Coming Out Like a Porn Star

by Jiz Lee

  All jokes aside, I knew my parents were right that there was sexism in those stories and pictures—even the women in positions of power were playing out sexist assumptions and stereotypes of femininity—but I already knew that. Especially in the photographs, it wasn’t hard for me to spot the influences of sexism. My parents had raised me in a feminist household. They raised me to think critically about media. This was nothing new. I was used to seeing the influence of sexism in TV shows like Seinfeld and Friends, in my video game magazines, and even in my textbooks for school. Yet my parents never sat me down for a talk like this over the sexism in any of those other forms of media. They had singled porn out as special, different than other kinds of media.

  Of course, at the time I didn’t say any of this. I was just grateful they had only read far enough to realize it was about sex and then put it down. I didn’t want to have a whole other conversation about the power dynamics in my chosen sex stories. However, the discrepancy between how my parents treated porn compared to other forms of media stuck with me throughout my teenage years.

  In high school, as a part of being on the competitive speech and debate team, I had a chance to choose my own topic for an informative speech. I chose feminist perspectives on porn. I dove into the research, reading Dworkin and MacKinnon, Califia and Queen, Women Against Pornography, Annie Sprinkle, and more. I created a presentation that was part theater, putting excerpts from their work in conversation with each other as I did my best to embody each one of them, their values and concerns. I even placed in two tournaments, winning a sixth-place and first-place trophy.

  The process of researching, writing, practicing, adjusting, and competing with this piece took almost a whole year. During that time, I’d often discuss the issues with my parents. For them, talking about theories on pornography was very different than discussing my own sexuality. They encouraged the discussion of theory. So, over the dinner table we’d discuss the difference between pornography and erotica, the value of banning porn and the value of creating your own, the harm of using state power for censorship, and the harm of freely distributed depictions of eroticized violence, racism, and misogyny.

  I’m sure you wouldn’t be surprised to find out that arguments that concluded the solution to bad porn isn’t no porn but to try and make better porn resonated with me. But my parents were always skeptical of that idea. So seven years later, when I finally told them I was making porn, I was apprehensive about their response.

  However, as soon as the discussion shifted from an ongoing academic debate to the reality of my life, things changed. I saw none of the judgment I feared in their eyes. Encouraged, I explained to them the problems of mainstream trans porn and that my film was an attempt to allow trans women the opportunity to represent their sexuality the way they wanted to have it represented.

  “Well, we trust that whatever you’re doing is good,” they said. And for them, it was just that simple.

  They didn’t ask me if I was performing in my film or just directing. I also chose not to tell them that what I knew about problems in mainstream trans porn came in part from my own personal experiences as a porn performer. I would tell them eventually, but in that moment I was happy with taking smaller steps toward that conversation.

  A little over a year later, my film was finished and was being considered for a Feminist Porn award. When I mentioned it to my parents, they excitedly told me that I should text them to let them know if I win. When the moment came and I walked off the stage, elated, I made my way to the back of the crowd, stepped into the stairwell, and sent them both a text.

  I didn’t find out until after I got home that one of my moms was off visiting family at the time. Apparently, my cousins, aunt, uncle, and my grandfather were all around when she got my text, and she had been so excited for me that, without stopping to think about it, she announced my award to everyone around her.

  I wish I could have been there to see their reactions. My mom tells me that they were all supportive and proud of me. I suppose being told, “Your granddaughter/niece/cousin just won Emerging Filmmaker of the Year from the Feminist Porn Awards” might be a little easier to take than, “She is a porn star.” They don’t have to imagine me fucking on film or think of all of the stereotypes and assumptions associated with that. Still, knowing that they are proud of me and what I do means a great deal.

  DO YOU HAVE WHAT IT TAKES?

  Verta

  Art school reject/college dropout/aspiring adult entertainer, Verta is all compulsive energy searching for an outlet. No amount of previous shark wrestling experience or hydraulic rescue equipment can pry her teeth out of the flesh of her aspirations. She can be found on Twitter @ perVerta_. Best when wild caught. Do not attempt to domesticate.

