I’ve always separated sex from love or relationships.
I’ve never been jealous of sex. I’ve always believed that with the person I love, I can share sexual fantasies and experiences. If I love someone, I want the best for him: I want him to do everything he desires, as long as it doesn’t hurt anyone or himself or take anything away from me. Seeing him happy and sexually fulfilled makes me happy — and turns me on even more.

If my partner prefers someone else just because of sex, the relationship wouldn’t have lasted anyway. I’d rather take that risk than live with the idea of sex as something scarce, or miss out on knowing my partner’s deeper desires. Other people don’t threaten me, because I know great sex or attraction can’t replace an entire relationship.

Some people say promiscuity is for the young, and then you settle down and stop exploring. To me, that’s like never going to restaurants again and only eating what your spouse cooks. I love my husband’s cooking — he’s really good — but haute cuisine is one of my passions, and there are dishes I’ll never have in my kitchen. Just like he can’t recreate Alchemist’s tasting menu, he can’t replicate the experience of a gangbang. At the same time, no restaurant can give me the warmth I feel waking up to find my hubby has made breakfast. Love and lust are simply different experiences, and I can’t find a rational reason to pick one when I can have both.

I’d never give up love for lust, but I also wouldn’t share my life with someone who can’t tell the difference. You can’t truly know that difference without experience, and I’m not interested in someone who confuses love with ownership or jealousy. I can’t love someone who passively accepts what we were taught about love and sex or carries social sexual shame without question. I need someone who shares my values — free in mind and body (which are really the same thing).

My only concerns have always been unwanted pregnancies and STDs. People think open relationships mean chaos, but it’s the opposite. It’s about being so blunt and honest with each other that nothing feels like a threat. If I mostly make love with my husband instead of sleeping with other people, it’s because I want to — not because I’m forced into monogamy. The relationship comes first, naturally. I don’t have to choose between love and my sexual freedom.

People sometimes ask if I’m poly. I’m not. One person to love is already a lot of work. I don’t feel incomplete in my relationship — I just enjoy sexual abundance. I eat great food at home, but sometimes I like to go to restaurants. I also can’t imagine loving two people at once. In theory, I have no issue with it; in practice, it seems exhausting. And I’ve never met anyone who stimulates my mind the way my husband does. I also feel many poly people don’t separate sex from relationships, so polyamory is the only way they can explore both.

Long story short: I’ve been in an open relationship for 17 years, married for the last five.

Recently, there’s been some drama within the community, so let’s talk about it.

The most convenient thing for me would be to stay out of it, especially nowadays, when you can be “cancelled” just for what you say or think. But I feel like this is too important not to speak on.

First of all, I want to say that in all these years, I’ve personally never had serious issues with consent on set. Of course, there have been misunderstandings, and sometimes people have pushed my boundaries—whether intentionally or not—but I’ve never felt unsafe while working. I’ve always been able to say “NO” or walk off set if necessary.

That said, I’ve never actually had to do that, because I also try to respect other people’s time, work, and money. My goal has always been to finish the scene.

When I started in 2011, we didn’t talk about consent the way we do now. Before shooting, you’d just sign a basic model release form and show your ID to prove you were over 18. And yes, even if you were clearly older, you still had to show at least one government-issued ID—most companies ask for two.

Today, video releases are standard, especially after the MeToo movement. But back then, only a few of the bigger companies used them. A video release is a short video recorded before and after a scene, where the performer answers a set of questions to confirm they’re participating willingly and understand the shoot.

Before the scene, you might be asked:

What’s your full legal name?

What’s your stage name?

Are these your real IDs?

What day is it?

What day were you born?

How old are you today?

Do you understand the contract you signed—or are about to sign?

Are you under the influence of drugs or alcohol?

Are you aware that this is a non-condom scene?

Have you checked your partner’s test results?

Do you understand that we have a safe word, and you can stop the scene at any time? No one will be upset with you, and you will still get paid. Please say “CUT,” or if you can’t speak, use the CUT gesture.

After the scene, the questions are more focused on the experience:

Were your boundaries violated during the scene?

Were you raped?

Were you forced to do anything you didn’t want to do?

Did everyone on set treat you with respect?

Did you understand the release you signed?

Would you want to work with this crew again?

Some companies also have security cameras running throughout the time you’re on set—just to document everything from arrival to wrap, as an extra layer of transparency and safety.

Now, even on professional sets, there have been cases where boundaries were clearly violated—sometimes by a performer, sometimes by a director or producer (who, in adult films, are often also the performers themselves). In those cases, people have lost jobs and reputations, and I think that’s fair. In more extreme situations, some even ended up in prison or mental institutions. People who enjoy harming or taking advantage of others have no place in any industry.

But we also have to talk about the other side—because it exists too. There have been situations where innocent people lost their careers just because they dated the "wrong" person in the business. When drama like that erupts, both people often end up disappearing, because no one wants uncertainty or conflict on set.

And yes, there have been many cases where performers—often women—have made false statements out of revenge. I know this is a sensitive topic, but it’s important. The media tends to focus heavily on accusation stories, especially when they’re made by women. But we rarely hear about the people who were falsely accused—people who lost their jobs, reputations, even families, because of a lie.

While I fully support the new systems and protocols to keep performers safe, I also think it’s immoral how easy it has become to cancel a male performer based solely on an accusation. That doesn’t mean I don’t believe victims—I absolutely do. But I also believe in fairness and due process.

