Coming Out Like a Porn Star – ed. Jiz Lee

[Feminist Press; 2024]

“Sex sells” but no one understands the labor that goes into that sentiment better than workers in the sex industry themselves. Pornography is perhaps the most well-known form of sex work. More than half of Americans have seen pornographic material in their lifetime, myself included. My early encounters with porn were the occasional Tumblr pop-ups with hasty backclicking, alarmed that I had scrolled too far to the “wrong side of the internet.” Since those teenage years, I’ve learned a lot more about that side of the internet and the sex industry—from my first job at a literary agency where I helped an agent promote a memoir about professional BDSM, meeting community sex educators at media events, and having friends involved in sex work. But, even armed with that knowledge, the world of the sex industry can still feel foreign and intimidating to me. Oftentimes, the sex industry can seem bold, brash, and boundary-pushing at a zero-to-a-hundred pace. So, I was surprised when I found the collection of essays in Coming Out Like A Porn Star to be not only informative and thoughtful, but also emotionally intimate in a way that porn isn’t known to be.

Coming Out Like A Porn Star is billed as a “cult favorite” and “sex work canon,” having found its place among feminist book clubs, independent bookshops, libraries, and universities. (A first edition was published in 2015.) In the anthology, Jiz Lee, editor and queer porn performer, collects essays from workers in the adult industry about navigating public expression and private lives, from coming out to family—parents and children alike—to navigating the dual identities of stage names and day jobs. The scene further unfolds in this second edition with the expansion of technology, artificial intelligence, and the receding boundaries of privacy on the internet.

As the title promises, there are many straightforward “coming out” stories—from writers’ first time on camera to navigating conversations with friends, family, and strangers. Many use the essay to explain their values or reasons for this career choice. Among them, several carry a nostalgic tone, speaking to their love of porn and its community but also fears and worries for the industry ahead. A few take a broader academic perspective, like Dr. Loree Erickson’s discussion of porn in the classroom and Jet Setting Jasmine’s manifesto-type approach. Performer Dale Cooper’s essay responds to an email that asked him for advice about sexuality, directing the addressee to CCleaner and computer privacy tools, as well as the Biblical book of Samuel. One contributor, King Noire, doesn’t write a narrative essay at all, but rather responds to a Q&A interview about his career as an established performer. With sixty essays, the anthology explores “coming out” through many interpretations and voices.

Moreover, this collection expresses a less-than-unified message. Similar to the LGBTQ+ community that the anthology draws its title from, the experience of “coming out” is varied. Some porn workers describe unexpected warmth from parents and family; others are impelled toward new, found families and communities. There are also variations in how deeply porn is embedded as part of their identity. For example, Lee describes their own experience in front of the camera as a “clearly defined container offering distinct boundaries.” However, such containers do not exist for others. Some performers demand privacy through their choice of audience. One queer porn personality, Cinnamon Maxxine, unilaterally rejects her stepmother’s argument that “because it’s on the internet for everyone to see, it’s fine” for everyone to know. On the other hand, “educatrix” and writer Tina Horn discusses publicly moderating a panel on sex work, stating, “Of course we bared ourselves in public! We’re porn stars. That’s what we do!”

The stories also differ with the use of stage names. In one essay, freelance designer and web developer Kriss Lowrance who uses their birth name in their work for porn sites, describes the “stage name [as] a necessary defense . . . a shield not only against harassment, stalking or loss of privacy.” However, producer, editor, and director Edward Lappel denies that the use of stage names are truly intended to conceal involvement in sex work. He writes, “When your face, among other parts, is up on screen, plausible deniability is difficult to maintain.” Alternatively, writer and podcaster Connor Habib openly claims his stage name as his “real” one after ten years as a porn performer.

If a reader comes to this anthology looking for a clear, universal thread about porn workers’ experiences, they will not find one. The curation of these stories, although lending insight and clarity to the labor that goes into the adult film industry, shows a clash between sex workers and the stories that shape their lives. The large range of voices collected in this book can come away as dissonant and incongruous. As a reader, it’s easy to be overwhelmed and step away uncertain of the anthology’s message. However, this range of narratives ultimately serves to complicate and bring depth to the two-dimensional films and fantasies that color the screen.

