I can’t say for sure whether it was a woman squatting over the kitchen sink peeing while watching a gay porn movie that finally drove me crazy or a woman editing the latest episode of A Very Hungry Elves. But at some point, staring blankly at a screen at work, I realized that if I wanted to continue editing gay porn full-time, I needed an outlet, a way to deal with the sexual absurdity I encountered daily. A foundation. A process or at least documentation So, I started drawing.
I’ll never forget one of the first drawings I made. It was born out of the seemingly eternal task of editing gay porn.
Staring at a dozen nameless dicks taking turns peeking out of a makeshift hole I’d made in a dingy bathroom wall. Listening to this on repeat for hours, my mind began to wander, and I began to imagine what else could come out of this gay porn hole. An idea struck me. A big, smug dolphin, sticking out its glossy, smooth nose as if pleased to be a part of the scene I went home and sketched it, giggling as the dolphin took shape. It was a bit of a gay porn rebellion against the monotony of the countless penises imprinted on my retina. My craft has come a long way since then, but gay porn is still one of my best-selling designs.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a phoebe, and I’m not against gay porn.
I’m a kinky lesbian, and I love gay porn and the sex industry. This has been my life for 15 years and what I know best. But nothing compares to the sheer weirdness of mainstream porn, especially for a queer woman in her early 20s who was just immersed in an industry filled with weird niches, lewd themes, and endless sex puns. Working as a gay porn editor was like a crash course in the unknown limits of the imagination, with gay porn covers that make you squint your eyes and “plots” that are pure satire. And yes, I got hooked on gay porn with just one title: Times have changed.
