Working Sex (3 page)

But I reckon today we’re supposed to be beyond all these
mundane, practical considerations. The debate raging now is about aesthetics, about how pornographic images are mediated in the mainstream, and about the lexicon that has developed to accommodate this imagery. It’s all very trendy.

 

i
’m quite willing to bracket everything I’ve said thus far about pornography (I certainly didn’t intend to be an alarmist) and consider the aesthetic dimension for a moment, because I think that’s what ultimately civilizes porn and makes sense of it. The fact that 95 percent of the pornography that is produced today is unwatchable pap can be directly attributed to the advent of video and the concomitant decline of aesthetics. When pornography was being produced exclusively on film in the ‘60s and ‘70s, the emphasis on camera style and narrative and the formal mediation of content—the artistic considerations—were easily as important as the capturing of the sexual moment, which today has become the singular, all-consuming focus.

The digital revolution in general has ushered in an era of literalism, an unimaginative unity of style and substance that reduces meaning to a set of monolithic stylistic imperatives devoid of any complex interplay between the two. The notion that formal aspects may engage content in such a way as to produce contradiction or paradox or synthesis has been subsumed by the slavish capitulation of meaning to
technology and production, to pure form. This is probably one of the reasons why the signifiers of the mainstream entertainment industry and of the adult film industry have started to become somewhat indistinguishable. Their shared fixation on the means of production instead of on the production of meaning has resulted in a somewhat dumbed-down, sexually extreme aesthetic proven to be the most commercially viable: sex sells. Mainstream stars and porn stars alike are forced to conform to the same hypersexualized image, regardless of the nature of the product they’re currently promoting. It’s a bland standardization of sexuality which has little or nothing to do with liberal or progressive attitudes towards sex.

So for me, when talking about the new incorporation of pornography into art and the mainstream, considerations of desire and pleasure, whether sexual or aesthetic, have become a little outdated and naive. (“Desire,” like “gender,” seems like such an antiquated, ‘80s term today—just a phase, I suppose, like the hula hoop.) My initial motivations for getting into pornographic representation, back when I was a punk in the ‘80s making underground fanzines and experimental Super-8 mm movies, were not only aesthetic, but also political and, well, revolutionary. I was a sexual idealist. My work since has been as much about the intersection of race and class with homosexual representation as
about the filming and photographing of hot, sexy boys, as much about examining sexual stereotypes and iconography as about getting off. I can’t deny that there was pleasure in the text, but the text itself was always easily as important. Audiences today, however, are so inured to the blandification of extreme sexual imagery that it no longer has that same kind of subversive impact. It’s just meat now.

M
y phone pounded and flashed from the coffee table. “Welcome to the Jungle” was blaring, which meant Ellen was calling. I decided not to answer. I’d been sitting on my couch for the past ten minutes, staring at the ripped seam of the throw pillow on my lap. I felt ugly and cartoonish. I tried to laugh to myself out loud, but it sounded contrived. I rolled my eyes. I lifted up my arms and put them down again. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to be doing.

It had been one hour since Darren came by to drop off my black and pink shoes. The broken ones with the permanent scuff
marks around the heel. One hour ago, he threw his real genuine silver ID bracelet into the street. It slid across the pavement and disappeared into the darkness. The ID bracelet had been a gift from his grandmother, who had been recently murdered. He immediately regretted the hastiness of his decision. We had been repeating ourselves. Our argument, as usual, seemed unauthentic.

I was sitting in the middle of the alley, in an olive and beige canvas foldout chair. The chair was his, and I was giving it back. It was recently retrieved from my basement, where it had been buried underneath a pile of burnt-out tiki torches. It was now time for us to give each other’s things back. He was slumped against the ledge of a very low window. Due to the complaints from my downstairs neighbor, we had transplanted our theatrical argument to this alley half a block down the street.

I was yelling, saying that he never really knew me at all. He looked distracted and said something totally unrelated. He reached into his pocket. His hand was clenched tight around something shiny. He held it out to me anxiously. I stood up and threw my cigarette on the sidewalk. He wasn’t listening to me. He never really did. He only liked hearing the sound of my voice when I was angry. Or watching my eyes when I spoke.

