I am a Sex Worker. A Phone Sex Operator/Phone Sex Actress. After many years of watching very little porn, I am now watching it. A lot. Everything from vanilla straight sex to gay porn to hard-core BDSM.
I also have been watching real life people have sex for almost 40 years.
Truly, the difference is like night and day.
I consider porn to be sexual hyperbole;
the over-exaggeration of the images of sexual acts.
It’s not common for people to hear that pornstars sometimes fake their orgasms, but when you start to get tired after being ravaged for 5 hours straight, wouldn’t you fake an orgasm too? Nevertheless, it can be heart wrenching for a guy to hear that a girl he has a thing for, has been faking it for most of the sex sessions he’s had with her, due to the fact that not a lot of guys know when a woman fakes an orgasm or not.
Therefore, to help you guys keep an eye out when they’re next watching porn, or when they’re going to have their next encounter with a gorgeous lady, I’m going to spill the beans and tell how to spot a fake orgasm in pornos.
She shares these trade secrets (and elaborates in the article):
When she suddenly…arches her back
When she suddenly…grabs the guy’s head for no reason
When she suddenly…screams too loud
When she suddenly…wipes her forehead even though there isn’t a single (bead of) sweat on her (sic)
If the pornstar in your favorite movie goes from dry to wet within 15 seconds
I often feel men who watch more porn than have real life sex expect us to “perform” like these girls do on film. When I was a lot younger, still quite inexperienced sexually, I used to try and perform because I was embarrassed that I didn’t look/sound orgasmic.
I faked it.
How fucked up is that?
Once I started having sex with girls, I quickly learned all of us sound and look totally different when we orgasm. IF we orgasm at all. (Not everyone does and they should not be shamed for being inorgasmic. Pleasure does not always equal orgasm.)
I’m really glad to read this article Zoe Jaspers wrote because the information/disclosure really needed to come from within the industry. I hope her piece and this blog post can help soothe women’s/people’s concerns about not looking like a porn star when they orgasm.
(That we also do not look like the actors during the rest of the sex acts will be addressed separately.)
I refuse to fake it anymore. And I still don’t sound like a porn star when I cum.
As I begin writing about sex in this blog, you will see me using the word “cunt” much more often than “pussy,” or even vagina/vulva. It is similar to my reclaiming the word “Dyke” instead of lesbian.
A lesbian is a woman who has sexual and emotional relationships with other women. A Dyke is the same… but only more so.
As a midwife, I needed to use proper terminology… it was the professional thing to do. Using the words “vagina” and “vulva” as often as the words “the” and “May I touch?” The vagina and vulva are two distinct areas of the woman’s anatomy. They are often used interchangeably, mainly by men, driving me bonkers. I correct them whenever the issue arises.
“Reappropriation of ethnic and sexual slurs starts as an act of bravado by a few of the oppressed, then may become an empowering mechanism for a much wider community. It’s pleasingly ironic that those discriminated against have learned the Orwellian trick employed by the state and the establishment of hijacking everyday language (as in ‘doublespeak’) for their own nefarious purposes. Alternative discourse ousts and replaces the discourses of power.”
Arguments abound about who can, without judgment, use these reclaimed words. Said in the wrong crowd, one could get someone yelling in their face to shut the fuck up.
It is why I have reclaimed the word CUNT. To me, it is a woman’s genitals, only with more Power. Greater intensity. The cunt has explosive energy behind it. My cunt is in my control and only my control. As a rape survivor, any way I can grab and keep my body is awesome and a requirement for my emotional and physical safety. I give my cunt to the person/s of my choice; no one takes it from me without force.
In Boys on the Side, Mary-Louise Parker’s character, talking with Whoopi Goldberg’s character, struggles with the word “Cunt.” This exchange, while long, is worth the giggle.
— I don’t call it anything. I just wasn’t brought up to talk about a person’s anatomy.
— That’s probably because you don’t have a word for it.
— That’s just ridiculous. I do, too. It just doesn’t often come up.
— Okay. What is this, below the belly button?
— I’m not gonna say ‘pussy’ if that’s what you’re after, okay, I hate that.
— Okay. So, what do you call it?
— Down there.
— Oh, come on! ‘Down there!’
— Well, ‘vagina’ seems so formal.
— But you make it sound like a basement!
— Okay. Honestly?
— Fine. ‘Hoo-hoo’ or ‘cissy.’
— You’re kidding, right? A ‘hoo-hoo’ or a ‘cissy,’ what is that?
— Well, that’s what my mother called it. I had a ‘hoo-hoo’ or a ‘cissy’ and my brother had a ‘noodle’ or a ‘dingle.’
— And that’s what you still call it, huh?
