Mozart Parks a Car

I get a lot of varied responses about my involvement in porn.  When I first started in the industry as a model two years ago half of my friends were worried that I was going to start “making porn,” the other half wondering when I was going to start “making porn.”

A lot of my friends consider that what I do isn’t “really porn.” Which I guess is a compliment?

Usually the response I get when I tell my friends I do porn now is, “Wow, you were always really sexy/pretty/wild/crazy/etc., so I guess that’s cool.” or “Yeah, cash in on that shit!”

My brother worries that I’m too cavalier about the whole endeavor and is afraid of how I’ll feel when I come up against the inevitable backlash from someone I respect/love/etc.  I’m not really worried about that though.  I’m so self involved I rarely worry about/notice what other people think, let alone care.  Nica Noelle once tweeted “My life has an audience of one,” and I tend to agree with the sentiment.

The worst I’ve gotten was from a respected glamour photographer, who is okay with porn, but I guess not my involvement in it.  He said, “You doing porn is like Mozart parking cars.”  My response was “No, it’s like Mozart making porn.”

Then sometimes I get something like this:

    • Hello,
      I was just checking out your new career (upon consideration, it is likely not new) and I wanted to say how rad it is to see you being able to succeed in general without a tremendous amount of that sort of sucking up of self that people seem to regard as normal. It is impressive that you are allowed, no…encouraged to be both cerebral and sexual. Although, I would argue that the two are inseparable, both in you and the world as I see it.
      Best,
      X

    • Hey,

      It’s good to hear from you! Thank you so much. This has been an interesting journey to say the least. There is a lot of pressure to abandon any self at all when you enter into this industry. I have the advantage of not even qualifying to be the typical “porn girl,” so expectations of me are much less stringent.

      Regards,
      S

  • X

    • Greetings! (I feel the need to maintain the letter format in communications, despite the fact that I find all salutations uniformly sickening and trite. I should just start using non-sequiter. Dog vomit! Giraffe panties! etc.),

      I don’t know that I have participated in enough porn to understand completely what a porn girl is. I feel like that debate mirrors the one that people have about homosexuality in which they try to be accepting, but also rob individuals of agency by saying, “She was born this way. She can’t help it.” That always sounds so annoying on some level because it both fuels the false dichotomy of either choosing to be gay/in porn/fat/whatever your socially unacceptable habit is or being born that way. Also, it seems to offer absolution only to those who have fallen into that lifestyle via abuse or genetics or some hideously fated combination. I think these simplifications ring especially a false in a post modern world, where a self is a fleeting fragment of an unattainable whole. So, I guess I am really saying fuck all and musing instead of finishing my syllabus.

      I will say that you clearly are not of the busted face/visible breast implant scar variety that so pain me. But, as my only rule for watching porn be that the woman has an orgasm that I believe, I mostly watch amateur porn or avoid the debate altogether and watch animated porn. You likely are the sort of girl that people feel uncomfortable seeing naked because you challenge their assumptions by being pretty and capable and making a conscious choice to do what you want. That’s probably the best sort. I took an Erotics of Power class at Portland State and one of the girls in my class was Marina from the link below. She was very similar in that she was going to school and was funny and smart and the movies she makes involve her having her head shaved and being stuffed in a barrel. Her work is violent and cathartic http://xhamster.com/movies/480197/lesbian_bdsm_slave_marina.html

      X

It was really refreshing to get this kind of letter in my inbox.  One because it was great to hear from an old friend, but also to hear that I was having some effect on the way someone was receiving the message through my medium.  At the same time I felt exhausted.  I feel very exhausted.

Here is why:

I have a bigger blog coming on why I decided to enter into the industry, I just can’t decide if that’s a topic of any interest to anyone but myself.  Frankly, most of the things I could write about these days are in grave danger of becoming “girl that doesn’t normally do X, writes about doing X!”, which is both trite and tedious.

I’ve always identified as a writer, but as of late have felt quite “blocked” as it were.  I do have things that I want to talk about, I continue to compost (I wouldn’t really call it composing) my novel, meandering through a million plot turns in my mind and researching in an endless feedback loop that verges on ADHD.  The problem is, that upon further consideration, these things end in not seeming worth the effort.  I don’t know that I have anything to say that hasn’t been said more eloquently by those with more stamina or drive to define themselves and champion their causes.