“I don’t want that. Whatever it is, I don’t want it,” I said angrily. I turned and began to walk toward my house.

“Please, take it.” he begged.

I pictured him standing behind me with his arm outstretched, and I wanted to run. I knew he had thrown it even before I heard the tiny metal chain rattle across the concrete. I listened to it slide across the ground for a moment, then stop. He sighed dramatically, and then there was silence. I quickly walked up the steps to my building and locked the door behind me. I was still for a moment, listening for footsteps, but there were none. I slumped with relief.

 

d
arren had been studying up on professional domination every night for the past four weeks. He had finally come to the conclusion that our disaster of a former relationship had been nothing but a scam. He decided that he had been tricked, that I had tricked him. That I had “dominatrixed” him without his consent. It was hard to take it seriously at first. I had no idea that he had been spending hours on his computer every night. I didn’t know that he had been scheduling fake appointments with local mistresses, making elaborate inquiries, trying to figure out exactly what a guy could expect for $250 an hour.

Then the text messages started. He bombarded me daily with ridiculous messages, each one more offensive than the last:

“Yeah, power fucking destroy men, makes us love you so you can ruin our lives. Really fucking cool, yeah feminism.”

“I only want to be with you, I’m sorry I can’t make you happy.”

“Sorry my dick was not big enough to make you a powerful strong woman. If I kill myself you will be truly fucking powerful. I loved you, and I am shit to you.”

I never meant to tell Darren I was a dominatrix, I just blurted it out one day. It was late afternoon, and we had spent most of the morning at the beach. We were buying beer at the corner store, on our way to a barbeque. While we were in the store, I smiled at him and said, “You know, I feel like we are really starting to be friends, and it’s nice.”

He smiled and looked distracted. “Did you know I used to be a dominatrix?” I said to the back of his head as he reached into the cooler and grabbed a six-pack. He closed the glass door slowly. I felt my stomach tighten. For some reason I wanted to laugh, but didn’t. Instead, I quickly told him I that I was retired. That I had just done it for a while a few years ago. And that I didn’t really do it anymore. And that was that.

I was, of course, still working professionally at the time. Very much so. I had been throughout most of our relationship. It was, I firmly believed, my right to take care of myself. That was my business, and it was none of his. As a matter of fact, I had no interest in discussing my job with anyone.
As far as I was concerned, there was nothing to discuss. Especially not with him. The thirty-two-year-old emotionally unstable alcoholic. The adult infant. Just telling him that I was a retired dominatrix had been such a fiasco. He didn’t have the capacity to understand. So I made a choice. You see, I did actually like him. In fact, I helped him. I confronted him constantly, even though I knew he would repeat his behavior. Like a client, confrontation made him feel better. He asked me to please help him get his life under control. To show him how to behave. He actually said that. He said I was the only reason he had stopped drinking, even though I knew that he hadn’t. I played along even though I smelled beer on him all the time. I pretended not to notice. I accepted his generic displays of affection. That’s what made him happy. He gave me rides. He bought me things. He felt needed. I thought we had a mutual understanding. I never lied about my feelings for him. He just didn’t believe me. He wanted something different.

 

“W
elcome to the Jungle” began to blare from my phone again. This time I answered. “Where you been, bitch?” Ellen demanded. “Ugh, these shoes are driving me crazy today. What are you doing on Sunday? Jim is in town, and he wants to see both of us.”

Jim is in his late forties, and he enjoys business casual. Jim has been embezzling money from the company for years.
Ellen and I find this out one day by eavesdropping on a private phone call. We don’t know what to do with this information. On the one hand, we could do the right thing and turn him in. We might be rewarded with a hefty bonus or a promotion. But on the other hand, this is the kind of information that people would kill to protect. Some people would do anything to make sure their secrets are kept. And I mean anything.

Ellen and I think about this. We discuss it over coffee. We have a girly pajama-party-and-pillow-fight talk about it.
What Should We Do About Jim?
we wonder as we braid each other’s hair. Should we rat him out? If he knew that we knew, we could get him to do just about anything we want, Ellen points out as she rubs lotion on my legs. I confess that I am a little nervous about the whole thing. I tell Ellen I have been really stressed out lately planning my lesbian sister’s bachelorette party. She is getting gay married in June to a Brazilian lingerie model.