— Well, it’s better than ‘pussy.’ Or ‘beaver.’ What’s that about? I never got that. Or worse…
— Worse? Did you say worse? Now, what could be worse? I have to hear you say it.
— Well, you know. I’m not gonna say it.
— Oh, come on! ‘C-U-N-T.’ Come on, please?
— I don’t think so.
— Please? It’ll free you. Try it!
— There’s a policeman within the sound of my voice.
— Give him a thrill.
— I don’t think so.
— I’m gonna wet you.
— No! You’re such a baby!
— Okay. Come on.
— All right. (whispered) ‘Cunt.’
— What? What was that?
— I said it!
— No, you breathed it! I want to hear you say it.
— All right! All right. All right. ‘C-U-N-T, cunt.’
— ‘Cunt.’ ‘Cunt.’ ‘CUNT!’
I wrote this in the midst of the Stanford Rape Case’s travesty.
(Note: I am purposefully capitalizing the sexual assault Survivor’s pronouns and any words relating to Her to offer Her some of my respect for Her ordeal and perhaps, give Her a smidge of Power back.)
I’ve been following the story of the Stanford former champion swimmer, Brock Allen Turner, and the Woman he sexually assaulted as his sentence (if you can call it that) was handed down by Judge Aaron Persky. You simply must read the entire story to get the picture of the horrific injustice that was inflicted on an innocent Woman as She was unconscious from drinking too much at a college party.
Much has been said about the Survivor’s drunken state… that She deserved it, that it really is so common as to be irrelevant. She was unconscious when She was assaulted. Even if She was conscious (which she was not) still, She was in no shape to consent.
The incredible Survivor’s letter that was read aloud in court can be seen here: Here Is The Powerful Letter The Stanford Victim Read Aloud To Her Attacker. She recounts how Her life has been ruined by this attack and trial. Yet the judge, in his comment during sentencing said about Brock Allen Turner, “A prison sentence would have a severe impact on him … I think he will not be a danger to others.” Fuck the impact on the Survivor.
As can be imagined, the backlash from women around the United States has been swift and intense. A brilliant piece by Katie J.M. Baker of Buzzfeed, entitled We With Pitchforks, aims to shame Brock Allen Turner, imprisoning him for life, all over the Internet, with shame because he never expressed remorse, apologies or was given an appropriate sentence.
I feel a kinship with this amazing Survivor because I, too, was young (I was 18-years old), very, very drunk and was raped with very little memory of the experience.
The legal drinking age in Florida at the time was 18 and I took advantage of that, spending inordinate amounts of money I made at a fast food restaurant on alcohol. I had loads of cash because I was still living at home. I felt free for the first time in my life.
I went to a local restaurant/bar (a famous chain) almost every night after work, drinking a few drinks, eating appetizers and socializing with the boys and men at the bar. The bartender and servers got to know me well because I was (and am) an awesome tipper. I would get delightfully tipsy, sometimes drunk, but could always get my bicycle-riding ass home at the end of the night.
However, this one evening, I met three men and they asked me to join them at a table. I jumped at the chance… they were adorable! I had just been paid and bought round after round of drinks for all of us. I shot tequila for the first time, several shots on top of the amaretto and creams I regularly drank.
One minute I was at the restaurant and the next memory was being on a bed, a gun to my head and being raped by each of the men, one by one. Then memories disappeared again and the next time I woke up I was at one of the guy’s houses, in his arms and hurting so bad it took me a great deal of energy to unwind myself, get up, call a friend (no cell phones) and get myself home.
Where I looked in the bathroom mirror and saw a face I did not recognize. My lips were bruised and bloodied, cuts exposed the trauma I’d endured on my face. My eyes swollen, not quite black eyes, but I expect I was slapped or punched in the face more than once.
I turned from the mirror and stepped into the scalding shower. And scrubbed my body, including the cuts, scrapes and many, many bruises I had all over my stomach, neck, arms, thighs and, most especially, my breasts. It looked like they had used razor blades? Sharp knives? Definitely fingernails. The bruises looked like they had grabbed my flesh as if it was bread dough, squeezed and twisted it. I could see finger mark bruises in several places. When I washed my bottom, the washcloth turned red; I was bleeding out of my anus.
And then, while showering, the image of the gun flashed into my head. Had I tried to fight and they felt they needed to threaten my life to make me lay still?
I especially scrubbed my vulva and vagina. My sore, swollen and bruised vulva. I used a washcloth and tried to shove it inside myself so I could get their filth out of my body. I soaped my fingers and used them to swipe the semen out of me. I know I was in the shower a very long time.
I didn’t cry at all. Of course I know now I was in shock. It took several days before I could think about it enough to feel.
And then cry. (Which I continued doing for years.)
