Now that “Chastity” has some part-time work with the U.S. Census Bureau lined up, is she going to quit her porn gig? Answers below, but first some leading indicators. It’s been 21 weeks since she lost her full-time technical writing job, she’s applied for four jobs in the last week (no response yet), and her last meal before writing this post was a $2 bowl of udon noodle soup.
R had me over for dinner last week to show me the clip he was going to put up over the weekend. I puttered around his kitchen cooking up kale and sausages and instant rice (oooh, with an almond-lemon-butter sauce!), while he gave a nervous preamble.
I’m in the clip… sort of. I’m off camera for the entire scene, but the girls speak directly to me and refer to me by my stage name. We were trying something new, where they played a game and I kept score. (With a buzzer loud enough to make them jump each time I touched it—a pleasing effect!)
R and I sat opposite each other at his dining room table, nibbling on our sausages in comfortable silence while watching the girls slip their clothes off. Both of us were concentrating too much on the technical qualities of the production to get aroused. We chatted about the need for a third still camera and more flexible lights that won’t glare off of the hideous motel art that is bolted over the bed in every hotel room we’ve filmed in. The screen shook a little while the girls giggled and their breasts bounced. R muttered to me: “Dear god, woman, keep your damn fingers OFF THE ZOOM BUTTON.” Duly noted. Maybe it’s time to hit up the public library on elementary cinematography.
I picked up our dishes and headed towards the sink to start cleaning up. R, who was rummaging around in his cupboard for popcorn to go with our after-dinner movie, said over his shoulder, “You’re not really going to quit, are you? When you begin the Census job?”
I hedged, fumbling with my reply in that aimless way you do when you don’t want to commit yourself too strongly. “Well, I don’t know, I mean, well, I—”
R cut me off. He reads the Slog, too. “Oh, come on! You know that Alexa is a rare exception! I have plenty of girls who orgasm just fine—you’ve seen it! I don’t know what there is to feel ‘ambivalent’ about. How is what they do any different than my getting paid to use my brains—my natural, physical assets—to do my day job, or hell, for you to go work for the Census after passing their exam? I just don’t see that there’s any difference, and I think you’re making something out of nothing.”
We’ve had this argument before, and I lost then, too. Logically, I can’t defend my occasional squeamishness; our girls are over 18, many are well into their 20’s. They choose pornography, maybe not under ideal circumstances, but they are free to quit, too. I’m guilty of projecting my anxieties about selling sexuality onto them. Unlike R, who is some ten years older than me, I see these girls as peers. Inappropriately, I feel protective of the models, though I also envy them their cute frilly underwear and the ease with which they establish a congenial, flirtatious rapport with others. Creating instant trust and chemistry is part of their job description. I’m a bit of an introvert, and can be quite shy in new social situations; being on set feels like being welcomed into a cheery sorority, where there are no outcasts and social awkwardness is easily dismissed.
“No,” I yielded. “I’m not quitting. It pushes my boundaries, which is good for me.”
“Oh, excellent! So, now that that’s out of the way,” R tumbled on, “will you come with me to FetishCon this summer? I’ve already rented a pair of hotel rooms.”
R’s stories from last year’s trip sound like a round-the-clock Bacchanal; one of his silliest clips features a naked model steering R’s rental car up to a drive-through window. I was totally cornered. My mind flashed forward to me attempting to explain to a ticketing agent that a large clear tupperware container of brightly colored dildoes and bottles of lube don’t violate the no-liquids-on-airplanes rule. I sigh. “Ok, ok. I’ll go.” R gave a little relieved cheer, and I wondered what insanity lies ahead of me.
Have an unemployment story to share? Write to jobless@thestranger.com.
Photo by Kelly O
More of an underemployment story, I guess. Makes for great reading, though. Thanks.
You need to grow a pair. Or read some feminist lit. Somehow get the intellectual ammo you need to stand up for the truth you feel in your gut. (The fact that “R” will never get it doesn’t matter. Leave that moron behind.)
Porn has plenty to do with the way so many women who resist whoring themselves out (e.g., you) feel they constantly have to apologize for themselves.
You admire the models: “Creating instant trust and chemistry is part of their job description”—and of course that “instant trust and chemistry” is a lie. Yet you frame it as though there’s something wrong (shy, introverted) with you for not being a whore.
Sometimes squeamishness and anxiety are valuable tools. Listen to yourself. Be yourself. I for one say thank god we’re not all whores.
Will someone please wake me up when this post is over?
You know, you can buy 7 ramen for $1 at Fred Meyer … instead of $2 for one bowl of udon.
Dear Chastity: leave the porn industry. You are a disservice to women who are unashamed of their sexuality and take full ownership of their choices as well as actions. Also? You need to talk with a professional about healthy relationships.
@2’s advice is solid. Also,
“My mind flashed forward to me attempting to explain to a ticketing agent that a large clear tupperware container of brightly colored dildoes and bottles of lube don’t violate the no-liquids-on-airplanes rule.”
Sweet merciful $deity, you *are* new at this. Pro tip: CHECK THAT IN CHECKED LUGGAGE.
People who hate porn:
– the Taliban
– fundamentalist Christian wack-jobs
– some hyper politically correct clench butts from Seattle (probably all the same clench butt writing under pseudonyms) who really should talk to a professional about his/her puritanical hang-ups.
(And yes, I know, she was doing that for effect. But seriously, if having dildos and lube in your checked luggage is enough to make you squeamish, traveling to porn shows might not be the gig for you. For most of us, that’s “going home for Christmas.”)
Sounds like R is bullying you into participating. NOT COOL.
As engaging as this column is, it seems inappropriately titled.
This isn’t the trials and tribulations of the unemployed.
This is just a local complaining about her job. Granted, it makes for wonderful reading, but still inappropriately titled.
@10 and others: point taken about the title, but this feature has been running for some time. Click back through the linked notes and you’ll see that when “Chastity” first started blogging here she was, in fact, lining up to get unemployment. (And I believe she’s still receiving unemployment benefits.)
@11
I hear you. Have been following this one.
Maybe it just needs it’s own spin-off title. Something a little less fatalistic.
Consider “graduating” some of these bloggers to a new feature, titled something like “If It Were Fun All The Time, They Wouldn’t Call It Work.”
Yeah, Stranger Slave-drivers, consider graduating this unpaid blogger to, uhm, a staff position. Clearly a lot of readers enjoy the Inside Porn perspective. She’s looking for more work and you’re looking for more revenue generating content (sex!) – hire Chastity before the empty web shell of the PI figures out what sells and snaps her up first!!
Hey girl (sic)! What’s up?