The next day Ellen invites me over for a surprise. I am thinking she must have just closed the Rogers account, because she sounds so excited on the telephone. I stop by the store and pick up a bottle of champagne. I slip on my sensible heels and smooth my taupe hosiery. I pat my hair into place and straighten my librarian glasses. I knock on Ellen’s door softly. I call out to her, but there is no answer. The front door is unlocked so I let myself in.

I call out to her again.

No answer.

I see lingerie lying everywhere. I almost turn to leave but then I realize that it is not Ellen’s lingerie. She and I have always shared and traded panties, and I know about every single thong and white cotton panty that she owns. In fact we just love going shopping for panties together at expensive stores. We model them for each other and test the items for durability and elasticity.

Suddenly I hear a door open, and Ellen comes up from the basement. She is dressed for work. Her hair and makeup are impeccable. She looks stunning and severe. “Well, hello Sylvia!” she says with a smile. “Come here, I want to show you something.” I wonder what the hell is going on. Is Ellen having some sort of lesbian experience that she wants me to get in on?

I start to think maybe this has nothing to do with the Rogers account. I follow Ellen down to the basement. She opens the door, and I explode with laughter. I just can’t help myself.

There is a strange woman in the room. She is facing away from me, and she is dressed all in pink like some grotesque little princess. Her golden blonde tresses cascade down her shoulders, gleaming in the dim light of the basement. A sparkly crown glitters from the top of her head. I gasp. She is wearing spiked high heels and white fishnet stockings. Her
waist is cinched tight with a corset. My eyes become moist. A new wave of laughter creeps up my throat. Is that a magic wand she’s holding? I burst out giggling. I think about Ellen kissing this woman who dresses like the tooth fairy. I begin to feel like I am losing control of myself. I am screaming with laughter, and I just can’t stop.

I look over at Ellen, and try to apologize. Was she smiling? She was! “Sylvia.” she says to me, trying to maintain her composure. “I want you to meet Jenna. Jen-
na!!
” she calls out in a singsong voice. “Say hello to Sylvia!”

When Jenna turns around, I just lose it. I scream with laughter. Jenna’s eyelashes are enormous and silver. Her eyebrows are plucked perfectly and are arched very high. I feel tears coming to my eyes as I bite my lip and snort.

I look at Jenna through squinted eyes. My jaw drops. Suddenly, I recognize her. It’s Jim, from the office! Could it be? Jim? In a tutu?! It is! It’s more than I can take. I explode with peals of laughter once again. I howl. I scream. I laugh like it is the funniest thing I have ever seen in my life. Imagine. A man in women’s clothing! Can you imagine? I fall forward and clutch my stomach. I try to speak, but cannot make out any words through the laughter.

Ellen turns to me proudly. “Now we have the perfect entertainment for your sister’s lesbian bachelorette party. Because guess what?” Ellen points at the tooth fairy. “Jenna is
a lesbian, too!” This information starts me off into hysterics again, and after another ten minutes of laughing heartily, Ellen and I make Jenna prance daintily around the room. Ellen tells me that Jenna has been rehearsing some numbers for the party. Before I even have time to react, Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” is thumping from the stereo, and Jenna begins lip syncing, masturbating, and dancing seductively around the room.

“You call that a feminine walk?” I screech. “My dog walks more femininely.” More laughter. Ellen and I kiss each other on the lips and giggle.

“Are you supposed to be masturbating?” we demand. “That’s not how girls masturbate, rub your clit!”

I continue to scream and laugh wildly. Tears are streaming down my face. My head is pounding. Ellen shoots me a secret look of sympathy and sits next to me. We put our arms around each other and laugh some more. We laugh and laugh as Jenna launches into Christina Aguilera’s “Genie in a Bottle.” We get up and take turns pinching and groping Jenna. She blushes and apologizes profusely. At one point, to everyone’s surprise, I slap her right across the face, because I suspect she is looking up my skirt. Seeing her shocked expression makes me start laughing all over again.