Coming Out Like a Porn Star

by Jiz Lee

  When I began working in this industry, I chose not to use a pseudonym because these dangers don’t exist for me (at least not to the same degree). I wanted to use my “real” name out of respect for those who cannot, to show that I’m not ashamed of them or the work they do. I also don’t shy from telling friends and strangers alike about my job. In this way, I hope I’m doing some small part to fight the stigma that affects others so greatly.

  But shameless as I am, I cannot say I am “out.” I have not told my parents.

  It’s actually one of many things I don’t tell them—never hiding, just omitting. I never talked about when I realized my sexual attraction extended further along the gender spectrum than I once thought or when I began to identify as queer. They do not know my heterosexual-seeming marriage to my high-school sweetheart is actually a queer, partially open union of two pansexual people. They don’t know about the faint question mark developing on the end of my gender identity.

  If I am unashamed about these things—if I can write them here for the entire world to read—why haven’t I told my family?

  In some ways, I resent the idea of needing to coming out. I never came out as straight, monogamous, male, or any of the other things they assume I am, so why should I have to announce that I’m otherwise? I never sat them down to reveal all the mundane jobs I’ve worked, so why should I feel obligated to do so with porn? If these are lies of omission, it is only because of their problematic assumptions.

  I would also have to educate them on what I’m coming out as. Not gay, or even bi, but queer? Not trans, but perhaps gender fluid? Sex work? Ethical porn? The truth is, I don’t share a common terminology with them, and words shape thoughts. I would need to construct the scaffolding of language and ideas I only learned myself over many years.

  Ultimately, I’ve been trying to protect them. While I began working for porn producers and making discoveries about my sexuality, my parents’ lives became a chaos of chronic pain, poverty, depression, and substance abuse. I didn’t want to introduce new sources of anxiety for people who are struggling to cope with what they already labor under. It seemed selfish and for little gain.

  But only in retrospect can I see how these omissions add up. The things I hide from my parents are a huge part of who I am now. They are the source of so many of my wins and losses, my joys and anxieties, close friends, ideological battles. So much of what I’ve made my name mean is rooted in things I’ve kept from them.

  Today, instead of the strained and uncomfortable relationship I was trying to spare them, we barely have one at all. What I’ve withheld isn’t the only factor responsible, but it is a part. I may even be wrong, and they already know. Google would tell them everything. But even if so, it only means we’ve both contributed to the gulf of silence that, perversely, makes it even harder to come out now.

  Not long after I started working as web manager, a customer told me the following:

  This site means so, so much to me because it was the first place I saw other trans men who didn’t absolutely despise and hide their bodies.

  I keep that email saved on my desktop, and I share it with anyone who would argue porn is a categorical evil. Because of it, and the many messages like it that my coworkers and I have received, I will never feel shame for the work I do.

  But as valuable as it is to me, I’ve never told my parents about that email. Perhaps they would understand better than I realize, or perhaps they’d take things worse than I expect, but thus far I’ve never given them the chance.

  For that, I do feel shame.

  COMING OUT TO MY PARENTS ABOUT SEX WORK

  Christopher Zeischegg

  Christopher Zeischegg spent eight years working in the adult film industry as performer Danny Wylde. He’s been a contributor to The Feminist Porn Book, Best Sex Writing 2015, and a variety of online publications, such as Medium and Nerve. He recently published his second novel, The Wolves that Live in Skin and Space, through Rare Bird Books.

  I was twenty years old the first time I approached my family regarding my work. At the time, it was as much a career as any superfluous labor one attends to in college. It was hardly what I’d call an identity. But I kept it secret for a time because I was nervous.

  My mother was (and is) a fundamentalist Christian, and my father dabbled in various New Age philosophy/spirituality. I was influenced by both and knew that neither worldview thought highly of pornography, if it was considered much at all.

  But there I was, fresh out of the house and making my first real income by having sex in front of a camera. It was an interesting bit of self-exploration and a quick way to earn some cash. Still, I had no long-term plans and zero thoughts of explaining it to my family. Only when I’d started dating another porn performer and planned to run away to Los Angeles did I find an explanation necessary. That, and my part-time job had become a bit more—explicitly—available on the World Wide Web.

  I knew my family would eventually find out. I had to decide whether they’d hear it first from me.

  “I remember that you called me and you said that you wanted to talk to me about something important,” said my mother. “And you asked me to sit down. I thought, ‘Wow. This is going to be something important.’ Because you’ve never asked me to sit down.”

  Both my parents have agreed to an interview regarding my coming out process and how they currently feel about my participation in sex work. Given that I’ve just passed my seven-year anniversary in porn and I now consider it a career, it seems necessary to examine the ways my work has affected my family—with my family. Because I can offer only one perspective, and my journey with sex work in regards to my family has as much to do with them as it does with me.

  For the sake of brevity, I’ve narrowed down the relationships to those with my mother and father, although this discussion could certainly extend to my siblings, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and even cousins.

  I sat down with my mother first. The interview took place the day after Thanksgiving 2012.

