by Jiz Lee
Indeed, there are more stereotypes about all these parts of my identity than I can keep track of. Let’s chuck out the stereotypes that all trans women are promiscuous or hypersexual, that we are all sex workers (although many of us proudly are), that we are all awkward, that we all stick out like a sore thumb. Here’s a newsflash: You can’t tell someone’s a trans woman just by looking at them. I’d bet my savings that every reader has met a trans woman, spoken to them, perhaps even gone to bed with them and had no idea that the woman they were with wasn’t cis (i.e., non-trans). Just in my circle of acquaintances, I know trans women who are doctors, lawyers, nurses, police officers, social workers, teachers, surgeons, firefighters, actors, and Olympic athletes. Why is this important? Well, for starters, by recognizing that porn stars or trans folks (or queer or disabled folks) are not only recipients of care or services but also providers flies in the face of conventional wisdom, which likes to place each and every one of us into discreet boxes that are simply, at best, mythological and, at their core, serve to reinforce the marginalization of these groups. And therein lies the transgressive and powerful nature of me coming out, of me saying that I am proudly a member of all these groups. And I would contest to the death that I am a better nurse, a better lover, and a better person because of this.
Just like how stereotypes about trans women drive me to distraction, so too do those thrust onto the real lives of the porn star. Let’s ditch notions that porn stars and sex workers more broadly are all victims or need saving; that we feel shame or even ambivalence about our work; that we have no talent (or no other talent); that we lack intelligence; that we are not girlfriends, boyfriends, mothers and fathers, sons and daughters. The friends and lovers and amazing folks I’ve met shooting porn are truthfully the smartest, most driven, and most down-to-earth people I’ve ever met—the salt of the earth, as the old expression goes.
Many in porn are doing it as a step in their lives, a way to make money; for others it’s more long-term, something that becomes a part of who one is, akin to any other job, really. For many of us, regardless of what we initially seek to get out of porn, it’s just something we love, a job where showing up for work is generally a lot less mundane than most other jobs we could be doing. And just like stereotypes about porn stars are off base, so are the unfounded beliefs that porn sets are somehow unprofessional, unsanitary, or oppressive work environments. By and large, porn sets have been pretty much the most equitable and safe work environments I’ve ever had the privilege to work in. Compensation for time rendered is reasonable, personal limits are articulated and respected, safety considerations are addressed (i.e., testing, barriers, safe words, and communication, for starters), and respect and professionalism rule the day. Safe spaces beget creative spaces. And yes, porn is a creative endeavor.
For me, making porn has been about social justice, of activism through the creation of imagery, the imagery being my body. In truth, and having done a lot in my thirty-five years, I can say beyond a shadow of a doubt that porn touches and changes more lives than any professional discipline or any form of activism or social change. And that’s part of the reason why I started, and why I continue, to make porn. As I’ve written about more extensively elsewhere, I started making porn because I saw a dearth of realistic representations of trans women in porn. I wanted to see more trans women like me, as I think I wrote back in 2009 before shooting my first scene. So for me, making porn was a very conscious and intentional choice. I wasn’t oblivious to the enduring stigma surrounding porn. But I also figured that the stigma around porn was probably no worse than the stigma attached to being a trans lesbian. And after having given hundreds of hours to lectures, workshops, and journal articles about trans inclusion, I felt that there was a “cotton ceiling” of sorts (a term I would go on to coin later) and that sexual inclusion—of trans women as well as fat women, women with disabilities, racialized women, you get the point—was the elephant in the room nobody wanted to really talk about. It seemed worth the risk. It seemed like the next best thing a good feminist should do!
It’s worth pausing at this point to reflect on why I, or anyone making porn or doing sex work, should have to “come out.” You ever wonder why we have to come out about certain things and other things are just, you know, assumed? The question reveals the answer. How we are understood by others has been an enduring legacy of the human condition. We are social creatures, and ideas and beliefs are written onto our bodies all the time; people make judgment calls about what and who they think we are. For better, and mostly for worse, when people look at us—our skin color, our body shape, the way we walk and if we use any assistive devices, our genital configuration, and the list goes on—assumptions are made and judgments are cast onto our bodies. These can be about our values, our behavior, and in particular for trans folks, our gender identity or the validity of our gender identity in the eyes of some cis people. As alluded to earlier, “coming out” is a term that exists for all aspects of our self, so we can come out as a porn star. There are always decisions to be made. The notion of “passing” has its origins in racialized communities, of being able to “pass” for white. It’s a term that’s often been used in trans communities. In some respects, “passing,” while it can afford tenuous access to privilege of being part of a normative or dominant group, can also serve to recapitulate these imbalances in power. Coming out and being out can be a powerful act and can destabilize these power relations through allowing one’s very identity to be an embodied critique of the myths and stereotypes about a particular group. As I’ll talk about for me, this has been something that I’ve consciously tapped into by being out as a trans woman making porn. Being out as a porn star is something that is more of a work in progress. I recognized the power in being out as a porn star with a graduate degree and working as a health professional, but it’s not without its significant risks.
