By Sovereign Syre

When I entered into porn in 2011, I was in a relationship that I thought was going to last forever.

So when I found myself single a few years later and decided to enter into the dating world, I realized that my dilemma was twofold; not only did I understand very little about how single people went about being a couple, but when I found one I might want to couple with, I had to figure out how to tell them about my rather unconventional day job.

I know plenty of girls in my industry who have partners who are not in the business and who are quite happy.

Contrary to what people will tell you, just as there are tons of people who would never date a sex worker, there are also plenty of people in prestigious occupations with designer educations that would LOVE to marry a porn star. May not make sense to everyone, but it only has to make sense to the two of them.

When I first became single, I had been doing porn for about a year, but I performed exclusively with women, which, for whatever reason, is more “forgivable” to a lot of people.

I wasn’t really interested in getting emotionally invested in someone else. 

But I also didn’t worry too much about what might happen if I ever wanted to date a “civilian," since I wouldn’t have to explain much more than that I had sex with women on camera sometimes. They’d probably get into a high fiving contest with their friends.

In the first year of being single, I just kind of reveled in my freedom.

I was spoiled. If I wanted great sex with a hot guy who wasn’t going to try to bog me down in emotional stuff, I could just call one of my coworkers.

And so that’s what I did for a while; just slept with my work friends who kept it cool but satisfied the physical urges with the added bonus of no explanations required. It wasn’t until a year later when I started shooting scenes with men as well that it hit me.

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I was at a gas station filling up the air in one of my tires when a strikingly handsome guy pulled up next to me.

He was like something out of a billboard selling cologne, and drove a Mercedes and blasted Band of Horses. He wasn’t exactly my type, but he was certainly good-looking and he was confident.

“I know this is weird, but you’re really beautiful and if I don’t ask for your number, I’ll probably never see you again.”

His name was Paul and he had blindingly white teeth. I gave him my number.

That night we were out on a date. He was courteous and lovely. He had just finished his bachelor’s degree and was contemplating entering the police academy with an eye on becoming a detective.

That all sounded great to me, and I realized that I really, really didn’t want to tell him about myself.

I mean, I was fine telling him about the town I grew up in, that I double majored in sociology and literature, and that I went to a prestigious writing program, and that I was working on my first novel.

I didn’t mind telling him about the past three years I’d spent in New York working as an art model. I just didn’t want to mention what I did now.

I love my job. I think I do something important in its own way. I perform in graphic narratives that people use to get off. I think getting off is a vital part of human life and one that we shouldn’t have to apologize for.

I also realize that reality is a long way off, and in the meantime I spend a lot of my time wading through the bog of shit that is other people’s shame and rage as it relates to their sexuality.

So I didn’t tell him.

I justified this to myself with the notion that, hey, who knows if this is even serious and why weigh it down unnecessarily with all of the heavy lifting of institutionalized sexism that demands very specific sanctions against women that are empowered in any way financially or sexually, and, most especially, both?

I mean, just writing about it is a headache. I can already hear everyone who hates porn weighing in with some hot take that’s most likely based on irrational feelings rather than empirical truths. I digress.

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We shared a sweet kiss. He had a firm body and a pressing desire, but was very respectful in a way that was so sweet it made my stomach turn.

I drove home knowing it was an impossible situation.

He couldn’t really know me to know if things were going to work out without knowing the whole truth, but knowing the whole truth was likely to cut things off at the pass.

I’m pretty good at sussing people out, and he’d dropped enough hints in the conversation over dinner for me to figure out that he’d have some questions about the porn thing and it would definitely cause some conflict.

The chemistry was nice, but I decided that he wasn’t worth the trouble.

I didn’t despair long. My brother came to visit me for the holidays, touting the virtues of a new dating app called Tinder.

A dating site seemed a little easier. I could put myself out there without any pictures from work, get some responses to people that were genuinely into me, and then I could come out if we made it past a few dates.

My phone was buzzing immediately with more “matches” than I could keep up with. Tinder is a slash and burn campaign through the sexual jungle.

I became precise in my rejection of people based solely on their looks, age, or interests. But once again, it’s hard to get to really know someone without revealing a key piece of information, mainly that