Coming Out Like a Porn Star

This erotic story excerpt by Jiz Lee from Coming Out Like a Porn Star was originally published by ThreeL Media and is the Winner in the Good Sex Awards Best Thought Leadership Category.

Best Thought LeadershipSex PositiveSexual Musings
Good Sex Awards Best Feminist Sex Finalist

It all started with one ignored phone call from my dad.

You see, I’m a terrible liar and answering his phone call meant having to explain why I was across the world in Berlin. (Porn. I was there doing porn.) I let his call go to voicemail and slumped down on the ground. This wasn’t one of those moments where I avoided a phone call because I was either too busy or just not in the mood to talk; that one, single act represented something much more profound and problematic. Jetlagged and defeated, I sat there on the floor, haunted with the realization that I was going to have to finally come out to my family about my other life in porn. How does one even begin to  do that?

Coming Out Like a Porn Star started from the personal questions I asked fellow porn performers as I struggled with the reality of telling my family about my increasing  involvement in the adult industry. Were others out to their parents? How did they talk  about it to their siblings? What could I learn from their experiences? In asking the questions, I’d hit a nerve. Everyone had a story to tell. Some were heartbreaking, others casual. Some surprised and inspired me. Stories ranged from funny to fucked up. They taught me about stigma. They revealed privilege. Gave me relief. Made me furious. They encouraged my own process of coming out. Through their examples, I found myself more prepared.

I realized this topic was bigger than just myself. Sharing our coming out stories might not only help other performers like myself, but may also help people outside the industry relate to us, humanizing our experiences. What these stories have in common is their honesty. I saw them each as truths that existed far beyond the narrow moralistic debate of whether or not porn could be feminist or ethical, good or bad. The stories ran the gamut, embodying the very essence of the grey area we all exist within. The details  varied differently, but each story revealed what I had long suspected: that although  society may think of porn performers as some sort of “damaged enemy against the  moralistic good,” it is actually the stigma from having performed that proves to do the  greatest harm and is our largest obstacle. If we are to overcome these cultural roadblocks  and gain rights for sex workers, it is precedent that we create a dialogue that stands firmly on the fact that people who chose to perform in porn are no different than anyone else. If  all people are to achieve universal sexual, gender, and reproductive freedoms, it will be  through the undoing of the very same stigmas, the sex shaming and victimization, that is  found in porn and sex work at large. Hearing the stories from people I admired and  respected gave me the strength to begin talking to my family and try to undo stigmas of  my own.

I had been performing in adult videos since 2005, but being in a “niche” queer porn genre, I’d dabbled through the early years in relative obscurity without feeling like I particularly needed to tell my family anything. Unless they actively sought it or a friend  let something slip on Facebook, their chance of coming across me was virtually nil. As my career grew, so were the chances of them stumbling across my photo in a news  article. This hobby of mine was getting serious, and so was the very real possibility of  being outed to my family.

I was traveling for gigs. I had begun performing in Los Angeles, and I’d been  featured on box covers. I was invited to speak at schools and was given awards in other countries! I was regularly contacted for interviews by mainstream press. Years later, when my stepmother would open her laptop to find me on the homepage of MSNBC, I’d exhaled the biggest sigh of relief that she already knew, was proud, and had my back. At  the time, I’d been keeping all my porn adventures a secret. I’d been hiding all the excitement from some of the closest people in my life. I was keeping it from them almost  as if I were ashamed of what I was doing, when in reality I was very proud. What was the  real reason I was keeping this part of my life from my family? Why hadn’t I kept them in  the loop? When I received that phone call from my dad, I suddenly realized how far off  the map I had drifted away from my family. This distance made me feel as if I had been living a double life. But if I didn’t tell them soon, they would find out on their own. I  made a sincere vow to tell my dad the next time we were together, in person. It wasn’t easy.

I love pornography. Porn is an extension of my own sexual expression, a blend of  art and documentation. My first sex scene was with a lover. I cherish it, and although we’ve long since broken up, the video remains one of my favorite performances. I learn a lot about myself when I do porn. It provided a space for me to explore BDSM through bondage and electricity. Porn has become part of how I practice being poly; shoots are a clearly defined container offering distinct boundaries where I can have sex with close friends on preestablished terms. Porn is part of my exhibitionism and a place I can literally own my sexuality. Performative sex is thrilling, and with sober sets, regular STI testing, and a crew of professionals, I’ve had the opportunity to explore the vast edges of my sexuality, gender, and fantasy. Some of the safest and most satisfying sex I’ve had  has happened on camera.

