What does the end look like?

A story on retirement, by Kelsey Miralles

The first time I gained consciousness was on a porn set, mid-double penetration. I suspect it was from all the deep breathing I was doing. It takes intense concentration to relax your sphincter muscles, your pelvic floor, your gag reflexes all while your body is telling you to run away. If I focused on my breath, I could make it to the next position. And if I made it to the next position, the scene would eventually end. If I focused on my breathing, I could ignore the overstimulation around me, and open my body to receive. The studio lights, cranked to their full capacity, didn’t exist anymore. The cameraman with the rig was an illusion. The producer in the corner, peeking up from her phone and reminding me to open up, wasn’t even real. It was only me and my breath, surviving another scene. When did this stop being fun? I couldn’t remember.

Twenty minutes into the scene, I became unbothered by my surroundings. I wasn’t even there, as two men I just met performed a synchronized dance of fucking my face, asshole, and pussy. I was on auto-pilot, moaning and writhing in false ecstasy. I think I was an octave too high, as my performance became grating to my own ears. My irritation was building, as I shifted from total dissociation to a hyper-aware state. My scene partners' medically-induced erections were pissing me off. They felt like swords to me: too stiff to be natural and too sharp to have near my eyes. Before I let myself become too aware of my behavior, I would slip outside of my body and disappear. Sometimes I would catch a glimpse of myself on the way out. Maybe I was bent over a piece of furniture, or I was struggling to keep the vomit down (I never figured out the gag reflex thing), but I couldn’t look for long. This was no longer how I pictured my life. Certainly not the week before I got married.

When the scene ended (always on my face), I rushed to the bathroom to wash off before my eyes started to burn. I joked to the crew that this was my bachelorette trip—Vixen flew me out to the Dominican Republic for two scenes the week before my wedding. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect, and I felt I was finally cashing in on pornstar perks. For the price of my asshole, I could experience a once-in-a-lifetime vacation somewhere tropical and remote! But it was neither a vacation, nor totally private. I saw families walk the same beach I was being photographed on. I tried to conceal my Blacked.com branded bikini as moms and dads with small children avoided our presence. I felt embarrassed to be seen. I felt ashamed to bring my sexuality in public. "Please don’t look at me” I thought. Averting my eyes from tourists and locals, and my reflection in the camera lens. This isn’t really me.

Eventually, I touched down in Los Angeles. I was able to squeeze in a couple more shoots before the big day, and make the most of my 14-day STD test required for performers to have unprotected sex. I was addicted to this lifestyle, of working nonstop and buying whatever I wanted. I loved seeing my calendar fill up months in advance. I loved watching my bank account grow. I loved spoiling the people who were still present in my life, sharing my money and making their day with a crisp $100 bill. I worked constantly because I knew this was only temporary, and I wanted to hoard all I could before it was over. How much money is enough money? I wasn’t sure. The more I earned, the tougher it was to see the finish line. Before my wedding day, I stopped into Cutting Edge Testing, an STD-testing service pornstars use for next-day results. I was so regularly putting my health at risk, that it wasn’t abnormal for me to put my partner’s health at risk too. There was nothing I could do to take back my actions of the past two weeks. I peed in the cup, and clenched my fist as my blood was drawn, hoping I didn’t catch an STD. I wish I prayed.

The next day, my wedding day, I was in a state of pure bliss. This was the beginning of everything I’ve always wanted. I was so lucky to find my perfect counterpart, someone I asked the universe for– there was no question we would make it a legal partnership. We liked the public display of commitment. We loved each other deeply. Our friends met us at the Santa Barbara Courthouse and it rained all day long, a torrential downpour that was unusual for the area. It never let up. It felt like magic, spending the day huddled under umbrellas and avoiding puddles in the cobblestone. I wanted to live in this moment forever. Before we exchanged ‘I do’s’, I received a phone call I was halfway expecting. If it’s good news, there’s no news. If it’s bad news, there’s a phone call. I answered, ‘Cutting Edge Testing’ on my caller ID, and my stomach turned, sinking to my core and taking my heart along with it. “Hi April—You have chlamydia.”

