by Jiz Lee
I tread a fine line, legally. Australian laws regarding adult content are complicated and often contradictory. My business is actually based in the United States so I have to comply with two sets of laws. Telling people what I do can be risky; there is a certain amount of trust involved in revealing my occupation. I live on a street surrounded by fundamentalist Christians and there’s always the fear that if they found out, they could well decide I’m a criminal and call the police.
Despite this, I’m very happy with what I do. I like not having a “real” job. I’m my own boss, I work my own hours, and I don’t have to commute or deal with office politics. I feel that I am doing good in the world, creating a vision of positive sexuality, going beyond the old ideas of what “porn” should be. Perhaps that’s why I always feel a little bit proud and rebellious when I come out about my work because I’m doing something different and challenging and—hopefully—something that might help change the world.
CULTURE CLASH
Nina Hartley
Nina Hartley is a pioneering feminist sex worker using her body in the service of promoting a sexually sane and literate society. Active as a performer since 1982, her rock-solid commitment to the importance of sexual autonomy has fueled Ms. Hartley’s career in adult entertainment. As a performer, director, writer, educator, public speaker, and feminist thinker for all, no matter their orientation, she’s traveled the world to deliver her message. She believes that sexual freedom is a fundamental human right and welcomes the new social media opportunities for spreading her message of knowledge and empowerment to the widest number of people. She’s the author of Nina Hartley’s Guide to Total Sex (Avery Press). Putting to use her BS degree in nursing, she and her husband, Ernest Greene, have produced the million-selling sex-ed video series collectively known as The Nina Hartley Guides (Adam & Eve), currently in its thirty-eighth episode. Still active in front of the camera, she and her husband live in Los Angeles. She serves on the board of the Woodhull Sexual Freedom Alliance.
I’ve made a practice of being out about my job as a porn performer for my entire career, now entering its thirty-first year. Sexual liberation being my core mission, it would have done little good to beat about the bushes when asked what I did for a living. I was one of the first modern video-era porn performers who was eager to talk to the public about my experiences, thoughts, and philosophy about sex, sexuality, and sexual expression. My openness has served me well even as the Feminist Sex Wars raged on throughout the ’80s, only to fight to the standstill in which we find ourselves today.
Most of the attention I get in public is positive as fans recognize me even when I’m dressed in civilian clothes and without makeup. I enjoy bringing some cheer to their day by sharing the good news about sex, about which I’m a passionate ambassador. In short, being out about my job is second nature, and I’ve never had a bad experience because of it so far.
Over the course of my career, I’ve had the lucky opportunity several times to work in Europe. One time I was in Saint-Tropez and Nice, another in Munich. This time it was in Paris in the early ’90s. I was at the height of my Big Porn look: tanned, toned, blonde hair teased to there, sparkling blue eyes, tiny waist, and a big ass. I was big-assed before big-assed was popular and my costume was custom-made to my specifications: denim bolero and a short skirt that was an odd marriage of tutu and ice-skating dress. Underneath I wore a front-closure bra top in white and red gingham and matching breakaway thong with the clips at the hips. If I bent from the waist, my ass was clearly visible. Smooth, bare legs with a fresh pedicure were strapped into high-heeled sandals the color of my skin. In short, I was a vision of un grande-femme Americaine.
French porn sets break for lunch to have a proper meal, complete with wine. We drove to a restaurant, me with the aforementioned costume on, and I found myself on the sidewalk as an old woman walked toward me.
She was the quintessential grandma: nondescript dress, white hair, glasses, and sensible shoes. She used a cane. Her companion looked to be middle-aged. When she saw me, she became very animated and made a beeline to stand in front of me. I shook in my heels, expecting a Puritanical tongue-lashing. After all, I did look a proper slut and stood out in the otherwise quiet neighborhood.