Beyond these assumptions and meanings written onto our body, I would argue that the simple act of making one’s body visible in its entirety is an often-stigmatized act unto itself. Of course, nonpornographic film has a great deal of nudity (and I’ve done this work as well), but in making porn, the risk for stigma associated with our naked bodies is far greater. I’ve often wondered why this is the case. Is it because we enjoy this? Is it about the sex? Is it about, God forbid, enjoying sex? Is it because porn represents another transaction of money for time that can include sex, among other things, that thus makes it a form of sex work? Are we really still living in a society that thinks doing sex for work is any less important or legitimate than other forms of work? Are we still that squeamish about sex? The fact that this book exists probably answers all these questions, I suppose. The reason why a book that compiles stories such as this is so compelling is because stories of coming out as a porn star (among other things) is a potentially dangerous act; telling the truth about who we are potentially can make us vulnerable.
What’s also rather irksome is the way that coming-out stories focus on how others “handle” our “secrets,” how they are able to manage the arduous burden of bearing the weight of all that we’ve told them. And this is sort of messed up. In telling coming-out stories, there is a nearly ubiquitous focus on the, let’s just call them “comee” (the person to whom one is coming out), their reactions to coming-out stories and their ability to and deftness with which they “handle” the truths of the “comer” (the one who’s actually coming out). I contend this focus comes from most of us identifying with the comee more than the comer. The comer, after all, must be part of some marginalized group: a sexual or gender minority (or, like me, both); or a person with a health condition or disability, whether it be addiction, being HIV-positive, or living with depression; or any number of things that the comee isn’t (or shouldn’t be) expecting.
In telling our coming-out stories, we’re telling stories of difference, stories of those of us on the outside, and in these stories you can trace the boundaries between what is “normal” and “expec
ted” and what is not. People rarely come out, after all, about being straight or about never having shot porn. In telling coming-out stories, I think it’s more interesting to hear the stories of the comer, of what makes them come out, to whom, and when, of what makes them unique, and how they feel about that which makes them different but which also makes them special. I want to hear the stories of how they came out to themselves—how they made a decision to accept that they may be into other women, or other men, or getting tied up by their genderqueer escort lover, or when they decided that yes, shooting porn is something they really want to do, it’s actually something they have to do, and why the hell did they wait so long to do this. It’s these stories that I choose to tell because it’s these stories that I want to hear.
We are implicitly and sometimes explicitly taught to think that porn, or sex work, represents a potential liability. When I started making porn, I had friends ask me what would happen if someone “found out” about this, what I would do if I wanted to run (again) for political office (I actually did run as a teenager in a federal election here in Canada). Let’s look at this notion of “liability,” if our confidentially and de facto anonymity is that, a little bit more closely. First, I can’t underscore enough that there is a difference between feeling shame about our work and having this be a reason to not come out, and of not coming out because of the stigma and misconceptions laid upon us by others. I’m out to the extent that I can be, because I am really proud of my work as a porn star. I’ve worked hard. I’ve done some cutting-edge shit. I’ve shifted some seemingly intransigent attitudes about trans women’s sexuality and broken down some pretty entrenched barriers experienced by trans women in the porn industry. I’m proud of this work. Anyone I date has to be not only okay with this, but join me in celebration of this. I refuse to cleave off this part of my identity simply because others are stuck in the last century.
For all intents and purposes, I’m out. Does this mean that I come out to every nursing job I apply for? No. It’s simply not relevant, although I’d contend that my accomplishments in porn show my ability to adapt to new working situations and achieve to a high level in all that I do, but it just never seems to come up. Part of me does wish I could be out in all contexts, all the time, but it’s simply not relevant 99 percent of the time and not worth confronting on a constant basis all the anachronistic beliefs others hold about what it somehow “means” to be a porn star. If you want proof that being a professional or aspiring professional and being a porn star is big news, just look at the case of eighteen-year-old Belle Knox. When that twit at Yale decided to out his fellow law student actress Belle Knox as a porn star, overnight Belle was outstripping Justin Bieber on Google searches. She eventually took the unwelcome coming-out party by the reins, and if I may say about her work, she’s acquitted herself way better than I would have at age eighteen in dealing with the slut shaming and discrediting she was faced with. My porn work has fed into my nursing work. I find myself actively challenging other providers’ views about sex work, and many providers with whom I work are familiar with my other work. But I’m lucky in that way and an exception to the rule.
What I see so often is that others use the shame they affix to our work as porn stars and then use outing or threats of doing so as a weapon against us. We’ve all seen this happen and it deserves no link or reference or fucking citation. One side benefit of being out, although not without its risk as well, is that we can defuse this potential bomb that others can use against us. If we are already out, then we can control the timing and manner in which this gets conveyed. If we’re already out, then there’s nothing to hide that hackers or haters can use against us.