I’ve had so many positive experiences in porn that I’m convinced it’s one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. How can something that has so profoundly impacted my  life be bad? Sure, there were some not-so-awesome times, but even those moments taught  me how to better articulate my boundaries. Porn taught me to be emphatic about giving  consent. Each shoot comes with new challenges and rewards, and if the many messages  I’ve received from viewers are any indication, I’m humbled that my very existence in  porn brings visibility to the simple fact that queer and gender-variant people are deserving of a happy and healthy sexuality, and capable of being loved. I’m working with friends and lovers to create images of intimacy, trust, and pleasure. And we’re having fun! This is what porn means to me.

Not everyone understands my view.

Please forgive me as I skip the difficult details of coming out to my brother, father, stepmother, mother, and grandma. I don’t want to speak on their behalf, and I am edging on what I feel comfortable disclosing. The past few years have been challenging, but well worth it. What I will say is that I am still moved by their various forms of acceptance, as expressed in my brother’s curiosity; my father’s efforts to emphasize; my  stepmother’s supportive role as an ally in standing up for me when dealing with the  reactions of less open-minded family members; and to my surprise, my religious mother  and grandma’s display of unconditional love. (“A good Christian doesn’t judge.”) It wasn’t—and still isn’t—easy, but I’m grateful for their attempts to better understand who I am. Coming out to them has made me feel closer to my family than ever before and my heart swells with the knowledge that they love and are proud of me.

I don’t consider my process of coming out as over. On the contrary, I still have a  very long way to go. It’s still an incomplete project in the back of my head that I am constantly fine-tuning. As I continued engaging in conversations with my peers, a few  familiar threads became clear. For one, there’s what I’ll call the “outing snowball effect”: the potential that disclosing one’s work in porn can result in the further outing of themselves and others. (For example, working in BDSM porn might also reveal a  performer’s personal kinks.) There’s also the matter that when we out ourselves as porn performers to our family, they take on the responsibility of this knowledge. If someone asks my father what I’m up to these days, he must decide whether or not to talk about the porn career that is now one of my primary activities, or he can choose to focus on my  triathlon training, a topic that has become convenient at large family gatherings. Some  performers are outed by accident, others vindictively. Coming out on our own terms is a  luxury; if we talk to family members when we’re ready, we can create a better environment for the conversation to take place. We can control the privacy, even plan aftercare to unwind from a stressful talk. I also saw another big observation: Coming out about porn sometimes isn’t too different than coming out as queer and/or trans. Parents can have strong reactions out of fear. They are concerned for our safety; they accuse us of  drug use or assume that something must have happened when we were younger to make  us this way. The misconception that we are victims incapable of sexual agency mirrors  that of coming out as non-normative gender expression and sexual orientations.

I’ve made mistakes in the process of coming out, many of which I’m glad to see detailed by other stories in this book. When I first came out to my family about working in porn, I tried to play up what I understood as more socially acceptable performances, describing my feature films as comparable to recognized films that include explicit sex, such as Shortbus. However, the logic that sex within a narrative plot would somehow be  more respectable backfired when my hardcore BDSM scenes were discovered. Although I never said, “At least I’m not doing XYZ,” I was too insistent on making comparisons to independent film. We’re all affected by whorephobia spectrums of sex worker stigmas; when coming out like a porn star, it doesn’t help to throw other kinds of porn or sex work  under the bus.

My checklist of family members whom I want to tell is far from complete. At the time of this writing, I’ve yet to find the courage to talk to my little brother and sister, now in their late teens. We’ve grown closer as they’ve become young adults, and the possibility of losing them shakes me to my core. I tell myself I shouldn’t place such steep fear on their reaction. It’s entirely possible that they already know. They are children of the Internet, after all. But being a sex-positive sibling is easier said than done. When they were going through puberty, I tested the waters by giving them each, separately, their own copy of Heather Corinna’s S.E.X.: The All-You-Need-to-Know Progressive Sexuality Guide to Get You through High School and College. It wasn’t long ago that I’d been in  their shoes. I told them I wanted to be a resource for them, especially if they didn’t want  to talk to Mom or Dad. That was the last and only time my siblings and I talked about  sex, a brief exchange of “Uh-huh” and “Okay.”

