Coming Out Like a Porn Star

by Jiz Lee

  The truth came out and it wasn’t on my own terms. A member of a hardcore message board I posted on frequently knew about my interest in shooting porn and took it upon himself to find my mother on Facebook and send her my Twitter link, where my public feed included tweets that mentioned which performers I was working with that day. There was no way to dig myself out of this one except to come completely clean and face the music. I knew I was going to walk into a very uncomfortable home situation now that I was caught red-handed. Hell, I was not disowned or kicked out, but words were thrown around and my blurred memory offers up a vision of my father raising his voice—but saddened—exclaiming “You’re not my daughter anymore. Why would you do this?” It pained me to know that I wasn’t really prepared to talk to my father about what all of this meant to me or for my life. Our perspectives and opinions were very far apart as emotions flew through the air like torpedoes, rational or calm conversation unable to take place under these conditions until the smoke had cleared.

  After less than two weeks of disagreements with my parents and continuously trying to explain to them that I was very sorry that I didn’t tell the truth but I was going to make my own decisions as an adult, I decided to move in with my then-boyfriend of about a year. I had never moved out of my childhood home before then. I knew it was about time that I made a big step toward independence from the nest. I recall passing my mother in the hallway when I was home a few weeks after moving out to collect some additional things I had left behind, and she dropped the previously catty attitude that clearly came from hurt and admitted that she missed me. We embraced and I knew it would get better with time. I was certain of her unconditional love. She has a deep warmth and compassion, especially for other women, and I knew that she would eventually have to let go. Her only daughter and little girl became an adult and continued to make decisions that felt right to her. I didn’t want to hurt her, although my gut reactions or opinions often differed from hers, and being myself is one thing I’ve always been the best at.

  My friends were mostly supportive and asked a lot of questions out of excited curiosity. Some didn’t expect it at all, and others knew how in-tune with my sexuality I was and had heard me speak of my desire to express it on a grander scale. I lived with my now ex-boyfriend for about a year during the time immediately after I started filming porn. He eventually begged me not to film more and was not keen on it to begin with, but initially offered me the support to try something new, possibly figuring I wouldn’t continue after the first trip to Los Angeles to film. I didn’t for a little while, but after about two and a half years together, we slowly grew apart and I moved out. I started making more trips to Los Angeles and eventually signed with an adult agency. I approached potential dates with the truth when questioned because I didn’t want to waste my time with potential lovers that were not understanding, open-minded, and sex-positive. Two years later, I made the leap and moved to Los Angeles, knowing I would have friends, warmer weather, and job opportunities waiting for me on the West Coast.

  In retrospect, I would’ve liked to be upfront with my parents on my own terms, but I was scared of how they’d react, of course, and worried they’d try to prevent me from leaving town. The “informer” forced me to face the reality of my decisions head on, so in a strange way I am thankful for his actions, despite how rude and intrusive they were. I’ve certainly moved on since that relationship, but what I’m most thankful for is the fact that I still have a relationship with my family. It wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows overnight, but I’ve had many sit-downs with them to explain my intentions; it seems my parents gradually have come to understand that I’m an adult and I’m going to do what I wish with my body and life. I talk to my parents on the phone regularly, and when we visit with each other, we have a great time. They may never fully understand the reasons behind many of my decisions, but they show unconditional love and support with the hope that I’m happy and healthy with all I do. At a hockey game with my dad before I moved out to Los Angeles, I considered how grateful I was to have those bonding experiences with him, despite how uncomfortable things felt just a couple years before.

  The more time I spent on set and at various adult conventions and related functions, the more educated I became and confident I felt talking to others about my profession. If I’m ever asked by a stranger, acquaintance, or friend about porn, I’m usually pretty transparent, but there have been times when I have omitted some details in regards to the line of work I was involved in to spare myself the interrogation. I once met a lovely woman on a short flight back to Los Angeles from shooting at Kink.com in San Francisco. She told me she was a motivational speaker and life coach and asked what I did for a living. She seemed sweet and likely wouldn’t have been rude or passed judgment, but it just seemed easier to tell her I was a model/actress than a porn starlet on her way home from a BDSM shoot, especially on such a short flight next to a complete stranger in a confined space. I wasn’t entirely lying, but leaving out the part about having sex on film for money certainly paved the way to avoid awkward reactions or uncomfortable silence for the remainder of the flight.

