I bought a notebook today. I might very well be the only pornography actress in history, body sheathed in some pseudo-silken robe scribbling furiously in her composition pad as six swinging dicks perambulate in the peripheral.
And I am sure at this moment at least a handful of Virginia-Slim-smoking, Anne-Rice-reading dilettante actresses are reading this page, scoffing at my presumption in calling myself an actress (while they dutifully receive their daily protein-intake from the giving end of some executive producer's limp dick). Which is fine. But I don't believe that art (and expression) can be so easily bracketed. Summed up into something nice and wholesome then wrapped in the thespian strings which hold an entire class of expression close to its greedy little chest.
Well, I have news for you: pornography is the most raw, passion-fraught form of art that can ever hope to be encapsulated. It depicts release in the forms of the emotional as well as the chemical. It triggers that response that all life is stemmed from- that same response that has driven kings to their knees and Average Joes to their basements alike. It is the universal response. And every time I lie on my back, feeling every greedy, passionate eye in the room fixated on my body- feeling that palpable stilling of breath in the air around me- I become something more than art. I become woman in all her consummate, unbridled glory.
You actresses mimic a contrived emotion. A mere echo based upon the feelings of something fictional rather than anything real and visceral. It's all fiction. That same emotion? I release it.
Who is selling their body now?
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