The Feminist Porn Book: The Politics of Producing Pleasure (11 page)

48
. Dines et al., “Arresting Images,” 18.

49
. Michael Leahy,
Porn Nation: Conquering America’s #1 Addiction
(Chicago: Northfield Publishing, 2008).

50
. Sarah Stefanson, “Dealing with Porn Addiction,” accessed July 28, 2011,
http://uk.askmen.com/dating/love_tip_400/404b_love_tip.html
.

51
. Boulton, “Porn and Me(n),” 266.

52
. Rebecca Whisnant, “From Jekyll to Hyde: The Grooming of Male Pornography Consumers,” in
Everyday Pornography,
ed. Karen Boyle (London: Routledge, 2010), 115, 132.

53
. Segal, “Only the Literal,” 57.

Bibliography

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Counterpunch,
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http://www.counterpunch.org/2010/05/17/not-your-father-s-playboy/
.

Jensen, Robert.
Getting Off: Pornography and the End of Masculinity.
Cambridge: South End Press, 2007.

Levy, Ariel.
Female Chauvinist Pigs: Women and the Rise of Raunch Culture.
New York: Free Press, 2005.

Paul, Pamela.
Pornified: How Pornography is Transforming our Lives, our Relationships and our Families.
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Plummer, Ken
Telling Sexual Stories: Power, Change and Social World.
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Rubin, Gayle. “Thinking Sex. Notes for a Radical Theory of the Politics of Sexuality.” In
Pleasure and Danger: Exploring Female Sexuality,
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Rush, Emma and La Nauze, Andrea.
Corporate Paedophilia: Sexualisation of Children in Australia.
Discussion Paper Number 90, The Australia Institute, 2006.

“What’s a Nice Girl Like You . . .”

CANDIDA ROYALLE

Candida Royalle,
president of Femme Productions, is a frequent TV and radio guest and sought-after expert on relationships, sexuality, and women’s self-empowerment. She is the author of
How to Tell a Naked Man What to Do: Sex Advice From a Woman Who Knows.
Royalle was a popular adult film star during the “golden age” of porn, between the years of 1975 and 1980. With that firsthand experience, Royalle felt she could effect change within the adult film industry, providing a woman’s voice to a previously male-dominated genre. Royalle pioneered the genre of erotic movies by and for women and couples. Widely used by counselors and sexologists, her work has received international accolades for its sex-positive and egalitarian approach to sexuality and eroticism. In 1995 Royalle, along with Groet Design, a Dutch industrial design company, created the Natural Contours line of stylish and discreet intimate massagers. Royalle has lectured at the Smithsonian Institute, the American Psychiatric Association’s national conference, and the World Congress on Sexology, as well as numerous universities including Princeton, Columbia, Wellesley College, and New York University. Royalle is a member of the American Association of Sex Educators, Counselors, and Therapists (AASECT) and a founding board member of Feminists for Free Expression (FFE). For more, see
candidaroyalle.com
.

S
itting down to an interview, inevitably the first thing I’m asked is how I got into porn. I often get the sense that what they’d really like to ask me is, “What’s a nice girl like you . . . ?” The image of hardened street urchins scraping together enough money to cop some drugs lingers on, despite the flashy celebrity of porn star Jenna Jameson. Our society still can’t conceive that a relatively sane young woman would choose to go into sex work for any reason other than desperation. It goes against all cultural standards of acceptability for women. It is also important to marginalize female sex workers, lest our tender young
daughters imagine a career in what is still considered terribly taboo. One hundred years ago women were declared diseased nymphomaniacs if they wanted more sex than their husbands; today, even though women are granted the right to sexual fulfillment, the double standard is alive and well, and women are still controlled through fear of the dreaded “slut” label. Becoming a sex worker crosses the line into forbidden territory: How dare we use our bodies and our sexuality to earn a living or merely express ourselves? Who gave us the right to absolute control over our bodies and our sexuality?