The history behind pornography and erotic depictions reaches as far back as the Stone Age. However, the modern day American porn industry has its roots in the California Supreme Court Case on California vs. Freeman (1989). It ruled that performing sex for pornographic films did not count as prostitution; and overnight, the industry took off. Primarily based in California’s San Fernando Valley, the adult film industry grew in the sixties and seventies. However, that “golden age” of the pornography pales in comparison to today’s landscape. The current adult film industry is heavily shaped by “tube sites” (e.g., Pornhub, RedTube, XVideos, YouPorn, etc.) and creator-based platforms, such as OnlyFans. According to Statistica, Pornhub alone saw over eleven billion visits from global users in January 2024. In 2023, OnlyFans, primarily driven by sex workers as “content creators,” had 230 million subscribers. The declaration that “sex sells” is not to be taken lightly at all—nor the labor of the industry’s workers.

After all, sixteen years before California vs. Freeman, the US Supreme Court had struggled over the definition of “obscene” in yet another Golden State–centered case: Miller vs. California (1973). The court had landed on the decision that “obscene” material could be banned, so long as it was “utterly without redeeming social value.” And yet, many of the writers in Coming Out Like a Porn Star openly argue on behalf of their work’s social and political value. As sex educator and performer Jet Setting Jasmine describes in their essay, citing inspiration from Audre Lorde, “Pleasure is my politics, and I’m its staunchest advocate.” Many of this anthology’s writers take similar pride in their work, identifying as activists or sexual revolutionaries.

However, as seen throughout Coming Out Like a Porn Star, there are also variations in this viewpoint. One performer, Siri Dalh admits to “struggling with that label [of an activist]” as much as she embraces it. In advocating for the validity of sex workers, Dahl acknowledges her activism is based on self-interest to continue her “dream job,” but also recognizes that “to the average porn viewer, I’m not a real person.” Hayley Fingersmith, in writing about how queer porn spaces allowed them to come out, also acknowledges the objectification that occurs in pornography. She writes, “They say that doing porn turns you into an object. In the lens, you are not a person with love and sadness and needs and mortality. Instead you become a doll, something to be looked at and lusted over, masturbated to, and eventually forgotten.” She discusses the safe and affirming spaces in the queer porn industry that gave her the freedom to come out, but also doesn’t deny the challenge that porn stars face in being seen as more than just a product. One anonymous writer, who describes leaving their full-time job in porn, grapples with the balance of trying to depict the work—which they loved and still do part-time—with honesty. They explain the importance of rules and a positive workplace, but also admits that they “went in with sex-positive blinders on, not wanting to admit that some of the detractors of the industry were right about problematic aspects.”

Angela Carter’s The Sadeian Woman tackles the idea of moral pornography and frames it as “the total demystification of the flesh and the subsequent revelation.” It attempts to recenter the human context of the body, reminding us that even in an act as basic as sex, we all bring our own histories and lives to the bed. Similarly, many of the writers in the collection focus on their work’s humanizing reality. As pornographer Jackie Strano writes, “I have personally helped people have healthier lives and helped them accept their authentic sexual selves. . . . I am proud of standing for safe, nonjudgmental access to sex information and quality products.” This approach to porn is also seen in sex educator Betty Blac’s essay where she mentions using her platform for teaching. “It felt good that people would come to my cam shows thinking they would just get off, and instead left learning better ways to please themselves and their partners,” Blac writes.

While many of the writers in this anthology strive to change the industry, many also recognize the problems of misogyny, dehumanization, and racism entrenched in the porn industry. Just as Carter describes the dangers of universalizing pornography as “fantasy love-play of the archetypes,” Blac also recognizes that “mainstream porn relies on stereotypes.” Blac’s essay focuses on racial stereotypes that she has experienced, but she isn’t alone. In his interview, Muslim performer, activist, and artist King Noire addresses the racial and religious fetishization he has faced in his career. He writes about turning down racist and oppressive roles, but also admits that “when [he] was younger, either [he] wasn’t fully aware of or didn’t have the opportunity to turn down certain projects.” It indicates broader and larger industry forces at play. In her essay, Blac actually explains her departure from the industry, admitting, “I wish I could say porn has always been rewarding and that I feel better for being in it, but that is not the case.” The anonymous writer who left their full-time job in porn, acknowledges “the very real problems inherent in such a male-dominated and commercial industry” and admits “when [they] left that job, it was an enormous relief.”