  Names have been changed to protect the identity of the people and shows within.

  I remember when I realized I was bisexual. I was excited. I was young enough to know that it was unusual; I was too young to know that it might be illicit. I went to my mother.

  “Mom,” I loudly proclaimed, “I like girls.”

  She didn’t look up. She didn’t hesitate or reflect. “No, you don’t,” she immediately replied.

  That is how I came out as bisexual, the entire conversation. It was all so very inconsequential; my mother doesn’t remember it happening. I will never forget it.

  I spent a year obsessively researching the adult entertainment industry. I started using a Twitter account that previously sat virtually dormant and ignored for years. I followed my favorite porn stars. I paid close attention to the production moratoriums. I watched videos on YouTube of porn stars explaining the industry. I read interviews from people who had left the industry. I wanted to know everything. I spoke with my friends and significant other about my findings. I had lengthy and heated conversations with my significant other about the porn industry. He didn’t care and he didn’t understand why I cared. It is obvious, as it usually is in hindsight; I was on the threshold of chasing another dream.

  My significant other and I broke up. It was inevitable. I packed up everything I owned, rented a minivan with his help, and drove, alone, from White Bear Lake, Minnesota, to Yuba City, California. Several people asked what I planned to do once I got to California, and I jokingly responded, “Porn.” The answer was met with chuckles and, “That’s so Verta.” We all knew I wasn’t joking.

  None of the research I’d done on pornography taught me anything about actually entering the adult entertainment field. The closest I’d come to adult entertainment was a stripping gig I held for three weeks, which ended in a rock-bottom nightmare I’m still clawing my way out of. Fun fact: An ex I lived with at the time had a rather large and unnecessary fit once I started stripping; he tried to throw me out in the middle of winter, called the police when I refused to leave, and told them I was a prostitute. Although my phone is filled with pictures of me in various states of undress and sexual positions, I had no professional photos to send out. My imagined savior came in the form of a Twitter page for a reality show promising to make a porn star of the winner. I applied via their website and, at their request, posted nude photos and taunts and tagged their page. I didn’t start a separate account for my “persona,” as they suggested. It seemed, in a word, antithetical to what I was looking for. I didn’t expect to be able to hide pursuing a porn career from anyone, and I absolutely did not want to. My mother follows me on Twitter. I don’t care. I played along and, when the time came, I made the eight-hour drive from Northern California to the Palm Springs area.

  Shooting for the show began the morning following my arrival. As we lined up single-file to enter the house, I thought, “I don’t want to do this.” I’d met most of the people who were also auditioning, and they were the type of people you’d expect to audition for a reality show. I am not saying this as a negative; they were all very nice, fun people to be around. I simply do not view myself as reality television material. I wanted to do porn. This was not that.

  Whe
n I got around to reading the contract for shooting, I told myself, “I’m not doing this.” I didn’t see any of the other contestants actually read the contract, but it seemed pretty standard for what you’d expect for shooting reality TV. I’m fairly certain I am not allowed to disclose the contents, but it induced an eye roll and solidified my position. I spoke with Steve Stone* (an agent present during shooting) and told him I would gladly finish out the day, but I had no interest in continuing with the competition. He told me not to tell anyone I intended to leave. Exhausted, I could not stop drinking coffee. I had coffee jitters through all of my interviews. I cannot accurately count how many times I was asked, “Do you have [what it takes]?” But I can say I got very sick of hearing it.

