The apartment where I’m staying has two banks of windows overlooking the plaza. In the morning the sunlight streams in with a glorious vengeance. Bolstered by the three-hour time difference, my memories of California all include these solitary, sun-streaked mornings idling away the time before shoots.

The building’s elevator began listing its floors at 4. After a day or two I realized the three floors underneath were occupied by an enormous clothing store.

“Solid top and skirt, no black or white”, said my wardrobe sheet. I’d brought no such thing, but didn’t mind the excuse to shop. I browsed the store and found nothing to my taste. For the first time I can remember, I didn’t like this season’s trends at all; draped jersey, bubble hems, empire waists and leggings did nothing for my figure. Not to mention, the thought of venturing out barely-clad in leggings and a tunic was mortifying. Was this a symptom of maturity?

Having this blog has not yet prompted me to post smut. I still write smut, and I still don’t post it. What I do write about is the boring stuff: all the musings about porn and sex work, once removed from the fun. The mechanics are of much less concern to me than what I take away from them.

When I set out to write a blog I wanted to avoid all this metachat, to present seemingly only the experiences, but to spin the tales so artfully that readers could not help but be brought to the same questions without realizing it. That might take either a writing class or some self-discipline.

It’s been a year since I first shot with these guys. The terror that I’m doing something stupid, for which I will suffer and be punished all my days, is somewhat diminished. It’s been replaced by a quiet reassurance. I do still have odd turns, when I think about my parents finding out, but thoughts of telling them with college degree in hand are heartwarming. I knew I might be taking a fall by doing porn, but I also knew that it would not ruin my life. And if living well is the best revenge … Well.

Clients ask me every day: Are we sick? Are we weird? And to everyone who asks, I answer: No. Sexuality is nothing but variations, and without us it would have no substance.

Of myself, I ask the same questions, and I still lack the goddamn certainty.

Intellectually I know by this point that I am sane and, if not normal, well within documented variations.

Half of it is my struggle to overcome my upbringing, believing that sexuality is worthless and shameful. And half of it is my struggle to accept and understand my kinks. It’s scary that I want to hurt people. It’s frightening that I want to be hurt. Even when I do pursue my fantasies, there is fear in living them out. Perhaps nothing but the passage of time can ease my apprehension.

Then again, my clients do their part. These people, these fantastically successful people, have grown up to envy me. Me! This does not fill me with despair, but with hope. I look forward to growing up right. I will never be twenty-one again.

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