Imagine my delight and surprise when, instead of berating me, she patted my cheek and murmured, “Trés jolie, trés jolie!“ I knew enough French to recognize a compliment: “Very pretty, very pretty!” I waited for her companion to speak to my guy, who in turn translated for me. It turned out that she had been a madam in Paris during World War II who had run a successful brothel.
She didn’t know I made porn but she knew a good sex worker when she saw one. It made me proud, and the memory still sparks a smile to this day.
HAPPY TO BE EXCLUDED
Nikki Silver
Nikki Silver is a self-made hairy porn star and has been running her site, NaughtyNatural.com, for the past three years. She is at once a free-spirited wild woman and business-savvy entrepreneur. She enjoys pushing the boundaries of hair fetishism and creating erotic art.
“Coming out” has been a concept and action that’s been part of my entire adult life and adolescence. Although I’ve come out over and over again, I’ve very rarely felt shame or personal discomfort with my various identities and choices. Coming out was and is part of figuring out how my relationships are to unfold: How much do I care about you knowing who I really am? How much patience do I have for possibly annoying or offensive questions? And how will revealing this information serve me?
At this point in my life, I have created a sex-worker-centric community and ethos around myself, in which I even include my parents and brother, where not being quite knowledgeable about the sex industry either by experience or proxy is quite rare. I’m completely uninterested in educating people around me about my lifestyle or job; that is what clients and fans pay me to do. It’s true, I do live in an alternate universe where things that are problems outside it are not problems within it. In my work, I allow my clients and porn subscribers momentary access to my world, a privilege that they pay to access.
So I’ll share two stories of travelling in other countries and coming out to strangers.
A good friend of mine and I went to Australia to shoot porn for a few companies based there. After we were done shooting, we went to a small island off the coast of Melbourne to visit her friend. We had debated amongst ourselves about whether we would tell his dad and anyone else we met, aside from her friend, why we were in Australia. It was very important for us to not be seen as a rich Americans who were just vacationing, when in fact we had been flown to Melbourne by the porn company and were working while we were there.
So we ended up telling his dad and lady friend who were rather nonplussed (it is Australia, after all) and then an American man who was working on building a commune/hotel on the island. He actually employed us to do some manual labor for him—my first job outside the sex industry in seven years at the time—and we told him we were in Australia shooting porn. He expressed concern for us, as many patronizing men do when they aren’t trying to sleep with you, but also went off on a ridiculous rant about how he was an expert in the sacred feminine. Once he had talked to us enough and came to his own conclusion that, indeed, we were not being forced to do porn and felt good about it, he said we were carriers of the “sacred feminine.” This white man from Boulder, Colorado, even gave us a book he had written on the subject and told us we should go listen to his river on our break because that’s where the Goddess lived.
More recently, I went on a vacation to Belize with my partner. We had tried to avoid interacting much with other tourists, but we inevitably ended up in a small island bar talking to a group of Lebanese Montrealers, and I decided to try telling the truth about my job to a group of young, drunk men. My partner looked over at me like I was a little crazy but stuck by my side for support. As usual, the one person that I actually liked and wanted to talk to was overpowered by his obnoxious cousin who a
sked things like if he could touch different body parts of mine and what my specialty was, what sex act I was really good at. I deflected and countered most of the things he said and had some fun sassing it up, but by the end I was exhausted by policing my boundaries and putting this boy in his place and felt much too vulnerable, so we left. Reifying that honest connection with the majority of the people in the world, especially straight cis men (the ones most likely to engage with me), is not something that’s really possible for me.
There have even been a handful of times when I was traveling the country by hitchhiking and sleeping in the woods that I was propositioned in gas stations or by rides, and I told them I was a pro from New York City and would cost a lot more than they were offering me. My self-protective instincts haven’t always been the best, but it has always been of utmost important not to hide who I am, perhaps more important than my self-preservation. Or maybe I’ve just never seen myself as vulnerable and never believed anyone could actually hurt me.