  I would recommend to any person new to the adult industry or sex work to go with their gut, but to be honest with those that they love because it’s likely to save you headache or heartache later. You can become informed by asking people in the industry who work in your respective field tips and tricks for talking to others about what you do and maintaining some level of privacy in your life. It’s no one’s business unless you want it to be, but if you’re a performer, with increased shoots and involvement in the business, your name and picture will pop up more often, and you shouldn’t be surprised if someone you know confirms that they came across your work. I’ve been contacted by people I went to high school with that recognized me, and I’ve also been recognized in public at metal concerts or even driving in Los Angeles. Friends have seen thumbnails of me on tube sites. It happens. Fortunately, most people are mature enough to brush it off and ignore it.

  As of April 2014, I’m now a former adult performer and decided to step away from shooting on a positive note in order to focus on other goals. The fact that I no longer film does not mean I will try to cover up my past or act like it never happened. It did, and it changed my life. I’ve learned so much, met so many wonderful people, and I’ve had the pleasure of experiencing many different fantasies in the comfort of a safe and controlled environment while fulfilling my exhibitionist desires. In an interview with the Chicago Reader in 2012, I stated, “I did it because I wanted to and I could.” And I would do it all over again.

  HARDCORE DYKECORE

  Shar Rednour

  Shar Rednour and wife Jackie Strano founded S.I.R. Productions that created best-selling, award-winning, and critically acclaimed movies including Bend Over Boyfriend (with coproducer Fatale Media), Hard Love & How to Fuck in High Heels and Healing Sex: A Mind-Body Approach to Healing Sexual Trauma with Staci Haines. They’ve been featured in award-winner Ken Swartz’s historical documentary San Francisco: Sex and The City among many others. Her books include The Femme’s Guide to the Universe, Virgin Territory, Starf*ckr, and in 2015 coauthored THE Sex & Pleasure Book: Good Vibrations Guide to Great Sex for Everyone with Dr. Carol Queen.

  My dad was notorious for picking up the phone and interrupting conversations. A big, loud, macho guy who collected guns as well as Barbie dolls, he grilled steak daily but insisted he delighted in his only child’s veggie burgers. He didn’t let me cut my hair and his voice when angry could shake the Richter scale more than the San Andreas Fault. With a clunk and possibly a tonal beep, he picked up a handset and interrupted my mom and me on the phone. “Hey, Sharlene!”

  “Yeah, Daddy?”

  “Tell her, Mavis. Your mother has something to ask you.”

  My mom: “Well, now, did, were you on HBO?”

  “Yeah, Mom, I thought I told you that. We were on—”

  “Sharlene.”

  “Yes, Daddy?”
>
  “You won awards, right?”

  “Yeah, Dad, we did.”

  “Now, Mark, I read to you the email she sent,” Mom began, but he interjected with that tone saying there is a right and wrong answer—maybe for some moral reason but more likely to settle a wager. “Hey, Sharlene.”

  “Yes,” I said. No matter how old I get, I can still cop the attitudinal and impatient voice of a teenager. “Yes, Daddy.”

  “You hardcore?”

  “Mark!”

  “Yes, Daddy, I am.”

  “Ha! I told you, Mavis.” I could hear his smile 3,000 miles away. “If Sharlene does something, she does it hardcore. Bye.” He hung up.

  From Dictionary.com:

  hard-core

  [hahrd-kawr, -kohr]

  adjective

  1.unswervingly committed; uncompromising; dedicated: a hard-core segregationist.

  2.relating to or containing sexually arousing depictions that are very graphic or explicit:

  hard-core pornography.