  The audition for the show, where you reveal your sexual superpower, what makes you deserving of being a contestant, went rather well for me. I confessed to a lot of things, and I’m interested to see how the people involved respond, if they ever see the show. I honestly don’t know that I would encourage them to, not out of embarrassment, simply because nothing was what I thought it to be. Steve appeared enthusiastic about the audition, and I finally told the producers and director I was not staying. They told me I was incredible, and the judges discussed my audition for ten minutes. I was flattered. I am still flattered. They filmed me asking one of the judges, a well-known porn star, for advice. Her advice was, “Be yourself.” If that’s the only guidance you need going into porn, I certainly didn’t need to be told. After my exit interview, Steve assured me he would have a contract for me. I celebrated, with banners and confetti, in my mind. I thought, “Finally. I’m in.” I will spend my entire life writing odes and sonnets to how avidly wrong I can be.

  My friends were very supportive. They congratulated me on getting out of being on a reality television show and getting into the porn industry because they knew that was what I wanted. I called the woman I was a nanny for and we laughed about things that happened at the auditions. Many of my friends shared concerns and nearly all of them told me to be careful, but no one questioned what I was doing. I don’t surround myself with yesmen. My friends have their own opinions, and I’m sure none of them share my enthusiasm about entering the adult entertainment industry. I am very lucky to have friends who know that when I want something, I will stop at nothing to get it, and they would be suicidal to stand in my way.

  Before I continue, I need to make this very clear: I do not wish to bad-mouth Steve. The agency he represents is a respected agency. Steve is a very nice gentleman. I hold no ill-will against anyone involved. At the time of my writing this, I am still being told I could have a future with this agency. Although I do not necessarily believe it to be true, I wish to be as respectful as possible while also being completely honest.

  Steve Stone was nearly impossible to contact. I am equally, if not more, impossible to discourage. I sent emails and photos (not professional) to other agencies. I applied to sites such as Hustler. I received nothing but denials, with no explanations, even when I asked for explanations or to be told what I was doing wrong so that I may improve my approach. I’m sure this is normal. When Steve finally contacted me, he told me he had shoots for me, but I would have to wait until after the holidays. My relief was palpable. I only needed to employ some patience.

  The holidays passed and I tried, once again, to contact Steve. I called. I texted. I emailed. I raged to any of my friends who would listen that this industry was shockingly unprofessional. I sent Steve an email pleading to be told anything, including whether or not he thought I could actually make it.

  I got my answer. It was, substantially, “You’re beautiful, but you’re not white enough.”

  Verbatim, he intimated, “Take a look at all the major porn tube sites. That’s a great indication of what’s hot/selling in the industry. Count how many exotic (black/Asian/etc.) models you see. Unfortunately, not a lot because that’s not what people are buying.” That comes directly from the email. After so many assurances he’d have work for me, after being told he had two shoots lined up, after being ignored, this was what it came to. I cried. I was sitting next to my best friend/roommate in an urgent care waiting room. I handed her my phone so she could read the email. I covered my face with my jacket and I silently sobbed. I’m not ashamed to admit how much that hurt.

  What I loved so much about the idea of doing porn is there is no typical porn star. They’re all humans, from different backgrounds, whose common denominator is exhibitionism. To me, having sex for money was not at the top of my list of reasons for going into this industry. All I wanted was to enter a community of people who Get It.

  “Why don’t you fix up your resume and get a real job? Apply at the Backroom Boutique,” my best friend suggested. All I heard was, “Now that your dream has been crushed, why don’t you face your worst nightmare and work retail?” No, thanks.

  “God is trying to steer you away from porn, B,” my former significant other joked in a text message, after I sent him a screenshot of the email. I still don’t find that funny.

  My friends have withdrawn their support as they’ve seen the reality of my aspirations crumble in racial defeat. I am a stunning mixture of African American, French, Irish, and Mexican. I am neither proud nor ashamed of that; I simply am. I won’t be told that’s something people don’t want to see.

  I went into this industry. I opened the door and I shouted, “I’m here to do porn!” No one looked up. And the collective response was, “No, you aren’t.”

  Once I’ve realized myself, I am there: graffitied in Sharpie and blood as a bold declaration. It cannot be erased. It cannot be painted over. No one tells me who I am or what I’m going to do. I still love girls, and yes: I’m going to be a porn star.