To be sure, being a porn star requires accepting some degree of risk that our work can be used against us. Moreover, the extent to which one has success in their porn career introduces more potential vulnerability as our image and impact as porn stars has a greater reach and we are often outed by accident, if not on purpose. When I won the Feminist Porn award for Heartthrob of the Year in 2011 (basically the biggest individual award given out at these events every year), I was thrust into the spotlight, so to speak, and had to make decisions about accepting interviews for national magazines and weeklies read by everyone under forty in Toronto, where I live. I had to make a decision that risked my family finding out about my work. As it turns out, my brother saw some articles written about me, and although I don’t think he will ever fully appreciate my reasons for doing porn or ever understand what it is to be a woman, or a trans woman, he accepts that it is important, trusts my judgment, and respects that I’m able to make informed decisions about my life and work.
Being a porn star (heck, even making a single porn video) requires thinking about how one is going to relate to this work and who they will tell about it. When I started making porn, I had to ask myself, “Who is Drew, and what is Rebecca’s relationship to this person?”
Porn names and their ubiquity both signal a way that we can create separate performer identities and can help provide a buffer, allowing disclosure about our work to others outside of the industry to take place at a time and place of our choosing. I know, for myself, having a separate porn identity, as it were, has aided in helping me get into a heightened state of physical awareness that accompanies a performance. Drew has always been more outgoing, more vocal, and more confident both socially and sexually than Rebecca. And although Drew perhaps may be more performative, this isn’t the same as saying that Drew is any less of an honest and authentic part of my total self than who and what Rebecca is. In some respects, I see my porn identity as an embodiment of myself freed totally from the weight of past trauma and of insecurities related to my body that Rebecca carries. By creating and getting to know Drew, I’ve been able to give myself the space (from myself) to heal and effect change in how I relate to my body. Making porn has been profoundly therapeutic and confidence-building. It’s something that I found out, perhaps surprisingly to my former self, that I was actually damn good at.
Creating Drew was a way to provide a layer of distance, to protect the extent to which I disclose that I am a porn star. And creating Drew, as the name actually implies, has allowed me to discursively create a new part of myself to heal and to reach my full potential as a human being. I’ve only ever felt proud of the work I do, and by and large, I’m happy to scream to the heavens that I’m a porn star and I love it. But this attitude is tempered with recognition that not everyone feels this way about porn. There is still a great deal of stigma associated with it.
Yet I suggest that coming out is not just an act filled with risk but also an act laden with significant potential for positive change in our lives and the worlds in which we live. In a perfect world, I’d like to see everyone be out about everything, all the time. As a trans woman and porn star, I believe that coming out and continuing to live out goes a long way toward changing beliefs about sex work and porn, about who trans people are, what we do and look like. If everyone came out, it would likely mean we had a society in which stigma wasn’t affixed to particular bodies or particular forms of work. It would also mean that we lived in a society where particular assumptions weren’t placed on us. People have to come out as gay or queer because of heteronormative assumptions. These sorts of assumptions are placed on us, often from a young age. That we need to come out as a porn star, or as any form of sex worker, illuminates that there are assumptions placed on us that we wouldn’t, and perhaps shouldn’t, be doing this form of work.
Perhaps if everyone came out, there would be fewer stigmas. That’s a part of it. We also need to strike down laws criminalizing sex work. And last, we need to hold the media as well as film and TV producers accountable, and get them to show women and men who are sex workers as the powerful and intelligent creatures we are, rather than as hapless victims. Only then can we rewrite the notion that doing porn or other forms of sex work constitutes bad choices or bad professions. Maybe one day, having your child say that they want to be a p
orn star when they grow up could be met with gentle support and encouragement. It seems almost absurd to suggest it, but if doing porn isn’t by and large the bad, scary, oppressive work environment that some would argue it is, then why shouldn’t families and friends be excited and supportive of their daughter/son/brother/sister being a porn star? I can envision a day when this is the case, but we’re obviously not there yet.
It’s perhaps ironic (but really not that surprising) that I’ve found it easier to be out as a trans woman in my porn work than in my work as a registered nurse. Perhaps this relates to normative assumptions placed on nurses as a result of them (us) occupying a space of power in our society. Generally, trans people (or porn stars, for that matter) are seen as people with whom we work, not people we work alongside; they are seen as recipients, rather than providers, of services.
When I started making porn, I had a rather unique decision to make: Should I be out as a (post-op) trans woman in my work, or should I simply not talk about it and ostensibly be assumed to be a cis woman? As a trans woman who passes for cis pretty much all the time, I am afforded a certain amount of conditional cis privilege (that privilege afforded to those who are cis, or at least perceived to be). Because one of my main motivations for doing porn was that I wanted to see more diverse and realistic representations of trans women, it only made sense to be out in this work. Despite making this decision, it hasn’t stopped cis fans or directors from assuming I am cis. Their reaction when they “find out” that I am, in fact, a trans woman, is often ugly. I’ve been trained to not read comments to articles that have been done on me or reviews of my work. With that said, my work and attitude has always been “take it or leave it,” and for every person who feels that trans women feature I’m in should not be considered girl-girl or lesbian, that it represents some fetish (as if fetishes are bad, but I digress), I have another fan that loves the body of work that I’ve done. I’m especially elated to have so many other trans women as fans who’ve been inspired by my work and who can connect with me and how I live out and talk about my sexuality on camera.