I wasn’t always a sexual free spirit. Though I experienced sensual feelings when I approached puberty, and ballet practice with my cute neighbor Sandy turned into delicious explorations of each other’s bodies—nongenital but very exciting—I remained a virgin until I got serious with my first boyfriend at the age of eighteen, and didn’t have my first orgasm until I was nineteen (courtesy of the liberating information about clitorises and orgasms in the very first edition of
Our Bodies, Ourselves
). But this was the early 1970s, and the sexual revolution was in full bloom, as was I. I was also active in the women’s lib movement, as it was called then, and contrary to later misrepresentations, the women’s movement at that time embraced sexual freedom and promoted a woman’s right to a healthy, fulfilling sex life.

Many contradictions emerged during that period of the women’s movement. Though a healthy sex life for women was eagerly embraced, some believed that choosing a man for that great sex life was akin to sleeping with the enemy. I began to feel that that anger and finger pointing was replacing the wonderful feelings of purpose and camaraderie that I had experienced with my feminist sisters. At the same time, I was losing interest in my college studies, and my native New York was feeling grimy and unwelcoming. So I threw a few things into a backpack and left for the sunny freewheeling lifestyle of San Francisco. It was there that my foray into the world of commercial sex began.

I cast off my Sisterhood is Powerful t-shirts, and began hangin’ out with the freaks, hippies, and drag queens of San Francisco. Boundless creativity and unlimited self-expression flourished in this magical town that gave birth to the peace and love movement. Vintage thrift shop clothes from the 1940s and 1950s and bright red lipstick replaced the drab gray-brown uniforms of the political movement I had left behind. I fell in with a wild theatrical crowd, from the originators of the infamous Cockettes, an outrageous performance troupe fueled by glitter and hallucinogens that grew out of the gay rights movement, to their offspring, the Angels of Light. It was with the Angels of Light that I made my San
Francisco debut as “The Little Tomato,” covered in red and green glitter and singing an a cappella jazz ditty I wrote by the same name, which I became known for. This was also when I took on the name, Candida Royalle, Candida being the Latin derivative of my birth name, Candice, and Royalle, well, it just rolled off my tongue and I liked it. I thought it sounded like a rich French dessert.

As the daughter of a professional jazz drummer, singing jazz came naturally to me, and my love for scatting led many to describe me as “the little white Ella Fitzgerald”—quite an honor! I performed in a number of a cappella jazz groups and avant-garde theater troupes, as well as my own jazz combo. But we shunned materialism in those days. I made a little money from some of my jazz gigs and occasional sales of my art, but we mostly performed for free. We felt that it was more important to perform for the love of it and to bring free theater to the masses than to worry about making money. One small problem: I still had to pay my rent. And here, finally, is where porn comes in.

Looking for money to support my art habit, I answered an ad for nude modeling. Although I was shy about being naked in front of others—a fact that surprises people since many assume performers are exhibitionists by nature—I had drawn countless nude models in my many life-drawing classes, so I wasn’t shocked by the notion. What
did
shock me was when the agent asked me if I would be interested in being in a porn movie. Having never even seen one, I stormed out of his office in a huff. But my musician boyfriend at the time thought it sounded like a great way to make money, and he immediately got a lead role in an Anthony Spinelli movie called
Cry for Cindy.
Anthony Spinelli, at that time, was considered one of the best directors of the genre. His work was slick and professional and he was a very nice person to work for. I decided to go to the film set to see for myself what it was like.

Contrary to my preconceived notions of porn sets filled with pathetic drug addicts and creeps with cameras, I found a large professional crew (many Hollywood crew people moonlighted on porn sets for extra money), scripts, and a very attractive cast. I reasoned that if people made love behind closed doors and there was nothing wrong with sex, then what could be wrong with performing sexually for others to view and enjoy in privacy? It was, after all, the time of “free love” and everyone was experimenting and taking part in group sex; why not hook up with a good-looking guy or girl and have it captured on film? And get paid for it to boot.