  “You said that you wanted to make sure that I knew this was not a personal affront against me in any way,” she told me, recalling a phone conversation seven years prior. “Because you knew that it was not something within my value system. It was about your personal exploration of your own life. You wanted to make sure that if I had any questions or if there were any concerns, that you and I would discuss them personally. So that I wouldn’t be surprised by it through external circumstances, which you said would probably happen at some point.”

  I asked my mother to recall the coming-out conversation so that we could begin on the same page. My memory is as faulty as any and I wanted to at least know that my mother and I remembered the same events. For the most part, we did.

  I was nervous about telling my mother that I was involved in pornography, because I knew her point of view. She’d raised me with the idea that sexuality was something sacred to be shared between a man and a woman, and that the most fulfilling way to do so was within the boundaries of marriage.

  We’d had debates in the past that proved our difference of opinion. By early high school, I’d come to believe that homosexuality was inherent to the natural variations in human sexuality. I also viewed marriage as a highly ineffective institution, based primarily on my parents’ divorce and the single mothers and fathers who raised many of my close friends.

  As far as sex was concerned, I wanted it just about as soon as I understood what it was. And I dreamed of it with as many partners as possible. Like many young boys, I was also scared shitless when it came down to the act. A few opportunities did arise in my youth, and I experienced my early joys and follies. But I didn’t foresee myself with only one partner, I didn’t much want to get married, and the only time I valued sexual monogamy was when I was hopelessly crushed out on a fellow schoolmate.

  My mother at least knew my general point of view. She wouldn’t have been shocked to hear that I had a girlfriend or boyfriend who I was having sex with. Howev
er, porn not only conflicted with her sexual values, it flaunted its opposition in a public space. Anyone with a computer could find out that I had become—quite literally—a whore. Even outside of Christian circles, I was aware this was not often looked upon with admiration.

  I didn’t want my mother, who raised me to the best of her abilities, to believe I had chosen pornography as a means to punish her. Or that it was a sign of her failure.

  In terms of my own reservations, I had been told (I’m not sure by who in particular) that sex workers were often drawn to the profession because of a lack of education and a consequent lack of diverse financial opportunity. I did not want to be viewed as uneducated or unable. The fact that my mother had been so supportive in my pursuit of higher education made it all the more necessary to explain that porn was not something I was doing instead of school or in place of a long-term, real job.

  My mother responded to this preface with appreciation, although as expected, she did not look upon my involvement in porn as a positive step in my life. When I asked my mother what her initial reaction was when I first told her, her eyes welled up with tears and she responded, “Sad.”

  Here, I must share a bit of my mother’s opinion of me to show that her reaction did not necessarily come from the position of judgment or shaming.

  “You’re one of the most precious human beings. Not just because you’ve come out of my belly. Everybody, when they talk about you, they will say, ‘Chris is very intelligent, talented, and gifted.’ Beyond that, most super-intelligent, super-talented, super-gifted people are not as tenderhearted, kind, sensitive, feeling, sweet. And that’s who you are. You have always been that since you’ve been a little kid. There’s a purity in that, a sweetness in that.”

  Again, this is not shared with the purpose to gloat. I would certainly not say all of these things about myself. My point is that my mother loves me. I know that she loves me. And I know that she thinks very highly of me.

  However, my mother also believes I was emotionally damaged (or that my purity/sweetness was “violated by certain individuals”) as a child and that I make many of my decisions—in part—based on this damage. According to her, pornography is one such decision.

  She continued, “Somebody who is a very pure, very beautiful human being who is nurtured into their full potential makes very good choices. Because they have that foundation of love, confidence, and security to explore who they are at a younger age within safe parameters that are not as dangerous—that are not as risky—they have a safety net of embracing arms, and hearts, and attitudes. I felt that when you told me [that you did porn], that my sweet, very sensitive, very beautiful, and very pure person didn’t have that opportunity.”

  Without going into detail, my mother talked of “risks” and “dangers” inherent to the pornographic profession. I assumed from past conversations that she meant sexually transmitted diseases and performer exploitation (i.e., being coaxed to do things one’s not comfortable with). She also reiterated that porn was against her values, with the addendum, “But I think you already know that.”

  I’m sure many parents show concern when their child picks up any interest that beckons physical harm. But my brother played club soccer all through school and broke his leg right around the time he would have earned a university scholarship. My mother supported him through years of intense training, when she knew full well the risks. In fact, during that time, a relative of ours sustained paralysis from a college sports injury. He died a year or two later.

  For such reasons, I never fully bought the major concerns for physical safety when people talked about porn. Not even when they came from my mother. I’d never witnessed someone discouraged from sports based on the risks and dangers involved. And I couldn’t imagine that construction workers or UPS deliverymen received lectures from parents on the dangers of their careers, despite the statistically high number of injuries.

  Sex workers can, and do, contract sexually transmitted infections. But for those of us in mainstream porn, we’re also regularly tested (which I’ve explained to my mother). Consequently, infectious outbreaks of the potentially fatal kind are rare and well contained. Performer exploitation is a more complicated issue, but I’ve argued (and continue to do so) that it’s increasingly rare. In any case, it’s something I’m unlikely to encounter at this point in my career.

