by Jon Pressick
Because I was feeling good, I was really branching out on subject matter and guests. Researching people and their widely ranging sexual interests and activities is fascinating stuff. I want to challenge myself and my listeners and bring topics into conversation that do not normally get spoken of.
That ethos gave me the really good idea of interviewing a Russian armpit fetish model.
I don’t even remember how I came across Bestia or even the idea of armpit fetish. I’ve seen and heard of a lot of different porn, but maschalagnia (armpit fetishism) was entirely new to me. But once I found Bestia, found some of the sites and magazines she had appeared in and on, I thought it would make for a unique and intriguing discussion on the show.
I mentioned that she is Russian, right?
Connecting over email, she explained that her understanding of English is very strong—written English that is. She explained that she can speak English, but not well enough to carry a conversation, particularly with radio nerves getting in the way. So we concocted a plan wherein I provided her the interview questions so that she could prepare her responses in advance, practice reading them and then recite them back to me while we were live on the air.
This seemed a straightforward approach so I went ahead, produced the questions and sent them off to her. She was grateful for my consideration and promised to prepare great answers. She did, however, offer one caveat: she told me to not deviate from our “script.” If I were to ad-lib or throw in a new question, she would potentially freeze up and lose her place in the interview. I appreciated her candor and readily agreed. We were all set.
Unfortunately, I made two mistakes.
Show day came and I was feeling good. I was excited, feeling that I was going to do something edgy and one-of-a-kind. I was really looking forward to talking with Bestia! Through my intrepid research, I’d developed an interest in her work and this always makes an interview better. Plus, I was on pins and needles waiting to hear what Bestia had prepared.
Mistake #1: I did not request to read her responses. I didn’t even think of it. I am still not entirely convinced it was necessary, but listening to that interview again, I really should have. None of our guests are outrageous with their talk. Maybe it is because of the language speech. That talk is a pretty clear indicator that our conversation needs to be family friendly—even when dealing with sexual themes.
Mistake #2: I didn’t give Bestia that language speech. In a lapse of thought and judgment I just assumed she wouldn’t even know English sexual colloquialisms. Unlike not vetting her responses, this mistake was an actual choice I made.
So, a few questions in, she launched into that desired epic sex act and I was aghast. I didn’t know what to do. As the words came out of her mouth in Ukraine and out over the air in Canada and beyond, I felt my fun, hobby radio career hitting a brick wall of censure. From the station. From the CRTC. From the rest of the “Sex City” crew for screwing up so badly.
I thought about stopping her. I thought about jumping to the next question. I wondered if she’d understand what I was doing and roll with it or if she really would be completely flummoxed. Earlier on in my “Sex City” career I had done some pretty bad interviews. Ones where I completely lost—or never had—the guest. In one instance, an overly nervous artist replied with nothing but one-word answers. That experience was horrible and I really didn’t want to get into a situation where Bestia was confused.
So I let her continue, uninterrupted, in all her armpit orgy glory.
After the show we were all, understandably, taken aback. The common sentiment was that we hoped, this one time, that no one was listening. That, I tell you, is an odd feeling for a producer of media content. But I really was afraid that we would get in trouble. Can you imagine a parent, channel-hopping with a car full of kids, pressing the scan button and having it land on a station just as “one of them fucks my pussy, another one my ass and a third in my mouth” comes out of the speakers?
To be clear, never have I held any of this against Bestia. It all falls on me. I did not perform my due diligence about language and I did not review her material. She was very professional and did much to promote her appearance both before it aired and after. She often mentioned the interview online, well after it aired. Had I discussed the parameters with her, I have no doubt she’d have been amenable. We have had guests who flagrantly violate our language requirements, but I am sure Bestia wouldn’t do that.
Luckily, we did manage to fly under the radar on this one. No complaints. Not from the community, not from the government, not from the station. Wipe that brow and give a big whistle! I did not want to inflict punishment on the station or my colleagues for these mistakes. And I wanted to remain on the air! But from that point on, I was certainly more cautious about who I booked and how I instructed them about their obligations of language.
The thing is…I really hate doing that.
When my first daughter was born, I had a conversation with her mother and a friend of mine about using coarse language around children. Personally, I have no issue with it as long as that language, when used, is given context and consideration. In other words, I would tell my kids what I mean by the word fuck and I would advise them with whom and where it is appropriate to discuss such words. At home? Sure. With family? Fine. With extended family? Not a good idea. At school? Hell no.
However, my ex (and my friend, surprisingly), did not agree with this philosophy, so we went the more traditional route of not swearing and teaching them to not swear as well. The funny thing is, had we gone with my cussin’-friendly idea, I would have had a much more challenging transition to talking on the radio. Because I curse. A lot. Sailors ain’t got nothing on me. But I only do it when the kids aren’t around. Now that they are in their teens, I have loosened the linguistic lasso a bit, but I am still guarded when it comes to what I say around them.
And that liberation feels so nice. I heartily believe we should be using the words that are comfortable to us. Certainly, be aware of meaning, use words in the right context—even if that context is just an expletive born out of frustration or difficulty. Everybody needs the occasional “Oh shit!” moment. Sometimes a naughty word is the only appropriate one that will fit the situation.