What I struggle to understand is how someone can go to a shoot, do the scene, get paid, and then go on social media later to complain. I understand that sometimes people have bad experiences. Miscommunications happen. People get mistreated. But why not speak up on set? Why not talk to your agent, the director, or the other performer before going online? And why are words like “rape” being used so easily and carelessly?

If we want to build a safer, more respectful industry, we need to have real conversations—both about how to protect performers and how to handle conflict in a way that’s responsible, respectful, and fair to everyone involved.

The saddest part is that even if a production can prove a performer’s innocence, the companies usually don’t offer any support, because they’re afraid of public backlash. I know of productions that have thrown away entire scenes—scenes that cost tens of thousands of dollars—just because a female performer got a new boyfriend who was jealous of her job.

I also know of male performers who had their penises bitten or broken during a scene, who had to take months off work, and yet said nothing publicly—never accused, never sued. Now imagine the opposite: a female performer gets her vulva or vagina injured by a male partner and can’t work for months. That would (rightfully) be a huge scandal. But why is one story told and the other one ignored?

Being a male performer is already a hard job. Nowadays, a lot of performers use injections to keep their penis hard to make everyone’s day easier—so the female performer doesn’t have to help keep the erection going. This also makes the female performer’s job “easier,” in a way. When I started, injections weren’t as common, and I’ve always looked for a connection with my scene partner—purely physical, of course. Having a penis that’s hard like a glass dildo often hurts, and it takes away the psychological pleasure of being the one to turn your partner on. Now, again, imagine if female performers were pressured to do something similar. It would be considered sexist.

False accusations make real victims less believable—and that’s one of the most damaging things of all. In an industry like mine, where unfortunately a lot of people still believe that just because you do a certain job, you’ve somehow given up your right to say “no” or to complain, it’s even worse. We’re already fighting to be taken seriously when we speak up about harm or abuse. So when someone lies, they’re not just hurting the person they’re accusing—they’re hurting all of us.

I think people often forget that this is a job. It's not just about sex or pleasure—this is work. And working in entertainment, in general, isn’t easy, either fiscally or mentally. Add to that the fact that sex, by its very nature, can be a vulnerable—even dangerous—act. Everything becomes riskier if performers aren’t fully aware of what’s expected from them before stepping on set.

As I said earlier, consent is ongoing, and yes, you can change your mind in the middle of a scene. That’s absolutely your right. But we also have to acknowledge that we’re talking about a work environment. A shoot doesn’t exist in a vacuum. For example, if the male performer can’t get hard, there’s no scene. If a website is dedicated to anal scenes and the receiving performer can’t—or doesn’t want to—do anal that day, that’s a canceled shoot. No one gets paid. The producer loses money on the location, performer fees, agency costs, travel, and cancellation penalties—it adds up fast. So while yes, your body is your own, the decisions we make as performers also have real consequences for everyone on set.

That’s why I always do my research before saying yes to a job. I make sure I like the kind of content the company shoots, and that it aligns with my boundaries and comfort level. After 14 years in the business, I know what I’m into—and what I’m not. For example, I don’t do water sports. So I won’t work for websites that specialize in that. It’s not personal—it’s professional.

Still, misunderstandings can happen. One day, I decided to wear hair extensions, and I asked my scene partner not to pull my hair. But since he usually is allowed to pull my hair, he forgot and did it anyway. It wasn’t malicious—just a reflex from his experience. Did I get mad at him? No. I just told him, one more time: “Please don’t pull my hair, I have extensions today.” That’s why communication is so important, and why we need to make sure that everyone’s notes are heard and remembered, especially when it comes to physical limits.

One time, I worked with a performer who didn’t like facials. For her, getting cum on her face was a hard no—and if it happened, she saw it as a boundary violation. I told her straight up: if that’s your limit, maybe mainstream porn isn’t the right lane for you.

That’s not me being harsh—it’s just the truth. Porn is still a job, and like any job, there are certain expectations. If you’re showing up to a professional shoot where facials are a standard part of the scene, but you refuse to do them, you’re not just protecting your own boundaries—you’re slowing down the day, changing the flow, and making things harder for everyone else on set. That includes your co-stars, the director, the crew, and the company footing the bill.

Porn, is actually the perfect job for people who want to explore their sexuality, learn new things about themselves, and discover new kinds of pleasure—physically, emotionally, and even professionally. It’s about openness, connection, and pushing your own boundaries (safely and consensually, of course). If that’s not who you are—if you’re not curious, if you’re not interested in exploring—then mainstream porn probably isn’t for you. And that’s okay! There are other lanes—custom videos, independent content, whatever.

But if you’re going to be on a mainstream set, you need to understand the kind of content being made, and either say yes to it or don’t take the job. Nobody’s forcing anyone to be here, but once you are, you should be ready to do the work.

Also, I want to say, my favorite kind of scenes were the old Gonzo style. I loved the raw sexual energy of that era. Performers were free to do whatever they wanted, as long as they made it spectacular. So maybe the girl showed up for a blowbang, but it evolved into a gangbang. There weren’t pre-organized positions or a checklist of acts. It was spontaneous, and part of the excitement came from performers exploring each other’s boundaries in real time. But that exploration wasn’t meant to violate anyone’s consent—it was about discovering what felt good together. And the key difference? Saying “no” on camera was allowed. You could stop in the middle of a scene and say, “I don’t like this—do this instead.” And that was totally okay. That kind of openness made those scenes feel more real, more human, and in a way, safer—because everyone was expected to speak up, not just perform.