howard's life, I serve the same purpose as the other women in his life. He's more human because of us. If we weren't there, Howard would just be this huge id, out of control, saying whatever, burping, farting. If it weren't for women, he'd never control any of his bodily functions, he'd never have a nice thought.

This April Fool's thing started when a girl called up and said she was in love with Howard and he said she should come up to the studio so he could see her. Nothing out of the ordinary. She came up and she was sitting there, just looking at him, telling him how much she loved the way he sounded over the air and how much she was in love with him and how she would do anything for him. I was sitting there thinking, 'Yeah, right, ha ha ha.' I couldn't care less.

All of a sudden, Howard said, "You really do love me and you'd do anything for me? Make love to me right now -- right here on the air. Man, I've been waiting for this all my life." He was telling her that it was cheating on his wife only if fie did something, not if somebody did something to him. This woman had convinced me that she was really crazy in love with Howard. So he said, "Come over here." She got up and went around the console. "What are we gonna do?" he said.

"Let's just get down here," she said and, all of a sudden, they disappeared under the console. I couldn't see anything anymore. And Howard was saying, "All right, Robin. I'm down here and she's taking off all my clothes." And I started to see clothes flying out over the console. I saw a shirt. I saw a blouse. I saw a bra. I saw a skirt. I saw panties. Then I saw Howard's pants! Then I saw his underwear! I was thinking, 'This is ridiculous,' and they started making sex noises and carrying on and I was saying, "NO! This woman's crazy, she's out of her mind!" I jumped up and I ran into the studio and ran around the console. I had to stop him from destroying his marriage! I thought he'd lost his mind, that he hadn't thought this through. There they were, lying on the ground with all their clothes on, with a bag full of clothes they were throwing out.

"APRIL FOOLS!" they screamed.

But with our famous Super Bowl parties, we elevated this concept of fantasy sex into a true art form. It didn't start out that way, though. Our first Super Bowl party was when we were still back at WNBC and it was just a gathering of the men who worked on the show. One of our sponsors, Big Al from Great Sounds, lent us a fifty-

inch projection TV and we rented a room in a motel in Westbury and watched the game. No girls, no nothing. All we did was watch the game and smear Cheez Whiz all over the huge TV's corrugated screen. There'd be a close-up of a quarterback and we'd take the Cheez Whiz and draw a dick going into his ass, mature stuff like that.

The next year, we planned a more elaborate party. We had it at my friend Neil's house. And we realized that Super Bowl Sunday was probably the only day in the year that married guys could get massages from strange women and get away with it. So Ronnie, my limo driver, rounded up a couple of hookers who were absolutely disgusting. I don't even know if we can call them hookers because nobody would go near these skeeves, except for Jackie "the Joke Man," who wound up in the basement with them. He claimed that they only gave him a toe massage but we never believed him.

By the third year, things started picking up. We had the party at Neil's house again. We had more guys and more hookers.

Then Neil's house was too small so we moved to the Garden City Hotel, and I was in charge of booking the entertainment. I packed the place with
Penthouse
pets and lesbians. It was Disneyland for men.

The highlight of the whole party was when a guy named Joe mooned everybody. He had written "GIANTS SUCK" in Magic Marker on his ass.

As Joe pulled down his pants, Jackie, who was sitting on the floor eating a giant plate of ribs, nonchalantly reached over and shoved his finger right up this guy's ass. It was the single most disgusting thing I ever saw Jackie do.

The infamous finger in the
moon incident (top). Moments later, eating ribs.

Joe grunted and turned green. Jackie pulled his finger out of Joe's ass and went right back to eating his ribs.

"Wash your fucking hands!

My fantasy sex life gets more twisted . . . bikini-clad women eating hot dogs on a string (top left), the How Quick Can You Put a Condom on a Banana Contest (bottom), and orchestrating one of the sickest moments ever . .. the Howard Stern Prom Show. I crowned this couple Prom King and Queen when she shoved her five-inch heel up his ass.

You're eating finger food, you cow!" we all yelled.

Poor Joe was so freaked that he ran out of the party. Jackie had raped him with his finger!!

This was the funniest thing I ever saw. But Jackie was unfazed -- compared to the other disgusting things he had done, this was nothing. After all, Jackie had once urinated inadvertently in his mother's face and had taken a shit out of a moving vehicle in traffic.

Each year our party got more and more elaborate. We got more booze, more food, more girls. Better girls, too. One year
Penthouse
pet Amy Lynn came and was doing her hot oil strip routine for the guys, but I missed it because I was in another room getting a rubdown from two girls who were doing all sorts of great stuff to each other.

But by this time, I realized that my modest idea had grown out of control. It was too depressing to be at one of these parties. There were beautiful, willing women in any of the rooms and I wasn't allowed to have sex with them. My conscience wouldn't allow it. Who needed this aggravation? I put an end to the Super Bowl parties. It's just too hard to lead two separate lives. You can't be a family man and parade around with naked women tempting you every second.

Massaging and male bonding on TV (top).

Never before seen: the back of my office door, compliments of my listeners and viewers who send me pictures of themselves nude.

Finding more stupid ways to get close to women: Spokesmodel of the Year (top photo), a new game show called Guess Who Has the

Breast Implants? (bottom right), and an audience member turned

spokesmodel endorses Snapple.

You can never get enough of butt bongo.

By the way, I learned all of this family value stuff by reading that sensitive and inspiring work
I
Can't Believe I Said That!
by Kathie Lee Gifford, my idol. Actually, my mother set me straight when I first got married. She told me if I ever started running around with other women, she would take Alison and the kids into her home and would never speak to me again.

Penthouse
pet Amy Lynn (left) and dancer Tempest assist me for the
cover shoot. We posed for over three hours knowing full well these

shots were too outrageous for the cover. But who cared?

Like most of the other pussy-whipped men in America, I now spend Super Bowl Sundays home with my family.

But my quest for the ultimate surrogate sexual experience continues. We recently went from spanking to butt bongoing, which is really just frenetic spanking in time to a rock record playing in the background. I even showcased butt bongoing on my last videotape,
Butt Bongo Fiesta.
But we're beginning to get jaded. The thrill is rapidly vanishing. There are fewer and fewer fantasy sex worlds to conquer. I knew we were treading on the outskirts of total dissolution when, as a practical joke, I decided to secretly tape-record the first creative meeting for
Butt Bongo Fiesta.

I called Dan Forman and John Lollos, the former executive producers of my TV show, to the meeting. I was going to tell Forman and Lollos, two pretty straight, family-type guys, that our next tape should be just ninety minutes of enemas and douching. I was sure

the idea would make both of them want to vomit and they'd take a righteous stand and refuse to work on it. Meanwhile, I would really nag them and try to convince them and we'd have a great practical joke to play on my radio show.

"We'll call it 'The Howard Stern Enema and Douche Party.' " I pitched the project straight-faced to Dan and John. "Just ninety minutes of douching and enemas. What do you think?"

"I hate to say it but I
like
it," Dan gushed. "But I wish I wasn't saying that."

Then I turned to John and asked him what he thought. He was against it and had a lot of reservations. He said, "I don't see where we are going with this."

I realized how far gone we were. Everyone was now taking me seriously. Everyone believed I was now willing to produce a douche and enema tape, whether they were for or against it. No more morality, no code of ethics. It didn't matter what it was, we'd do it. I told the guys to turn off the hidden tape recorder. We had definitely gone beyond the pale. We weren't philosophers, we were perverts.