I’m in a strange place right now, where experience matters far more than anything I could say about it.  I just want to see, feel, and do things.  I make pornography because it calms me down.  I’ve never felt more at ease in my life than I do at this moment.  I’m not really very interested in making any statements with my work.  I don’t even really care that much about the finished product.  My main concern these days in in the quality of the experience of making the art itself.  It’s been a relief really.  I find myself less and less concerned that I look perfect in every image or that I come across a certain way on video.

There’s a scene in Sinderella and Me, the porn fairytale by Nica Noelle starring Allie Haze and Manuel Ferrara that comes to mind.  Prince Charmant played by Ferrara, is watching porn alone in his room, and after a few moments, with a resigned sigh, he turns it off.  The moment resonates on a meta level, because there’s something about seeing one of the most regarded male performers of his generation having a moment of erotic/existential ennui.

When I sit down at the table to become part of the discourse on porn as an “intelligent voice,” (whatever that means) I just want point the remote at the internet, and hit the power button.

I call this Mozart Parks a Car. It's my "meta" statement.

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Big Sur

JM Darling helped make a video calling card for me.  Check it out:

Also, some nudes from the trip for you to enjoy!

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Reprieve on the Stoop

This is one of my favorite poems.  It’s by Belle Waring, from her book Refuge.  I’m filming my first adult movie tomorrow.  This has been running through my head all day like a Buddhist chant.

Reprieve on the Stoop
Belle Waring

If your first memory was the arms of your father
about to chuck you out the window of that catpiss
apartment in Downingtown, you couldn’t dream.
You don’t remember dreams, like when I got
robbed, the scumface
broke in my room while I was alone
asleep and naked and when he left
I woke up
untouched. Now if the sun

abides in these brassy leaves
quivering over my ankles which talk
to you and you ask me to sit
so I do–you and I
we’re both alive and how bad is that–on the stoop
like a girl with her front door key on two feet of green
string around her neck, watching the boys shoot
hoops, how they crouch and leap extending to the rim
and sweat on the sweet lunette of neck over their T-shirts

only now we’re not slinking
home for supper in time to boil a pork dog
and watch dad throw his liquid obituary in mom’s
face. We sit down on the stoop and watch the earth
swing her hips to the next dance hit and the dark
slide his arms around her waist. Listen
–I’m not romantic, baby, but I do
know grace when I see it.

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Some Color

It’s interesting how color can change the feel of a photo set.

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No Bueno

My laptop finally died.  I’ve been stuck with a loaner computer without photoshop or the ability to skype.  It sucks balls.  I haz no photoshop to make myself pretty for you! (:_;)

This is me without photoshop. Note the scar above my lip. It's from a Marilyn piercing that my body tried to absorb. They had to cut that fucker out. Somewhere Josh has a picture of me trying to pull it out with pliers. The scar has actually gotten worse over time. Yay! Aging is awesome!

There, that's better. All I have is paint on this effing dinosaur of business machine.

I’ve been silent here for a little while, but its because I’ve really needed to get my head straight and focus on what’s important to me.  Having completed this monumental task in only a week or so, I will now be coming to you with more frequent and focused updates.

This blog will commence with a theme!  So here is my adieu to loose leaf stuff.  Moving forward this blog will be focusing on my exploration of my sexuality with more thoughtful postings on my own sexual practices, sexual practices in general, being in a polyamorous relationship, and being in a sexual occupation.

Of course I’ll be doing it the way I usually do, cutting myself to ribbons with my rapier wit.

Lulz

For posterity:

I'm trying to look like a woman on the precipice of something.

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Fra Angelica

Shooting with Holly Randall is one of the cooler aspects of working in adult.  It’s one of the few chances a regular girl gets to feel like a fashion model.  You’re doted on, you get the best hair and makeup, you get a stylist.  You’re a star for the day and Holly really makes you feel like you’re super special and beautiful.

