For someone who views the adult film industry as being somewhat on the sordid side of life, I sure have watched an awful lot of pornography lately. Girls on girls, girls on guys, guys on two girls, I spent the better part of three hours last night watching it all. By the end, I was so inured to its shock value that I actually turned somewhat callous, maybe even a bit blasé. "Oh, yes, here comes another money shot," I'd think with each new video selection.
My initiation into the joys of sexual deviance came by way of Annie Sprinkle—porn star, prostitute, Ph.D. in human sexuality. She was in Nashville to lecture at the Belcourt, though her talk—which was sponsored by the Women's Studies department at Vanderbilt—was more like a sexual testimonial. I'd been looking forward to the event for weeks: here was a woman who'd thrown Jesse Helms and the NEA into disarray, who with the advent of AIDS had begun to advocate for safer sex practices in the porn industry, who had once staged a performance entitled "Public Cervix Announcement." I could only imagine what fun she'd have unbuckling the Bible Belt.
The theater was filled, the crowd a mixture of male and female, young twentysomethings in jeans and post-menopausal women in tweed skirts and smart pumps. There was a sense of enthusiasm, an eagerness to see and hear the high camp and performance art that is Annie Sprinkle's work. In pictures and on her website, Sprinkle's bright-red hair is piled high on her head, and her breasts are oversized, pushed prominently in your face. In person, however, she comes across as plumper, softer, her flowing dress of bright pastels reminding me of the sort you'd see while roaming outdoor crafts fairs.
Any thoughts she might have turned demure, though, were quickly quieted as soon as the performance started. She began with a retrospective of her work in the 1970s porn industry, and from that moment on I saw more penises, more vaginas and more creative uses of both than I ever thought possible. Sprinkle presented the clips as she told the story of her progression from an 18-year-old selling popcorn in an adult movie theater to her eventual foray into the adult film industry itself. She spoke of her transition in the early '80s to directing her own films, a decision that gave her more control over how women were presented in pornography. Without her, people like Jenna Jamison might not have the careers they do now. Pornography is not just a man's world any longer. As Sprinkle remarked, "If you don't like what's out there, make an alternative."
For nearly two hours, Sprinkle spoke, essentially covering her entire professional career. In addition to acting, she's been a painter (using her breasts for brushes) and an activist speaking out for the rights of sex workers everywhere. By the end of it, I had become so desensitized to the sight of naked bodies flashing onscreen that sex came to seem like the most mundane of chores, just another bodily function like eating or sneezing. And this was Sprinkle's point: sex and the human body should be celebrated. They're not something to be ashamed of or hidden, and prostitutes and adult film stars should be embraced, not censored.
Sprinkle made a good argument, but I kept wondering the obvious: what about women who, unlike Sprinkle, didn't choose to become prostitutes on their own accord, what all the sex workers who suffer from poverty, routine degradation and drug addition? Apparently, class divides the sex industry, and it would have been nice to see Sprinkle—excuse the word choice—go a bit deeper with her agenda. She could make a more critically oriented argument, have a discussion that isn't just a celebration.
What I realized, though, was that Sprinkle's agenda was to have no agenda. She is a performance artist, and despite her academic degree, she's not exactly looking to explore new theories of sociological significance. The equivalent of a painting that silently provokes, Sprinkle presents a viewpoint and then leaves us, the audience, to discuss. A case in point was her aforementioned "Public Cervix Announcement." In video from a prior performance, we watched as Sprinkle sat onstage, speculum inserted just as in the gynecologist's office, while a series of audience members slowly paraded by with flashlights, peering and sometimes staring into her crotch. A microphone between her legs allowed one to hear the "oohs" and "aahhs," with Sprinkle offering no comment beyond the occasional, "Oh yes, thank you for coming. Hope you enjoyed it." In all her glory, here was Sprinkle on display, in her words a "post-porn modernist."
If there was any sign that Nashville had been prodded, even provoked, by Sprinkle's talk, it wasn't evident except for a few nervous giggles and averted glances. The audience's reception was overwhelmingly positive, and leaving the auditorium I noticed that people couldn't stop talking about what they'd just seen. Many even lined up at the front of the stage to become honorary sex workers, awarded certification by Sprinkle herself in a kind of mock graduation ceremony (perhaps in honor of Vanderbilt). I may still choose not to rent a nice female empowerment porno on a Saturday night. But thanks to Annie Sprinkle, at least I know the opportunity is there.
