Around the World: Amsterdam

The center of Amsterdam’s tourist area is beautifully tacky. Stores hawk sexy spandex versions of every costume a person could possibly want. I bought a condom with a blue mushroom shaped like a teapot on it. It was marked with a warning: not for insertion.

About a month before this video was shot the women who work in the red light district were protesting the continued closing of their windows. One of the signs said “Don’t Save Us, Save Our Windows.” According to Felicia Anna—a window worker who maintains Behind the Red Light District in both English and Dutch—the windows are a dutch sex worker’s best option for self-employment.

I found a window that would allow me to film and rented it for a few minutes. Apparently I have a thing for running around places dedicated to sex in my underwear, and more of a thing if the place in question might become extinct.

Then I took Mickey Mod back to my hotel room and we had sex together. I learned how difficult it is to operate a camera while receiving oral sex. I wrote him a check afterwards, from the Stoya Inc business account, to pay him for his performance and the release of rights so I could sell the scene.


(click the picture to watch the scene on

I put my clothes back on and wandered out in search of food.

Every time I got lost the narrow cobblestone streets returned me to the Oudekerksplein, similarly to how Las Vegas’s wide corridors always spit me out in the casino.

Every time I found myself back on the Oudekerksplein I saw the statue of Belle—dedicated to sex workers all over the world—and the Prostitution Information Centre, which was opened in 1994 by retired sex worker Mariska Majoor.

Every time, I was awed by how organized and political the women working in Amsterdam seem.

The PIC wasn’t open during my stay, but I did touch my fingertips to the door and think “Fuck yeah, self-employment.”




Graphic Depictions, Scene 03


Christian has one of the sweetest dispositions in adult entertainment and a beautiful Texan drawl. Dana Vespoli is a stone fox and a stone cold pervert. I adore them both, all the more for their help in bringing a longtime fantasy of mine to life.

For years I’ve been trying to find a reason to make a rhinestoned banana phallus that ejaculates whipped cream. I have no clue how the image got into my head, or why it showed up every time I was asked to come up with concepts for a stage show or photo shoot. 

But it did. And when someone asked for specifics about what Graphic Depictions would involve, that sparkly yellow dairy product shooting cock was right there blocking the rest of my vision.

So I tried to make it a reality. I acquired dildos that ejaculate and could be strapped on. I found out the hard way that silicone is a major ingredient in most of the secret blends used to make lifelike dongs. I also found out that silicone is one of the few things e-6000 glue can’t stick a rhinestone to.

I went back to the drawing board. Literally. I tried gold leaf, researched materials and glue, thought about molding something myself. 

I found a maker of glass dildos and inquired about the possibility of having something hollow made. They said no, since hollow glass can shatter inside an orifice. I explained that the abrasive quality of rhinestones—an inherent part of what gives them their sparkle—would preclude insertion regardless. Swore up and down it would not actually enter a hole on anyone’s body.

They agreed to make my banana cock. I sent over the names of the specific colors to use, tried my best to explain the stone placement method I use to achieve maximum sparkle, and worked on how I would install the squirting mechanism once my phallus arrived.

When it arrived two days before the shoot it looked like a pineapple. 

Bananas and pineapples are both fruit. Both have a decent amount of vitamin C, though pineapples do have more. However, only one has lots of mildly radioactive potassium. Only one is associated with cream closely enough for the whipped variety to seem even remotely logical bursting out of it. And only one has a history of suggesting fellatio when eaten whole.

Turns out there’d been a communication error between the glassblowers and I.

An impromptu performance of temperamental artist hysteria ensued; foot stamping, tears, declarations of postponing the project, the whole nine yards. 

And then someone asked if a regular banana would be ok. At that point, as long as a male bodied person put it in their mouth a regular banana was totally ok.

Graphic Depictions Episode 03: A woman with huge tits and a banana. A man who loves every inch.







I was having drinks with a friend during the early stages of winter. They invited another friend, a small-framed woman, to join us at the bar. After she arrived, after glasses of whiskey and shots of whiskey and still more glasses of whiskey, she said something about having a dick.

I don’t remember if it was about wanting to have a dick, or curiosity about what it would be like to have a dick, or happiness that she did not have one. I’d had a lot of whiskey, and I was distracted by her shell-pink lips.

I do remember exclaiming “Dick for a Day!”