I tell these stories because coming out to friends or family isn’t something I’ve done for a long time or was ever a big deal for me. I’ve always seen and created myself in opposition to the status quo and been quite comfortable with that. I would never wish to be “normal” or “acceptable” to the people who support the violence and repression we call “civilization.”
Friends around me express shock and dismay at various governmental statutes discriminating against porn or sex workers (amongst other groups and issues), but I am never surprised. I think these things are very much worth fighting, but I’ve always expected the government and society at large to try to hurt me. By definition and action they stand against everything I believe in: joy, freedom, self-expression, nurturance, and care for each other and the earth.
I’m very happy to be socially excluded from a society that breaks individuals down so thoroughly they have to come seek out “criminals” to help them heal their emotional wounds. I will keep doing this work to create beautiful, expressive pornography, to let others live through me vicariously in words, photos, and videos. And perhaps the most intimate and intense work of all, connecting one-on-one, in person, with clients who have lived decades of repression. I am a respite, and I am so glad to be.
LIABILITIES AND MY MOTHER
Oriana Small, a.k.a. Ashley Blue
Oriana Small is a writer and visual artist from Southern California. As Ashley Blue, she appeared in over 300 adult films—including the infamous Girlvert series (JM Productions)—directed seventeen adult film features, cohosted Playboy TV’s Night Calls Hotline, and has won numerous adult film industry awards, including AVN’s Female Performer of the Year in 2004 and Best Supporting Actress in 2005. She lives and works with her husband, photographer Dave Naz, and her cat and dog in the Hollywood Hills.
The night before our trip, I was thinking of ways to get back at my mother—whom I prefer to call Cheryl—for being vile. She’d called me a few days before we were to leave, while Desiree was still in town. Cheryl knew about our planned Euro trip, but she probably didn’t remember. Her brain is seriously deteriorated from doing drugs her entire life. She phoned while I was in line at In-N-Out Burger. Desiree had started her period in my car. She had bled right through her sweatpants, so she waited in the car with Tyler. I was trying to order all of our cheeseburgers correctly. Tyler wanted “no tomato, yes grilled onions, no special sauce, just ketchup only.” He would throw a fit if it wasn’t just so. Desiree’s was simple: no onions.
I answered my cell phone and held it with my shoulder as I fished around in my purse for cash.
“So, do you have anything to tell me?” Cheryl’s voice was angry. I could tell by her rhetorical tone that she knew the answer to her own question.
“What? What are you talking about?” I was handing the money over to the cashier and felt rude. I was rolling my eyes. I was annoyed at the bitchiness in my mother’s voice.
“Well, do you have anything to say for yourself, young lady?” The voice got angrier. My mother hadn’t been mad at me since I was in high school. There wasn’t any reason for her to be; I’d been on my own since I turned eighteen. Nothing I did was any of her business. How dare she utter a demeaning phrase like “young lady”?
“Excuse me? What are you getting at? What’s your problem?” I had no respect for her. I responded with the same volume of nastiness. Cheryl had put me through misery all of my life. It angered and saddened me when she tried to play “mother” with me now. She hadn’t earned it.
“Well, I just saw my daughter on the Internet—with a mouth full of cock!” She said it with such mean, matter-of-fact evenness.
I was disgusted and embarrassed. I could tell that her sole intention was to hurt, humiliate, and expose me. I was ashamed of her. Somehow, to hear her speak “a mouth full of cock” was cruder than me even having one. A mother isn’t supposed to say things like that. I wanted to vomit into the phone. Instead of “fuck you,” I venomously said, “So?”
“I think you better start explaining!” She was feeling powerful, and that wounded me deeply. She was trying to corner me.
“So what, do you hate me now?” I asked her. I knew she didn’t, but I had to ask.
“No,” she responded flatly.
“Okay,” I said back, in the same voice as hers. We sounded very much alike.
“No. Not okay. I’m so mad at you! You’re all over the Internet. You fucking little whore. Your mouth’s full of cock. I’m ashamed of you, to be your mother! You fucking little bitch!” Then she hung up on me. I didn’t get a chance to rightfully respond.
