I wake up at six AM to multiple notifications.
I check them all in turn, and do my best to be witty as one can before coffee. I shower, shave and toss on my work garb. It’s a mask, one of a million I have. It doesn’t fit that great, but when I look in the mirror? I do the thing that seals the deal.
I smile.
Smiling is one of those weird aspects of communication that makes people inherently trust you. They say nice people finish last-but the truth is? With a smile, you can rule the world. Couple it with a kind tone and a pleasant demeanor? Shit. You would be utterly amazed at what you can accomplish.
I mean, it’s kept me afloat for ten years. Faking it, day in and day out. I don’t like my job, but it’s something I do because money. If we’re to live in a capitalist society, we have to work for the public. Alternatives are starvation and being homeless. I’m unfortunately spoiled to a warm bed and a full stomach in my old age. So I smile, I put on a happy face, and I keep cashing checks. But I know the smile, it’s not real. Nobody else knows, but I do. No matter how deeply I bury it down, I know.
The only time that smile feels genuine anymore is here. Behind these keys, or this mic. It’s the only time I feel like a person, like what I do actually matters. I can turn screws and lay all of Microsoft’s screw-ups smooth for weeks on end. But an hour, right here? Producing for this site and you all? That makes the rest worth it.
Today, I would like to talk about how working with the public has made creating porn an absolutely soul-saving experience for me. My thoughts here are utterly my own-but if you’ve ever been even a bit curious as to why I and others do what we do? It’s my hope I can answer that.
Let’s begin.
Why Kink?
Our preacher, he’s one of dozens that have passed through this church. And like the others, he’s all hellfire and brimstone. The queers are ruining the world, he says. We’re in the end of days, he cries. All the while, I sit in my pew. All of fourteen years old.
And I try really, really hard not to laugh. Because it’s me, I’m the evil queer. Even if I don’t have the guts to admit it yet. Even if I’m not sure that’s the word for it. So I sit there, I wearing the same fake smile I put on for my folks that morning. Because I love them to death. I could never hurt them.
But the preacher, oh boy. He’s really on a kick today. He’s just hammering away at how the evil gays have infiltrated the government. How they’re corrupting the youth! How they’re going at it as hard as-
Gay porn.
My brain completes the sentence before it’s even out of the preacher’s mouth. Big, bold white text on a movie theater sized screen right behind my eyes. That smile, the one I’ve been wearing all morning?
It finally cracks as I bust into an enormous belly laugh. I rise from the pews just as fast as I can and scramble outside. The moment I break from the doors, I double over.
I laugh so hard tears form. And when I’m finally done, I look up. I realize church has been let out early. And woooo boy, my folks look absolutely pissed.
I think back to that sunday a lot. Because it was the first time this cute smile I wear for the waking world slipped. My folks didn’t say anything-but I wasn’t woke for church the next sunday. Or the next. After a while, they stopped asking entirely. It was the first time I realized I didn’t fit, and no amount of smiles or calm, pleasant words was going to fix it. For a majority of my life, church and school were my primary social functions. They’re how I met my friends, how I learned to belong to a community.
Half of that experience hadn’t been taken from me. But I had been outted in such a way the very concept of asking would court death, or so I thought. Armed with an abundance of freetime and an internet connection, I did as any social species would. I went looking. Somewhere to belong, somewhere to meet people with weird, conflicted feelings like me. Typical teen shit, really. I bobbed and weaved through fandoms, sub cultures and more with aplomb. Always careful, always mindful of what I said.
There were freaks out there, ya’ know? Why, they could kick down my door, and diddle my ass or something. Not an idea I was wholly against, but the paranoia boomed loud as any sermon I’d heard. So careful I was. Always with a mask, a smile, a ruse to hide behind.
Then I turned 18 and moved out of my folks place.
I was left alone in a trailer with nothing but bare walls, a steady supply of smuggled booze and enough weed, mushrooms, acid and LSD to put me away for life. I did them all, if only to get comfortably numb to the very concept of my identity for a bit. Despite having seen, said and done a lot for someone my age, I still didn’t feel like I belonged. I was still incredibly conflicted about my sexuality-which I hid with another mask. Telling people I was straight was easier than explaining “well, I lost my virginity to a predatory neighbor” and “actually, me and my best friend fool around all the time. But that’s not gay because-”
I was 170 pounds soaking wet, and built like a fucking gorrilla. I looked more at home in a mug shot than as someone’s date. That’s before we got to the fact I couldn’t flirt to save my life-I still can’t, either. I wanted so many things during that time. To be wanted, to be beautiful, but chief among them? I just wanted to be loved. Loving myself was secondary to that. I felt like if someone could just love me for me, maybe I could feel human for a bit.
I threw caution to the wind, all caution, and did the number one thing I wasn’t supposed to do.
I signed up to work a cam boy website.
I’m not going to name the site, as I haven’t been active there in over a decade. I’m not even sure they’re still around. This was during a time period when dial up was still a feasible option used by a majority of the country. But sign up I did all the same. Heart pounding and webcam on, I logged on.
To a completely empty room.
I don’t know what I had been expecting. Maybe a chat, maybe at least one person. But sitting there with a knot in my throat, I almost logged out. Then a single person joined, then another. I smiled, and stammered out a greeting.
User____: Holy shit, you’re cute!
User____2: Hey handsome ;3
Reading that brought a smile to my face. One that wasn’t forced in the least. I snickered, and said “Me? Handsome? Y’all are full of shit,”
Maybe it was my southern accent-but those two people became more, and more. All the while I stayed bashful, as unable to take a compliment then as I am now. And it worked. I would go on to cam off-and-on for the next few years, mostly for beer money. In time, I came to realize that I wasn’t doing a service like I was with my day job. Rather, I was providing an experience to the public they perhaps couldn’t get elsewhere.
One I was getting right back in return.
People get into porn for a myriad of reasons. It’s a fun job. It’s still a job, but one where you can be comfortable. Not just physically, but mentally. I have never, ever felt the level of ease and comfort I have when I’m taking my clothes off or performing behind the mic anywhere else. I have never felt the warmth and genuine admiration for my body like those my clients give from anyone, save my partner. Porn was the first place I learned I was someone capable of being loved.
That came from directly teaching others the same thing. That yes, people really do think you’re hot, you’re funny, you’re a joy. Yes, it’s you making me cum right now. Working for the public never provided those comforts.
But by working with people-on their requests, their wants, their desires-I’ve given a portion of my life to them. They’ve done the same in kind. And in a real way, all these pieces are making us whole.
So. Take some time today, and say thank you to your favorite porn star. Maybe give the business a shot. Whatever you do?
Always remember there’s a way to be loved, valued and wanted.
-J