  COMING HARD, COMING OUT: PRIVACY, EXHIBITIONISM, & RUNNING FOR PARLIAMENT

  Zahra Stardust

  Zahra Stardust is the 2014 Feminist Porn Awards Heartthrob of the year, 2014 Adult Industry Awards Best Porn Actress, and 2012 Eros Shine Awards Best Adult Star. She is an Australian Penthouse Pet and PhD candidate, writing her dissertation on the legal regulation of pornography. Her films combine art, porn, and politics, and have screened at festivals around the world. She loves fisting, body fluids, and intimate encounters with strangers.

  “Porn Star Runs for Lord Mayor,” the headlines said, alongside a photograph of me in full fuchsia and black latex with hot pink PVC flogger. If I was going to come out, I may as well do it in style.

  I’m quite sure my parents knew all along.

  I started taking my clothes off in the supermarket when I was three years old.

  My mom found my first pair of six-inch stripper heels in my bedroom when I was twenty.

  At the time, I tried hard to convince her they were for a fancy dress party. In hindsight, I don’t know why I bothered. I was completely transparent and a bad liar. My parents kept wanting to come visit me at this twenty-four-hour café where I supposedly worked.

  I never actually sat down and had that conversation with them. I didn’t need do. Being a shameless exhibitionist, my family eventually found out through newspaper articles, magazines, and next-door neighbors. Besides, there was always my unexplained suitcases, my garish makeup, DD cups fresh from Thailand.

  What can I say? I am a lifer in the sex industry. I can’t keep my mouth shut about how much I love my work.

  In 2009, I abandoned a legal career to run for Parliament with the Australian Sex Party. At the time, it caused somewhat of a scandal. My employer issued a formal media statement, appearing in Lawyers Weekly—presumably they felt the need to explain how a person of such disrepute ended up working for a top-tier firm.

  Hot on the heels of my escape from the legal profession, I spent my time wisely. I walked on people in stilettos. I undressed upside down on trapeze. I pulled pearls out of my vagina. I used cucumbers and Barbie dolls as dildos. We did X-rated double tricks in people’s garages that audiences described as “adult Cirque du Soleil.” I dressed in latex and lear
ned anal fisting and cock-and-ball torture. I rode in limousines and hummers. I ejaculated liters of fluid and screened it at film festivals. I trained to hold my entire body out sideways on a pole.

  And I wanted to tell everybody how fabulous it was! It was obvious: I needed to share the love!

  We began our electoral campaign against compulsory Internet censorship, to decriminalize the sale of X-rated films, to enact legislation to protect sex workers from discrimination and to establish a national comprehensive sex education curriculum. We pole danced at bus stops, handed out How To Vote condoms, and launched campaigns from backstage at Miss Centrefold Oceania.

  As it turns out, we were far from alone. I saw a senior associate of my former firm while on the husting; he later told me he “Voted for Sex!” I received emails from a barrister in Western Australia with his support and from a social worker in South Australia asking for advice on how to tell her colleagues she was a pole dancer. Turns out there were plenty of pole-dancing lawyers around me. My friend Shimmy joked that she paid her way through pole school by working as a lawyer—and later left the corporate world to open her own studio.

  I won’t lie. I love the fast-paced, whirlwind opportunities to advocate, but it is a love-hate relationship. It wasn’t all golden showers and giggles.

  I have now run for Parliament three times—for House of Representatives, Senate, and Lord Mayor of Sydney. When the Sex Party announced me on Facebook as their mayoral candidate in 2012, seventy-five online comments appeared, including:

  “Feminist striptease. Give me a fucking break.”

  “It’s an oxymoron, stripping is not a feminist act.”

  “I can’t vote for a rep who is a proud ‘feminist stripper’ and dresses up like this.”

  “Zahra is against women being considered ‘objects.’ Poses for front cover of Penthouse magazine anyway.”