Working as a part-time porn production assistant isn't what "Chastity," 27, really wants to do. But it pays better than software technical writing, which is what she was doing before the great recession hit, and it helps her stay afloat as she wrangles with the unemployment office and tries to find other work. Still, it's causing her a good deal of internal angst.
This weekend we had our biggest shoot to date—five couples before a studio audience. In such a situation, I try harder than usual to keep my emotional distance from our models and lock down my natural curiosity about their backgrounds or their interest in the industry, mostly because I'm not sharing much about myself, either.
I love to hear about personal lives when it comes up in conversation, however. I chatted briefly with Jenny, a pretty college-age girl who I hadn’t worked with before. She came to us through another girl who modeled with us a few weeks ago. Jenny was doing it half for fun, half for money; so far she had only done nude photos once before. She rambled on about how she had a friend who liked to take “crazy pictures” of her, but “not with [her] clothes off or anything like that” and laughed while she struck an America’s Next Top Model-style leonine pose. My heart kinda broke. By the end of the evening, she had gotten naked on stage and given another man a blowjob in front of a hollering audience.
Most surprising to me is that the some of the girls who do this work very regularly seem to have their fuses blown out, sexually. There isn’t much they won’t do, but they never orgasm. Not really, anyway—and they’ll cheerfully announce this fact when the cameras aren’t rolling. Nor do they frequently have sex at home. For those who actively choose sex work, this creeping sexual numbness seems to me the greatest tragedy of this way of making money. The loss of my desire would provoke a fundamental shift in my character—my sexuality is my sixth sense. The sensual and the erotic make up a considerable portion of my interior life: they are private—to put them on display would be to capitalize on my most fragile and vulnerable self. The irony, however, is that for me to work in this business, I have to be a little numb, too.
The camera provides a substantial shield. I focus on what I see on my little screen, rather than what is just a few feet in front of me. I do periodically find scenes to be exceptionally hot, but just holding the camera denatures the eroticism, reducing it to a series of mechanics as I angle for the right shot. I—and the camera—are a merely a conduit for the masturbatory fantasies of R’s paying customers. This weekend, however, I stood physically between the subject and viewer. For the first time in my porn career, I felt a bit like I was part of the show. R had the luxury of wearing the headphones and standing behind the tripod; I got the hand-held and the position crawling around on the floor. At critical moments audience members laughed or cheered—and at even more critical moments—grunted, groaned or sighed.
It was an interesting weekend, and I have been struggling with whether to block it out altogether or to think-write-think-write-think-write as I try to evaluate my mixed feelings over this whole affair. I quite like R, I like working for him, I like many of our models, I even like some of the people from the audience I met over the weekend, but I can’t shake the conviction that pornography is exploitation, however much everyone involved insists it isn’t. As long as it remains the last viable resort for a young woman, I don’t know how it can be anything else, and I don’t know how I can be anything other than complicit in Jenny’s eventual sexual anesthesis.
Chastity
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Photo by Kelly O
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