And when it comes to sex, that is more often the case than not.
Another part of my parenting strategy has been to never shy away from my kids’ questions about sex and sexuality. If they ask, I tell them. If something interesting comes up in culture or current events, I discuss it with them. In doing so, I think I have helped them to have positive attitudes about sex, sexuality and gender. We frequently visit the zoo and one time we saw two giant tortoises mating. All of the other parents around were giving their kids explanations about the animals playing leapfrog or some such nonsense. One of mine turned to me and said, “They’re mating, right?”
Now, given that we were in a public place, I wouldn’t have approved of her saying, “They’re fucking, right?” And because my little language experiment was not endorsed by the full parental council of our home, I really don’t know if I’d have approved of that comment at home. But the idea, to me, remains: Why do we hold such stock in perceived “dirty” words—particularly when it comes to sex? Did our control over their language stunt their development and understanding of sex…on their own terms?
Sometime after the Bestia interview, a funny coincidence became an ongoing situation. At some point, one guest used the word cock live on air. And then the next week and then the next…until it seemed as if cock had become a required part of the show. The funny thing is, cock wasn’t said every week, but it did get used frequently enough, over an extended period, that we stopped noticing. What is, arguably, the male C-word (though I acknowledge not as loaded) became so commonplace on our show as to be indistinguishable from the rest of the conversations. And nary a complaint has been registered.
So, why can’t this happen with the rest of the so-called dirty words? Would liberating
fuck, shit, cunt, and the rest of their ilk actually free our tongues as well as our relationships with sex and sex-related topics?
We saw this happen on “Sex City” with cock. Radio and television have embraced ass, rescuing it from the unspeakable list. In a disturbingly parallel situation, actual anatomically correct words for genitalia have also been freed with some, such as penis and vagina heard more frequently in media and casual conversation. Can other words, sexual or not, be far behind?
Don’t get me wrong; I certainly believe there are some words that should not come into common use. However, I cannot think of any of a sexual context that should be censored. The key here is context and intention. Sure, cocksucker, slut and pervert are most frequently used as insults and are meant to demean and harm. But that is just one context—not the version I am trumpeting. All three of those can also be used with the deepest of affection. Of course, slut and pervert are commonplace words, but they aren’t accepted as positive descriptors.
Will it ever be possible, in a film or on TV, for an actor to say about another actor “What a cocksucker!” and mean it positively?
My observations of “Sex City” and popular media make me think we’ve already got this down in real life. The parlance of our times suggests that fucking, cock, dick, balls, pussy, cunt and tits are far more commonly used among lovers and friends than intercourse, penis, vulva, vagina, breasts and the rest of the biological terms. Somehow, those who actually talk about sex are more comfortable using alternative wording than they are hearing them.
So while the more salacious words may not be the proper terms, they are at least creating conversations about sex.
I’ve since lost touch with Bestia. Her website is under repair. I wonder if she is still keen on armpits and having hers ravished… I wonder if she still models or if she’s moved on to something new.. I wonder if she ever made that glorious gang bang happen.
What I wonder most of all is if she’d tell me, in a personal conversation, all about that wild orgy she happily told my listeners about. Armpits remain a fairly out-there fetish. Was she brave enough to talk about her interests in such a raunchy way because it had to do with performance? Would she be so bold if we were just sharing beer, chatting?
Raise your hand if you think she would.
Growing Through the Yuck
Ashley Manta
It is easy to get sucked into the negative when you’re living with herpes. I remember the day that I was diagnosed. I was at the health center at my university and I had the most horrific first herpes outbreak anyone could imagine. Two solid weeks of not being able to sit, lie down, use the bathroom, or shower without excruciating pain. Not to mention the accompanying nausea, fatigue, and general feelings of misery. The nurse gave me the diagnosis and I felt my heart hit the floor.
Who would want me now since I have herpes? With shaking hands I dialed my then boyfriend’s cell phone number. “The rash I have? It’s herpes,” I said, cringing with every word. “I had a feeling that’s what it was,” he replied calmly. “Are you mad?” I asked. “No, sweetie,” he said, “you’re still the same person you were an hour ago. It’s just herpes. It’s not life-threatening.”
I was shocked. I was expecting anger—even fury. I spread herpes to him unknowingly because I didn’t recognize the symptoms, and here he was reassuring me! Together we researched home remedies and information on herpes that was now a part of both of our lives. We supported each other through our first outbreak and subsequent herpes outbreaks, until we finally went our separate ways a few months later. It was wonderful to have someone who understood what I was going through. It was even more incredible to have a partner who cared about me and supported me through a period of pretty intense anger and selfloathing. I felt dirty. I felt unlovable. I felt unattractive. He helped me get through those feelings, at least temporarily.