When someone finally handed me the bag of fast food, I was weak in my legs, in shock. I shoved the phone back into my purse and walked out of In-N-Out. My hands were shaking. We’d only done one line apiece that morning, just to wake up. The tears came a few minutes later. I always knew that at some point I would have to talk about it with my family. Cheryl just had no right to be so vicious about it—she was probably with her grotesque boyfriend, looking at porn when she’d found out.
I’ve never been scared of letting my mom down. Whether or not she’s proud of me makes no difference. Cheryl is a drug addict and a manipulator. It’s impossible for me to trust her. Just when it seems as though she cares, she’s got some ulterior motive to benefit herself. I’ve often promised myself that I would not talk to her anymore. Cheryl would have to wait.
Cheryl and I made up on the phone. She left messages on Tyler’s voicemail, crying and begging him to have me call her. I was fully prepared to never speak with her again. I can be cold in that way; if I feel like somebody is doing more damage to me than good, I cut them out of my life. You have to remove cancerous tumors.
Tyler had a plus-sized heart when it came to family sympathies. He listened to Cheryl’s pleas on the messages and argued with me about the situation: “She’s your mother. You only get one in life. Call her. You can’t go on like this.”
I pointed out to Tyler than no matter how much he loved his mother, his own Cheryl, he still lied to her about his occupation. His mother was flawed, but Tyler was forgiving. She’d lied to Tyler about who his real father was and chose her lovers over her children—just like my mother. It’s eerie how similar they are, in name and manner. Tyler forgave his mother for all of it. They even did coke together.
I had called my mother from Paris. It was an expensive call. It was our last night before we left for home. In such a romantic, inspiring place, where it feels like anything is possible, I thought maybe I could change and somehow grow to be a more compassionate woman by reaching out to Cheryl. I needed her at the time. Just the thought of my family’s reaction to my porn career made me cringe, and I hoped Cheryl would be a gateway to get through to them. No one would be happy for me. My family always praised me for having a sharp mind. Now, to them, I would be wasting my gifts and exploiting my body. Everyone in my family is extremely modest about sex, except for Cheryl. She taught me everything I know about wearing provocative cl
othing. At a very young age, she would embarrass me by wearing see-through tops and shorts that revealed her butt cheeks. I guess at some point I took after her.
My mom was so happy I called. She regretted how we ended the last call. I didn’t remind her that she’d hung up on me. I tried my best not to be snotty. Both of us shed tears and choruses of “I love you.” Cheryl can always get me to feel sorry for her. She makes poor decisions in the moment. But she’s instinctively manipulative.
Cheryl and her new live-in boyfriend, Leon, invited Tyler and me over to their home for a visit when we returned. Cheryl couldn’t go five minutes without a man. This one, she claimed, like the rest, was The One. I was well aware of her codependency. All I knew about this guy was that he used to have a parrot named Shit-head. He was also fresh out of prison. Not jail, but prison. He did ten years of hard time for selling cocaine. He was supposedly clean now, or else he would be in violation of his parole.
Cheryl certainly was not clean. She still took a fair share of sedatives and methadone. She also smoked pot all the time because of its medicinal value. Her body was a wreck from various ailments. As a kid, it used to frighten me that she was such a mess. It didn’t matter to me what she was taking anymore. I had my own drug issues.
Leon was overly friendly. Tyler and I had met him a few brief times before, but now that Leon knew about us doing porn, he was extra delighted to have us over. With relish, he asked about our involvement in the porn business. How much money did we make? How many scenes did we do? Who did we work for? What were the people really like? Was it easy for us to get started?
Hesitantly, we answered all of his questions. My mom didn’t get into the conversation at all. She just sat there, quietly, letting Leon do all the talking. I wondered why she quietly accepted her boyfriend virtually getting off on talking about porn with me. I just tried to be polite and not look offended.