Years have passed, and I still want to talk to them about porn at the appropriate time and place. Yes, I know I’ve been stalling. The truth is, I’m scared. I sought out peers  who have children or younger siblings. How did they talk about porn in an age appropriate way? Former porn star (and new grandmother!) Sinnamon Love cautioned hiding information from youth in the event that they find out on their own. She likened it to kids finding out there’s no such thing as Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy. I certainly  don’t want to jeopardize my siblings’ trust, but am I delaying the inevitable? Surely, it will be easier to talk about this when they’re older. Maybe when they’re dating? I’ll tell  them after they have turned eighteen, I’ve reasoned with myself. The countdown hangs  over my head and looms like a prediction for the end of days.

The hardest part of loving someone is the fear of losing them. The thought that I might even disgust them absolutely silences me. Maybe this whole situation is better left  unspoken, I tell myself. My other younger brother found out casually, years before  anyone else. Being only a few years older than him, I felt comforted by our closeness. We used to keep secrets from our parents so I knew I could trust him. Perhaps his nonchalance about my doing porn means my younger siblings will feel the same? I run circles in my brain to avoid the hard part. How deeply have I internalized this sexual  shame? I want to get to a point where the idea of it turning out well is more readily  available than the worst-case scenario replaying in my head.

Maybe it will be easier when I get over it.

I realized early on in the process of creating this book that these stories not only  served my own needs but could also help others navigate the process as well. Having found my voice while writing for The Feminist Porn Book, I was inspired to put these  stories to paper. Books have been written about coming out as queer, as transgender, as poly, and even as kinky. However, Coming Out Like a Porn Star is the first of its kind to address coming out about sex work in pornography.

Where this book fails in scope (writers are primarily American, English speaking, and their eras tilt toward the most recent decade), it succeeds in being one of the more inclusive anthologies to represent a range of marginalized voices from commercial porn. Contributors span people of color, trans and nonbinary performers, people with  disabilities, niche genres, and varying professional experience—from Nina Hartley, a legendary performer with more than thirty years under her belt, to the porn hopeful Verta, who had the door slam in her face before she had a chance. As an advocate for diverse  expressions of human sexuality, it was vital to me that the less-heard voices of my peers ring loud and clear. I’m equally grateful to popular “mainstream” performers whose experiences show that we’re more alike than one would think. Combined, the collection features honest and often emotional accounts from over fifty adult professionals, placing it among the ranks of other big porn anthologies. It may hardly scratch the surface, but it will spark a conversation.

Working on this book has not been easy. Dozens of performers who initially wanted to submit a story later retracted. This might be typical of publishing collections  from various authors and limited budgets, however, in the case of Coming Out Like a Porn Star, contributors have much more at stake. Writing this piece proved to be an  intensely personal process. Even I wanted to recant my own submission. For many peers, the danger of being exposed is simply not worth the risk. I understand that. Coming out is hard enough, but to do so publicly has dangerous implications.

Regardless of the outcome, all the experiences shared in this book reflect the  social stigmas of a culture whose sexual maturity is still in an awkward phase of  adolescence. Where media outlets and public opinion continue to portray a negative, one sided view of porn and its participants, our stories reveal a more honest depiction. We write at a time when sexual knowledge is typically buried in shame, fear, and ignorance. Where hate crimes against people whose gender and sexual expression differ from a  strictly defined template are alarming statistics; the suicide and murder of trans women of color in particular are screaming indicators that something in our understanding of sex and gender is clearly amiss. If our experiences of sexual stigma and its intersections are any indicator of the social inequity of our time, may our words be stepping-stones for increased sexual awareness and nuances to come. And may we come out on top.

 

If you loved this story, buy Coming Out Like A Porn Star.

Porn polymath Jiz Lee has worked in the adult film industry for over a decade, spanning independent erotic films and hardcore gonzo pornography. A versatile non-binary performer, author, and producer, Jiz is a key player in the queer porn movement. In 2007, Jiz launched JizLee.com to chronicle their adventures. Their writing has since appeared in The Feminist Porn Book, Best Sex Writing, OUT Magazine, Jezebel.com, and Global Internet Society Watch: Sexual Rights and the Internet. They are the creator of Coming Out Like a Porn Star, an anthology of essays by adult film industry workers combating sex worker stigma.

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