Mentions of the commercial and mainstream porn industry are surprisingly sparse throughout the book, but its influence reigns large in the background of these stories. While many who write these pages cheer on small productions, queer, alternative, and indie porn, it’s also notable that much of the new dangers in technology are from mainstream exposure. In one essay, an anonymous writer confronts the internet’s new dangers and facial recognition software, admitting: “When I made porn, I consented to the technology of the time; I had no capacity to imagine what the internet would be fifteen years later . . . I do not consent anymore.”

For some performers, today’s technology is tied to being outed in the “tap of a computer key,” stalked, threatened, and harassed, or even used for non-consensual deepfake pornography. This occurs to another performer, Jessica Starling, who describes her horror and disgust upon discovering deepfake technology uploaded to Pornhub, superimposing another woman’s face onto her body. While we often consider how deepfake pornography is used to humiliate and degrade the woman whose face is supplanted onto the sex performer, Starling also reminds us of the worker whose face has been erased. She describes the dehumanization of these distorted lenses, arguing that “the sex worker, then, exists as a medium for metaphor, always a symbol of someone else’s ideas, wants, and fears. Deepfake porn is a literal and digital manifestation of this.”

And the technology continues to snowball. According to Wired, nonconsensual deepfake porn videos are becoming overwhelmingly pervasive. Just between 2022 and 2023, Wired reported a 54 percent increase on uploaded videos, not including private groups or closed channels. The availability of AI tools to the general public in the past year has also continued to widen the floodgates for deepfake images. Furthermore, technology’s dangers extend beyond the screen. Across several essays, writers refer to an event that occurred after the first edition of Coming Out Like a Porn Star was published: Over 15,000 sex performers’ personal data was leaked from a health center and used to maliciously dox them on a website. It revealed addresses, contact information, and legal names of performers, family members, and children. An anonymous writer acknowledges that years later, “people have dealt with the fallout and found ways to move on,” but reminds us, “there is no happy ending here.” Here, where technology looms omnipresent and we watch the unrelenting destruction of privacy on the internet. It is where the fight for one’s image can seem an impossible battle. Despite the anthology’s self-described “cult” status, Lee also acknowledges “[it] may have barely moved the needle.”

Still, coming out is exigent in this fight. After all, coming out demands a human face and story. In sex performer Zahra Stardust’s essay about her campaigns for political office, she says, “Being out and proud is a strategy of visibility and activism.” In light of industry threats, this repeated self-identification among sex workers becomes a drumbeat to the call for personhood. Performer Lorelei Lee describes coming out as an endless cycle. “It happens over and over and over, and it is never over,” she writes. And yet, the anthology’s contradictions and complications further flesh out the porn industry. The anthology, with its wide variation of essays and voices, presents a more nuanced and ultimately humane view of pornography. The openness, vulnerability, and even doubts among some writers reject the universalizing of porn that Carter describes as “reduc[ing] the actors in the drama to instruments of pure function.”

Despite, or rather because of the underlying discord across the essays and narratives, readers are obliged to grapple with each writer’s story—encountering and assessing them as unique individuals with their own lives, experiences, and voices. Ultimately, the anthology presents a hopefulness toward changing social perceptions of porn workers and the industry. Facing challenges from industry giants, technology changes, and loss of privacy, the work of this anthology and its authors feeds the idea that the industry can be changed by the people who make it. So they aspire to march on; or, as Carter writes, “fuck their way into history and, in doing so, change it.”

Helena Gabrielle Ong is a writer, artist, and producer. She’s a member of the editorial staff at The New Yorker. You can find her online at www.helenagabrielle.com.