  Compare soft-core.

  3.being so without apparent change or remedy; chronic: hard-core inflation; hard-core unemployment.

  4.very intense or extreme: hard-core workouts at the gym.

  5.Usually, hardcore, noting or relating to the music genre hardcore, or the subculture, clothing style, etc., associated with it: hardcore T-shirts and jeans.

  6.Being brazen, in your face, authentic and challenging.

  As in, Sharlene Rednour.

  While Dad laughed at his victory and went back to his TV show, Mom had some concerns.

  “Sharlene.” When your mom says your name a certain way, no words are needed.

  “You know, Mom, my movies are really fun and authentic. People thank me and Jackie for representing them [unsaid: dyke porn] on screen. No one gets to see lesbian sex made by lesbians instead of some Playboy version. It’s a big deal. I am proud of my work.”

  She said, “Well, I know you are—”

  I wasn’t defensive, but I did think fast on my feet, and I am a truthful person, so I simply told one of my truths: “You and Dad helped make me this way. You could be a little proud too, you know. You influenced me. I am good at my job, Mom. Healthy sexuality is important. It can even save lives, and you and Dad were always so honest and open about sexuality. You raised me knowing you loved each other and that you weren’t ashamed of sex.” I let that sink in.

  “Oh. Hm.” She thought about it. “Well, Sharlene, I never thought about it that way. I guess we did, didn’t we. Okay.” She sounded like she was smiling too now.

  My parents bought one of the first satellite dishes produced for consumers. It was huge, nothing like the little dishes that sit on rooftops today. This gigantic, white disc looked like it had fallen from the sky via a 007 spy movie and sat in the backyard of our five-acre field so we could watch more than four TV channels. We were going beyond ABC, NBC, CBS, and public television. MTV was brand new, created for me and my generation. And yet, what did we watch as a family? The Playboy Channel’s Great American Strip-Off, hosted by Lyle Wagner, the costar of Linda Carter’s Wonder Woman! My best friends, my parents, and I chimed in with our opinions on who should win each week as six men and six women from all across America stripped and teased and danced in competition against each other.

  My parents were not educated academics or hippies or taboo-breaking swingers of the 1970s. They were relatively average blue-collar, working-class, working-for-the-weekend people. On these weekends they had fun barbequeing with family and friends, boating and water-skiing, waxing Daddy’s fast cars, tinkering on motorcycles, playing loud country music on my daddy’s six speakers. Mom was usually in a halter or bikini top with shorts, her long red hair teased up on top and hanging long in back; she couldn’t let go of the ’60s beehive, yet relished the long soft drapes of the new decade.

  They were open and not shameful about sex and sexuality. I was raised knowing they had sex, that they liked feeling attractive and sexy, and that they valued sex in a relationship. That value was instilled in me. I was almost grown before I realized that other people’s parents didn’t go to bed and have sex after the weather segment on the 10:00 news. I presumed that marriage went hand in hand with a healthy and happy sex life. My parents weren’t gross or sleazy about it. It was just like anything else that was part of what we valued in our family. As a matter of fact, their lack of mystery and openness made me feel very safe and protected. I didn’t really think about what sex was. I didn’t care much; it was for grown-ups and obviously made them very happy and easygoing.

  A good parallel example to their sexual attitudes and how they were conveyed to me is driving: My parents also valued driving—not being merely a good driver, but a highly skilled driver. My mother was an excellent driver; my father should have been a racecar driver. When I was young, I loved riding around with him, letting him be the grown-up expert on all things automotive while I simply enjoyed the fun rides. Driving was clearly for the adults and not me, but I could tell it was important. When I got to a certain age, my dad started teaching—narrating—what he was doing as he drove, and after a few more years this narration expanded into flat-out orders: “Sharlene, don’t you ever do a U-turn from the shoulder. That’s how teenagers die.” Or: “Sharlene, here’s how to lose someone. Watch the stoplight, wait until it’s yellow . . .” Eventually the day came for me to be a great, skilled driver.