  On the subject of going against my mother’s values, all I can say is that such transgressions extend into other facets of my life. My mother and I continue to have lively discussions over the differences in our ideological beliefs. Spirituality, including my lack thereof, seems to be a more interesting topic to the both of us than arguing the reasons behind our sexual proclivities. My mother even said, “There are other things that if you were involved in, I would look at you and maybe disrespect you. I don’t disrespect you within [porn].”

  My exposure to physical injury had never brought my mother to tears. Neither had engaging in sexual behavior that conflicted with her belief system. It’s possible the combination of both impacted her emotional response, but I suspected something else. I think the following is an affirmation of that something.

  “It perpetuates that thing that you would always fight,” my mother told me. “Of not being totally accepted. It encourages some sort of rejection just by being in that profession. You are always going to be rejected by a certain segment of society. Tons of people use pornography. But the vast majority who use it are ashamed of it. It always has this stigma around it. To actually make that your profession has a certain stigma, a negativity, a shame to it. That’s what you’ve dealt with through a lot of your life. To me, it perpetuates it. That’s sad to me. You deserve not to be rejected.”

  This was the hardest for me to hear because it rang the most true. Even within my circle of closest childhood friends, it’s taken the better part of a decade for my career to be viewed with some legitimacy, or at least without being assigned the notion that it must be an intermediary step on the way to something better.

  Not to put all blame elsewhere. I’ve recycled the same thoughts about porn.

  “It was okay for a time, because I’ll get out of school and work my way into mainstream film behind the camera.” If I didn’t have that goal, then what was I doing? Certainly, wasting my time.

  Porn was not a career goal of mine. It attained full-time status by the simple fact that by the time I graduated college, I had put in enough time to be known as a decent performer. It offered steady income. I could continue to pay my bills with porn, or I could take a gamble and start at the bottom of another profession with nothing but a liberal arts degree. For about two years, I tried both. Then I had an epiphany.

  I realized that what I wanted to do with my life was not implicitly tied to making money. Like many starving artists, I wanted to create work regardless of its commercial appeal or success. The only thing is that I didn’t want to starve.

  Everyone I knew with similar artistic interests spent time on their personal projects and then went off to their jobs and earned money. Sometimes their art and financial income intersected. But even for those who made it in their chosen industry, most days were just like going to work.

  Sticking with something I was good at no longer felt like failure. It just seemed like a decent way to make a living. Even better, because it allowed me enough time to pursue other interests. And because working in porn was basically still working in film, I often found opportunity to work on interesting projects and get paid. Once I stopped worrying about the legitimacy of porn, it became a lot more fun.

  My personal acceptance was a process that spanned several years. So it was not something I could expect of someone whose only reference to pornography was that dirty thing to be enjoyed in private.

  It may only be shameful because of cultural subjectivity (i.e., everyone thinks it’s shameful). But that doesn’t detract from my mother’s concern.

  Porn, as a career, is rarely taken seriously. It’s often viewed as s
hameful. This is simply a truth. No matter what I accomplish along the way, if I tell people I’m a porn star, I’m likely to take on a degree of stigmatization. I mean, a talk show host recently told my girlfriend (also a performer) and I—on national television—that he looked at us “differently” as soon as he heard that we did porn. It wasn’t viewed as a controversial thing to say. My girlfriend and I were the controversy.

  With this understanding, I take on some of my own sadness when I listen to my mother speak of hers. Yes, she fears for my safety and all of this. But what I really hear from my mother is that she wants the best for me. She knows I’ve chosen a profession that almost guarantees I’ll be looked down upon and sees it as her son facing a lifetime of rejection. From my mother’s perspective, it’s the knowledge that her son will be continually hurt.

  By the power of empathy, I understand this perfectly. No more would I want to witness my mother face such rejection. However, I can honestly say that her fears have not been fully actualized. In part, this has to do with the role of community. I socialize with many of the people I work with. And if I extend that group to others, it’s mostly to those who hold a fairly liberal stance when it comes to porn and sexuality.

  Of course, I’m reminded of anti-porn sentiments every now and again. But it’s not a part of my daily experience. Most of the time, I talk openly of my career. When I’m at work, I feel as if I’m held in high esteem by my peers. In actuality, it’s around family that I’m most hesitant to talk about pornography. The fiercest criticisms I’ve received were from my uncle and grandfather.

  Reactions like those from my extended family probably speak more to my mother’s experience. Because my participation in porn does not only affect me. It extends to those around me. If there is a stigmatization of the pornographer, there is also a stigmatization of the parent who raised such a deviant. I may be relatively safe in my social environment, but my mother socializes with other mothers, other professionals, and other people with perhaps no ties to the adult film industry. It is this potential hurt that saddens me. Because my choice perhaps limits my mother’s ability to partake in conversations with other parents about their children, lest she be put on the immediate defensive of having to explain her child’s career. There is a social stigma in simply discussing my existence in more than superficial terms.