The list of things I will not do is far longer than the list of things I will do.

For one thing, I won’t get close enough to touch you.

I jerk off. Wearing a mask. You watch. And, no, I will not let you touch me for more money. My job is to cum from across the room. Your job is to watch me cum. If you want to pay me extra, you can see my hole.

I will not play master/slave games. I’m over it.

Ordering around boy slaves is too much work.

Starring in pornography is sex work. The guy (almost never a woman) behind the camera is doing sex work. The guy who mops the studio floor is doing sex work. The software people are doing sex work. The college student setting the lights for the next scene is doing sex work. The guy who drives blood samples to the lab is doing sex work. The woman with lunch is doing sex work. The women in the laundry business who wash the bathrobes are doing sex work. The lab technician who takes the blood that indicates (or doesn’t) HIV is doing sex work. Tricks are watching.

Quid pro quo.

For food, I shoplift. I stuff stuff food down my sweatpants. I am not about starve to death because my values prevent shoplifting from Food Lion. I will absolutely shoplift from Food Lion. If you pay me, I will teach you how to shoplift.

I don’t do grocery store dumpsters. People pick them clean.

So many peopple have lost their jobs. So many people have kids to feed.

Get over it. How hungry do you have to get.

There’s always sex work.

The assistants who provide data that contains the spreadsheets and the cost of new cameras are doing sex work. Anything that involves the sexual grindstone that is American culture’s promiscuous take on sexuality is sex work. The guy in front of the camera is making less than the guy with the spreadsheets.

When I explain to people that I have written twelve books. I take a deep breath – six of those books were porn, and the other six were soft porn otherwise known as American literature. Those books win literary awards that publishers call art.

I am thrown out of agent’s offices on my ear. “We are not reading content for the next decade.” No kidding.

I am thrown out of editorial offices on my ear. “We are not reading content for the next decade.” Yadayadayada. Awards do not matter in mainstream publishing. They do not care. The only way I can survive is taking my clothes off. It’s humiliating.