Still, it can be a little intimidating to step in front of the camera for someone like Holly.  I’ve been modeling in New York City for artist/photographers for nearly two years now, and I’m really comfortable in that setting.  The aesthetic is different (but not THAT different) from the one in mainstream adult erotica.  That’s not to say Holly doesn’t have a discerning  aesthetic, I mean, she did hire me (I mean that in the least pretentious way possible.  I’m not a classic pornbot is all I’m saying), but let’s just say the consuming public may not be readily impressed with what a natural girl like myself brings to the table.

It’s not always easy to look a pictures of yourself taken from every conceivable angle while you’re in weird poses that best showcase your lady parts.

I like this set, and all of the sets I did for Holly because it was fun to show pink for the first time.  I think there’s something really subversive in being photographed so glamorously while doing something so primitive.  I think Ashley Blue would get me on this one.  It’s a humorous juxtaposition when you step back for a moment.

Having said that.  I really like these photos.  I think this was the point when I was finally getting comfortable in the shoot.

Enjoy:

For more sneak previews, check out Holly’s site: HollyRandall.com

XOXO,

Sovvy.

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Girlfriends

I have to say one of the coolest things about being queer is getting to be touched sexually by Madame Rosebud.  I love her.  She is like my brain twin.

Here we are shot by George Pitts.  She’s playing James Dean to my Marilyn as it were.  Whatever that means.  I’m guessing after the fact.  She is a genderfluitransman.  I am a woman who loves her sexually.  You figure it out.

Click the link to see the rest of the gallery: Genderfluidtransperson

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Marilyn

This is the first poem I published. I wrote it when I was 18.  I was a sophmore in college and contemplating majors.  My English professor suggested I write a poem about what I thought it meant to be beautiful.  We started talking about Marilyn Monroe.  Like most poems that you end up liking, I wrote in about ten minutes.  It’s early and full of all the mistakes that come with doing something for the first time, but I’m fond of it, because it was the first thing I published.

Marilyn

There was a time when dirt and hormones covered me in a sticky film, so thick I could scrape a trail down my arm, and see my adolescence compacted into a single black arc under my fingernail. When I was thirteen the heat of my cheek withered the grass and I could press my ear into the darkness and hear the world turning on the axis of my atoms. June bugs hissed in the humid folds of my dark blond hair, dragonflies rolled their tongues along the brackish crevices of my knees. The back door creaked and framed my father like a dark knight, the sun beating his retreating silhouette into the pits of my eyes with trailing bullets of color. The wind blew the leaves together in muted applause when I rose up and pushed the bodice of my dress taught over my swollen breasts, knotted with the fibrous lumps of puberty. The neighborhood boys walked past the back gate and rolled their damp eyes over the curve of my back. The pucker of her hard lips pressed my back flat into my bed, the short bursts of their breath spread my thighs in rhythmic worship. There was a time when I spilled out of my dress like an overripe fruit tree, onto the slick pages of magazines and left behind a legacy of sticky fumbling in gas station bathrooms. Words came out of my mouth light as spun sugar, dissolving on the pillows of starry eyed orphans. I came down like an incubus on dark haired soft bellied little girls, coaxing fingers down their throats, and teaching them to turn away from their mothers ashamed. I spent so many years crouched in dark hotel rooms chasing flashes of armor across mens faces that I forgot how the slope of my own nose looked. I woke up thirty years old afraid to look in the mirror distorting me now like a body of water, bloated and blanched and floating. Lines ran down my face the echoes of hidden frowns, tears cast into the corner where no one could look. Age walled me up like an anchoress, counting pills like days, from memory, slowly hardening loneliness. The years bring me grubby fingered minions afraid the world will forget,nailing my picture to the weeping willow overhead, lips spread, arms open. Girls tucked neatly into white cotton panties wet their tender lips with crimson lipstick, and suckled on the pink marble nipple of my grave, until their affection eroded it into the coarse teat of a bitch. In the white silence, the tuning fork of death strikes the earth and shakes loose the pollen. I can hear the morning dew quiver of the web, the roping steps of the spider on the leaf. What you can’t hear. What you can’t know.

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A Different Kind of Sex Doll

This is a photo of me by Creative Rehab.  I really like it.  I was hungover after a night of getting plastered with Matt Berry and his mates in a hookah bar on the Lower East Side.  I really like this picture.  I like the way my body looks in it, I’m like a plump little sex doll.

Also, note the blonde bush.

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Cinema

I’m coming to terms with my freckles.

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