The first thing I did was perform in a couple of loops to see if I could handle having sex in front of a camera and crew. Many of the major porn
stars did these for extra cash on the side but never admitted to it. Lacking any pretense of real moviemaking, loops were created to fill the peepshow booths where guys feed quarters into slots to watch a couple of people do the old “pizza guy delivers and so does she” bit. My first foray into loops wasn’t exactly pleasurable, but at least I felt that I could do it. From there I began the audition rounds where you actually had to read lines from a script to get a role. In those days feature films shot on 16 or 35 mm were the norm and the ability to act was a plus.

In time I gained a reputation for being a skilled and reliable actress who could be counted on to come to the set knowing my lines and deliver a good scene. For some reason I seemed to get typecast as either the wisecracking rabble-rouser and gang leader, as in
Ball Game,
an X-rated girls’ prison movie directed by Anne Perry, one of the few early female porn directors, or my favorite, the totally silly
Hot & Saucy Pizza Girls,
featuring the notorious John Holmes. I was the snooty rich wife who withheld sex from her poor horny hubby in
Hot Racquettes
and
Delicious.
One of my all-time favorite adult films that I was featured in was Chuck Vincent’s
Fascination,
a hilarious romp starring a cute, young Ron Jeremy as a neurotic Jewish guy with an over-protective mother, who acquires a bachelor pad to attract girls. The film featured an amazing cast of talented and funny actresses including Samantha Fox, Merle Michaels, and Marlene Willoughby. I also loved
Blue Magic,
a beautiful period piece that I wrote and starred in, which was produced by my then-new husband, Per Sjöstedt. This was also my swan song to porn . . . that is, porn in
front
of the camera. I hadn’t known then that my expanded role as scriptwriter anticipated things to come.

It was 1980, and after about twenty-five movies in five years, I was ready to abandon porn stardom. Monogamous by nature, I was in love with my new husband and didn’t want to be sexual with other men. I also felt the easy money was keeping me from pursuing other personal career goals that had more long-term potential. Taking time to consider what I’d like to do next, I kept busy earning a living writing for a number of men’s magazines like
High Society, Swank,
and
Cheri.
During this time, I began to feel a growing uneasiness about my time spent in porn films. I felt it was perfectly fine to perform sexually for others to view and enjoy, but I often felt awkward and uncertain about admitting to my unusual vocation to anyone outside my artists, freaks, and merrymaking crowd. Looking to resolve this and other issues in my life, I found an amazing woman, a social worker, who at one time had been a sex worker. She was someone I felt wouldn’t judge me.

In order to understand and come to terms with the choices I had
made, I had to try to separate my own feelings about pornography from what society says about it. I had been brought up to think for myself, but societal and religious influences have a way of permeating our thoughts so that it becomes difficult to decipher what we think as opposed to what we’ve been told to think. As part of this reflective process I explored everything from early erotic art, from the sexually explicit frescoes of ancient Pompeii and the exquisite Japanese erotic art known as shunga, to twentieth-century smokers, blue movies, peep shows, amateur porn, and the big-budget, star-studded features of the “golden age” of porn. When I also examined all the erotic fiction and manuals for newlyweds, from early Japanese Pillow Books and the still popular
Kama Sutra
to the works of Anaïs Nin and the Marquis de Sade, it became clear that people have always been curious about what sex looks like and how to do it, from those who created it to those who consumed it. I concluded that there was nothing wrong with erotica or adult entertainment; we have a natural curiosity shared by our earliest ancestors. But one thing was glaringly absent from contemporary pornography: a female vision or point of view. Porn images and movies have changed remarkably little from the formulas of the early stag films to the films of the “golden age” and still today. Though 1970s culture had changed enough to allow women to pursue active sex lives without the sanction of marriage, porn films still focused mainly on male pleasure, with its laughable depiction of a woman in the throes of ecstasy as her male partner cums on her face, the de rigueur money shot.