But that day, I did not cry. I was due to go to work at the fast food restaurant so got myself dressed and had my dad drive me to work. (He kept asking, “Where is your bike?” I didn’t know.)
When I got to work, my manager took me aside and asked where I had been the night before. I was confused. Did he know something happened? My friend who came to get me that morning also worked with me, told our manager I had been raped. As if that part of my privacy being exposed wasn’t enough, the manager of the restaurant I had been at the night before called and told my manager that I stiffed the waitress and bartender over $300. Suddenly I remembered I gave one of the guys cash to pay the server when I went to the bathroom. Apparently, he pocketed it. And the server saw me leave a hefty tip… and one of guys grabbing it as he left the restaurant. I was so embarrassed and promised to pay them back immediately.
Talking to my manager, he asked if I knew anything about the guys. I actually (somehow) remembered they were servers at a local Mexican restaurant. My manager and the manager at the restaurant paid their management a personal visit and got the three of them fired that day.
That was the extent of my vindication.
Nowhere along the way did anyone suggest telling the police. It never even crossed my mind. If it happened today and I saw what happened to this assault Survivor, I would never dream of reporting my rapist. Why? It doesn’t change a thing. And, if anything, it smears, smashes and humiliates the Survivor even more… again and again.
It took years of therapy and rape survivor support groups to forgive myself for being drunk that night, to finally believe it wasn’t my fault, that I had not asked for it. The cuts and bruises healed over the first week or so. The inner torment lasted over a decade.
I no longer cry about the experience, have integrated it into a part of my life story and share it when I see a woman beating herself up for putting herself in that position. I beg her to see the reality that we never ask to be raped or sexually assaulted, even if we were out-of-our-minds drunk or drugged. It might take her years and years to grasp even a seed of what I say, but at least I offered her a counter to the screaming voices in her head… and the fucking crap “friends” and family might be saying.
So I share here for the Woman who was terrorized by Brock Allen Turner and Judge Aaron Perksy so She might know She is not alone. I am another woman who knows and understands the shame and humiliation they try to push into our Souls via our vaginas. I also want Her to know there can be joy in Her life again one day. I want to tell Her how proud of Her I am She faced this animal in court even if the judge buried Her in shit with his sentence.
She is not alone. I will think of Her and send Her healing light every single day.
I am up writing at 4am each morning, here, on this blog, what I call my Vanilla Side, writing hundreds of words before having to sign into work about 2pm…then begin writing erotica (porn!) on what I call my Kinky Side… all while fielding calls and hoarsely nudging men and women to their orgasms. I am usually working until midnight or so.
So, while I look up on the Activity Bar, I see SIX open blog pages, all having at least 300 words on them already, a couple double that.
After years of my Word Drought, this is a “problem” I am comfortable having. I just felt compelled to share with you all that, while nothing is popping up in your feed, behind the scenes, I am a typing fool!
People seem baffled at how the GOP can still support pedophile Roy Moore in Alabama. I am not.
I talk to guys who, I am sure, have child porn on their computers. I mean… I know they do. The pedophile community is tight knit and it takes a lot of vetting before you are finally admitted to the grossest club on earth.
That we elected a sexual assailant for president emboldened already brazen men everywhere. Women being mistreated, in public as well as private, over and over as the guys held up the president’s example of (im)proper behavior towards women.
One set of pigs let loose on the farm.
And now we have even more vile animals, cesspool dwellers, silently cheering that, see? their “vice” isn’t that bad. Even the GOP is backing pedophile Moore! Even the president (which isn’t saying much at all). Pedophiles might not come out publicly that they masturbate to (the stolen life of a) child pornography, but I am sure pedophile Moore is getting a slew of anonymous thank you’s.
The Blind Eye is Theirs
Pedophile Moore continues denying what he did because he simply does not see his predatory behavior as anything bad and worthy of admitting to. He honestly feels he did nothing wrong. Being banned from the mall, having to be watched at football games so he stayed away from the cheerleaders, even his thinking he was asking permission to “date” a woman’s daughter… he believes these are all normal behaviors. And they are! FOR HIM!
If a pedophile and child molester had to admit their behavior, their entire world view that includes the realities of justifications and permissions and, “Well, I’m not that bad,” (yes, even pedophilia has gradations) would come toppling down and I believe, in many instances, might even kill them with their own shame. (I hope they choke on it a long time before dying.)
The Moral Bar Falls Into Hell…
… and the GOP has lowered it. That they care more about their “agenda” than tending to a vile, sick, perverted child molester speaks volumes about their morals.
They have none.
All of us poor children who have been sexually abused… all of the children being sexually abused by pedophile Roy Moore’s everywhere, even as I write this… we are all watching.
We are all watching.
And to you boys and girls being hurt, abused and are heartbroken, know there are so many of us out here who believe you and are here for you when you need us.