  My dad, and mom too, felt that my being a good driver would save me from more than car crashes. Without telling me directly, they felt that a girl with her own car would be safe from date rape or any other deplorable teenage boy antics. A woman needs her own wheels—that is, her own power. My dad would bellow, “Sharlene, you drive. You are the driver. No other assholes are the driver, and you don’t ride with anyone else. Do you understand me?” I think that example parallels learning about sex: safety, protection, and skill.

  Ever since I was a child, I thought, when I’m a mom I will do this or that thing like my parents. For instance, I knew I would say “I love you” all the time; my parents say “I love you” daily. I also, of course, had a list of things that I would not do. I would not put peas in soup. And when it came to sex, I knew that (1) I would have a great sex life and not be like the sad parents of some of my friends; and (2) I would be a parent that a growing child could say anything to. I’d been able to ask my parents about anything from birth control to what popping a cherry meant, and my kid would be able to do that too.

  I’ve always been out there. I wonder what phrase was used to describe me when I was six or eight or ten. Most of my teachers loved me, except for those who didn’t question the status quo. Most adults, from relatives to teachers, thought I was fun, very kind, and unique. Unique. Walks to the beat of my own drummer. I was and am gay. Sappho spoke to me loudly. Lesbos was my landing page. I was born with an upside-down pink triangle on my forehead as a birthmark. My Barbies lived in love communes where they dated and married each other, although the one with a permanent ponytail coming out of the top of her head was named Linda and she had a dominant relationship with Ken, keeping him topless as a dog-boy. In my whole life, only two men have ever piqued my interest. On the Kinsey scale of 0 to 6, I am a 5.75 without even trying. I am the first person to love a bisexual—most of my best friends are bi. Side note: I argue that since I like butch women and femmes of any stripe it makes me more bi than femmes who like cis or trans men and butch women.

  When you’re a super out queer person, there is no turning back. I moved to San Francisco and let my girlfriend, who didn’t want to hold my hand in public, dump me.

  I never stuck my nose up at people who have sex or strip or are sexy for money. I know it’s a perfectly good way to make a living, and I have always supported friends, relatives, and strangers in the business. If there were an alternative world where I could have stripped or masturbated for women for money, I would have. Jackie and I helped start that alternative-world option with our work. But I
have never liked money enough, or to be precise, been motivated enough by money to do anything that’s on a high level of fakery. When I worked at a bakery for minimum wage, I loved serving sugared goods to people. I got lots of compliments and had customers who came specifically to see me on my shift. On the other hand, I was fired from McDonald’s.

  All this is to say that I couldn’t have been in the closet with my family even if I wanted to. I fretted over being gay, figuring out that I really was and admitting it to myself. I fretted over my fundamental religious fanaticism (which was not from my parents; my mother is a moderate Methodist) and left formal Christianity in order to be myself. I did all this and more, and came out to my parents. It wasn’t easy, but to my mind, there was no choice. I couldn’t have not done it. I don’t mean to come off as amazingly strong and cool. I did fret. I cried, worried, argued with myself, hated myself, and more. But all that diffused once I was out during the short time before I came out to my parents; at the time it seemed lengthy, but it wasn’t. Eventually I moved an hour away to college, then five hours away to another college, and finally cross-country. All so I could be myself and find others like me.

  What does this have to do with porn? Everything. Highly valuing honesty affects all my decisions. My personal experience of being queer in relation to the intersection (more like overpass) of sex and money. Having a big personality affects them as well. Once a friend gave me a sit-down about how I overwhelm her and others at times, and I retorted, “How in the hell do you think I feel?” Years later, I realized that she thought I was referring to our friendship or the interaction, but what I meant was, “If you think I overwhelm others some of the time with our relatively few exchanges in the course of a friendship, then imagine how often I overwhelm myself with all these dialogues running through my head 24/7 of never-resting morals, motives, agendas, visions, brainstorms, and ideas?”