My fears were confirmed, I had an STD on my wedding day. As much as I tried to keep my pornstar behaviors separate from the idealized version of myself, a fantasy at this point, I couldn’t outrun them. This was my reality. We exchanged vows with this knowledge in the back of our minds. I was ashamed again for letting my life get this extreme.

It still took me months to quit porn. I was married and shooting as often as I could. I was saying yes to everything. I couldn’t even recognize my own boundaries at that point. What was going to stop me? It wasn’t going to be me. It wasn’t going to be my new husband. He was my support system, he would never stop me from pursuing my career to the fullest. I was afraid of quitting too soon. There was still so much of myself I could sell. I could profit from sex for another 2-3 years realistically. Plus, if I quit now, were these last three years even worth it? I was living in constant dissonance, knowing my actions were not lining up with my innermost beliefs. My mental health was in decline and my body was contracting infections at a higher rate now. I was earning more than ever, but I felt low, useless. Stuck. I often cried for my inner child, and wondered how I would get us out of this mess. I needed a miracle, so I started talking to God. “Please save me. I changed my mind. I don’t want this life anymore.”

My miracle arrived only a couple months later. It came in the form of an eccentric middle-aged woman named Faith. I was boarding a flight to LA after visiting my mom back home, and was exhausted, dehydrated, and high off a 100mg edible. My mom was recently diagnosed with cancer, and my husband and I visited her home in Missouri to discuss options. The trip was heartbreaking. I was afraid my mom was going to die. I was high and emotionally cracked open as this kooky woman on the plane tried to make conversation with me. As kind as Faith was, I insisted I was tired and brushed her off. I was putting on my headphones when she said, “You know your mom’s going to be okay, right?” The atmosphere around us shifted, and I began to cry. “How did you know that?” I didn’t tell her a thing about my life.

Faith was an angel. A shamanic high priestess, she revealed. I didn’t know what that meant at the time. She read me for three-and-a-half hours, the entirety of our flight, as I dipped in and out of a trance state. I saw blue and green waves of light between us. It was unbelievable, this energy exchange, and it defied everything I knew about the physical world. I can’t remember everything she told me, but I remember speaking honestly, more honest than I had ever been with myself or another person. I tried to be this way in therapy. Instead, I paid $200/session to weep quietly to myself, 8 weeks in a row. Yet, this was different. She pulled out my pain and let me look at it. I was no longer hurt and afraid by what I saw. She left me with this: “There are two paths in front of you.” In one path, I get everything I want in my marriage and career. In the other path, there is only darkness. It was as simple as that. She was hesitant to go deeper. I still wonder what she saw on the path of darkness. I don’t believe porn to be the path of darkness, but living a life I no longer felt comfortable in, was.

I quit sex work the next day. I was asking for a sign, and instead was met with an angel on an airplane who told me it was time to call it. I listened to this gift the universe gave me, and my life was forever changed. “I won’t be the one to change your life,” Faith told me. “It’ll be because of your actions.” I make significantly less money now. That was hard at first, realizing the fast cash was never coming back. I would have to be okay with $250/day rates, a fraction of what I was earning before. I would be expected to lift heavy objects, drive a cube truck, and get my hands dirty. I was not expected to have french manicured nails, or wear a full face of makeup, or be hairless from the eyebrows down. I could be myself, and keep my clothes on. I could eat a full lunch because I’m not afraid of my stomach bloating. Nobody is going to see me naked today. I cried a lot on my way home. I was so grateful to finally be aligned with the life I was transitioning towards.

I understand this may be difficult for some to ingest. We are not allowed to talk about our bad days in sex work. They will be sensationalized and misconstrued, and used as a cautionary tale for all that dare enter the adult industry. I say bring on the cautionary tales— the more we know, the more we can work to improve our conditions! Sex work shaped me into the person I am today, the woman I love and respect. I admire my bravery, my bullshit detector, the relationship I have with my intuitive body and spirit. These qualities would be underdeveloped, maybe never even recognized, had I not jumped headfirst into porn. Yet, we would be foolish to ignore the hardships that come with using our naked bodies for income. It’s complicated, merging sex, money and our identity, but it’s our reality. We are human beings deserving of love and safety. You are allowed to talk about your bad days. You are allowed to change your mind- and another life will await you once you close the door to this one.