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Get Paid to Fuck!

On Wanting to Be a Porn Star

I wanted to be a porn star once. Even more fabulous than getting paid to fuck (one of my favorite activities), the idea of responding to the totally banal dinner party query, “What do you do?” with, “Porn!” was irresistible.

I have watched an incredible amount of porn in my life. I’ve been watching porn, in fact, since I found the channel on the TV as a child. It rarely is about the porn, it’s the fantasy of watching other people having sex.

The most memorable porn I ever watched was one I caught channel surfing at seven, maybe eight. I never found out what it was—sometimes our memory of a thing is better than the thing itself. In the scene I caught, there appeared a woman, a gorgeous blonde in a white dress, the sort you imagine when you think of Ancient Greece and its pantheon of gods. The woman was wearing a white mask, shaped like the face of a bird, with a small golden beak. She came upon a man and straddled him. As he devoured her, she called out, like an eagle.

It was all the introduction I needed to fall desperately for aesthetically pleasing, well-orchestrated, reality suspending renditions of sex. It only followed that later in life I would gravitate toward big-budget productions that focused on such matters. In fantasy, there is no space for the reality of stretch marks and badly shaved cunts. I wanted gorgeous, impossibly perfect Barbies riding cock then and I still want it now.

It’s all visual. Despite being a writer, I don’t necessarily care for storyline in porn. I don’t need the whole story. I don’t care about character development. Give me a slice of the moment, the rawness of seriously fucking someone with every aspect of your body.

One day it occurred to me I could be a porn star. It was a short-lived desire. See, I’m a writer; I can’t help it any more than I can help breathing. Sometimes, I sell my words. Nothing can make me loathe writing more than writing something I’m not into. What made me think it would be different with sex?

It’s no different.

The task of creating fantasy is daunting. I’ve modeled: it’s not play, it’s work. And mind you, that’s just posing. The kind of porn I’m talking about is a dance, an orchestration of two or more bodies trying to maintain their balance on the axis of illusion.

Forget it. I’d much rather sit in front of my 72″ television and watch Jenna Jameson fuck Briana Banks.

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AV Flox is the fabulous editor of Sex and the 405—what your newspaper would look like if it had a sex section.

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