It wasn’t until I attempted to get back into the dating scene that I realized that not everyone was so understanding. I was rejected countless times. It got to the point that I started disclosing on the first date just to get it over with. My reasoning was at least if (and when) he rejected me, we would have only wasted one date. All those feelings of inadequacy, self-loathing, and depression came flooding back. I became convinced that I was never going to find someone who would want to “deal with” my condition. I felt myself descending into what I have now termed, “the yuck.”
The yuck is a place of toxic feelings. It harbors the helpless victim mentality and feeds into feelings of anger, resentment, blame, and sorrow. It is easy to get trapped in the yuck. It’s like quicksand. One minute you’re doing okay and then as soon as you have a bad date, an outbreak, or even hear a herpes joke, you’re right back down in the pit of despair. I felt broken, worthless, and alone.
Gradually, I started to learn more about herpes. I learned about herpes transmission rates and ways to keep outbreaks under control. I learned that there were herpes dating sites and herpes support sites for people with herpes. I found a therapist and did some hard work with her, including letting go of my anger at the guy who raped me (which is how I ended up with herpes). I started to grow. I decided that I needed something to represent my new outlook on life. I’m a firm believer in body reclamation, and for me, that sometimes takes the form of tattoos.
Halloween 2009, three months after the rape that caused the herpes and one month after my herpes diagnosis, I decided to get a lotus tattoo on my right shoulder. The lotus flower grows in the mud in shallow water and does not bloom until it reaches the surface. While it’s growing, the flower petals are safe inside the blossom, which keeps them from getting stained by the mud. I always loved the symbolism of the lotus flower, but I didn’t realize how accurate the metaphor was for me until about two years later. I battled my anger, my resentment, and my self-consciousness many times over those two years.
Underneath the lotus is a Tibetan Buddhist mantra: “Om Mani Padme Hum.” This mantra is a devotion to Avalokitesh-vara, the bodhisattva of compassion. It serves as a daily reminder that I cannot know where someone else has been or what has led them to this point. It encourages me to show compassion to others as well as myself.
Healing is not a linear path. There are twists and turns, forks and loops. It took a lot of tears, many sleepless nights, and a lot of support to get me to where I am now. Thanks to my friend Adrial and his wonderful website, the Herpes Opportunity, I found the strength to “come out” about having herpes. I told my friends, family, and the Internet. I have to say, I have never felt so free in my entire life. It feels wonderful to be able to speak openly about having herpes, instead of saying the word in hushed tones while constantly looking over my shoulder wondering who might be listening and judging. I feel genuine and authentic, which is a huge improvement over the way I felt when I was still “in the yuck.”
I encourage everyone to take time to reflect on where they are in the growth process. Are you still in the yuck? Don’t worry, there are others there too and you can help each other grow. Are you growing but not quite at the surface? Reach out and let people help you. And to those who have blossomed: Share your beauty with the world. Don’t be afraid of your roots. Remember them, because they are a testament to your strength and perseverance throughout this journey.
I Was a Teenage Porn Model
Lux Alptraum
I turned eighteen in September 2000. I was a sophomore at Columbia. A lot of significant things happened to me that year: I voted in my first ever election, discovered online dating, launched my first serious relationship, moved into my first real New York City apartment. And in the spring of that year, I began my nude modeling career.
What began as a few striptease photo shoots for a Boston-based website turned into a more ongoing commitment as a cam girl doing weekly cam shows, which later morphed into launching my own indie porn site, perhaps best described as a nerdier, less punk, slightly more hardcore, and far more budget version of Suicide Girls, that had the distinguishing feature
of showcasing both male and female models.
In a different version of this story, I stuck with that website, with that career choice, establishing an LA-NYC-SF trifecta with the likes of Joanna Angel and Courtney Trouble (two porn impresarios who began their careers at the same time, under similar circumstances, as I did). But that’s not what happened. Instead, at the age of twenty-two, I decided I was sick of it all and shut down my site. I left the world of porn modeling as quickly as I had entered it, and for the most part, I didn’t look back.
In recent weeks, award-winning porn director Axel Braun announced that he will no longer work with performers under the age of twenty-one. Braun is not the first to make this decision—almost seven years ago, Oren Cohen’s Tightfit Productions made a similar announcement—but as a three-time winner of AVN’s Director of the Year award, he may be the most prominent person to eschew working with the under-twenty-one set.
There’s a dramatic difference between the mostly softcore photos I modeled for at eighteen and the hardcore features that Braun directs. But as someone who created sexual media at the age of eighteen, I was nonetheless struck by Braun’s decision. Would it be better if porn performance were restricted to people over the age of twenty-one? Would I have been better off if I had waited three years before taking my clothes off on camera?
It was hard for me to answer that question, hard even to begin the process of parsing the many emotions it evoked. So I turned to my colleagues in the adult industry to get their thoughts and opinions on the issue.
The first person to respond to me was Bella Vendetta. A domi-natrix and porn model whose tastes run towards extreme fetish, Vendetta entered the adult industry at the age of eighteen, training as a dominatrix at the world’s oldest BDSM training chateau and shooting her first porn scenes. Three years later, she launched her own fetish site; now, at thirty-two, she’s preparing to relaunch the site after a two-year hiatus.