Dick for a Day is the name of an anthology published in 1997. Fiona Giles asked a number of women to write about what they would do if they had a cock for 24 hours. Some of the pieces are brief opt-outs: the writers would stay in bed and try to sleep until it went away, or their behavior wouldn’t change. Others are a window into a very binary kind of feminism. Many are more about the power and respect assumed to accompany a penis than about the actual cock.

I tracked down a used copy, had it sent to my apartment, and passed it to that woman with the beautiful mouth through our mutual friend.

Less than eight weeks later Kayden Kross picked me up from the Los Angeles airport. Over dinner we discussed the last bits of pre-production for Screwing Wall Street and then we headed off to The Pleasure Chest to purchase me a cock of my own.

See, the freshly minted “Wall Street Porn Star” wanted toys in her scenes with other women. 

So Kayden bought me a cock. And a harness. The last time I’d tried to fuck someone with a strap on was in 2007. The hardware has gotten a lot better, in both form and function.

I felt perfectly comfortable with my ability to stand there, torso leaned slightly back to avoid blocking the light, and get my dick sucked. I was deeply unsure of how to penetrate a person’s vulva without nerve endings on the parts I was putting in them and how to keep our bodies open to the camera from the phallus-having end of the situation. 

But I’d been on the other end of it a number of times and I had two male performers willing to show me the ropes. For missionary and doggy there’s a twist of the hips and a bending of the dick in the opposite direction, or another option for doggy called the up-and-over—that shot frequently dominated by testicles and man-taint. This is one of the reasons longer penises are considered an asset for male performers.

As I said goodbye to someone who was leaving set, I went to hug them as I would normally do. They didn’t want my hug that day because they didn’t want to be poked by the rigid thing protruding from my crotch.

We started shooting the sex scene. After the blowjob, I bent Veronica over a desk chair and positioned the head of my cock at the opening of her vulva, gently pushing in. I heard an “ow.”

I froze and waited for her to move away at her own speed. Asked if she wanted to scrap the strap on or do most of the active fucking herself. We tried again, there was another “ow,” and then my dick went out the window—or actually into a garbage bag because re-using penetrative toys is generally frowned upon for sanitary reasons.

We scissored instead, and it was less awkward than having a penis. Which really says something.

Cocks: You can keep them.




Hot [Redacted]

That’s his identifier in my phone. Hot, [Redacted]. Fantastic to fuck with.

He’s got those beautiful torso muscles that happen on people who do things with their whole bodies. A coherency of flesh that just isn’t replicated by targeting muscle groups at a gym. 

When I told him he should take my phone number, that he should pick a day and arrange something casual but date-like, I thought we’d be all physical.

But he’s two for two with book recommendations. The first thing I find appealing about this is the fact that he reads. The second thing is that he recommends books I haven’t read yet, and so far do like. 

This loaned copy of the second book, The Dispossessed, has underlined parts, giving me a snapshot of their mind however many years ago when they first took a pen to it. I like this mind. 

He said his bookshelves were all political theory and sci-fi. I said they were the same thing. I also see the second half of Sid Meier’s career as wonderful propaganda though, so clearly I’ve got some opinions about speculative entertainment.

The two cats I live with are less likely to complain about noise than Hot [Redacted]’s two roommates. Most of the time when we’re together we sprawl in my bed, our limbs tangled. No pants. I refuse to choose between squeezing him with my arms, hearing what he says, and kissing his mouth.

He said something deeply romantic once and I responded with “swoon.” He said no, he was the one swooning. I said “Ok then, you swoon. I’ll bask.”

Later he wrapped one of his hands around my ass and trailed a finger across my labia as I laid across his chest. Finger fucking as an enjoyable means more than hot pursuit of end. 

Don’t get me wrong—the latter is great—but sometimes it’s coming like a test of endurance. Unsure if the orgasm is being wrung out of my body or if my body is wringing something out of myself. Giggles afterwards because I can’t believe I survived the violent implosion.

The former is slipping under the surface of a warm bath—coming as being wholly engulfed. Relaxing into the scent of him, which I can only describe as hand sharpening a pencil in the middle of an old green forest.

I hate camping. I love the way he smells.

Another day, I’d woken up on a friend’s couch in a bunny costume with dirty feet from walking barefoot in the city. I know it’s a terrible habit but I’ve had all my shots. Hot [Redacted] picked me up, took me home, and brought me pizza while I lounged in the bathtub. 

He looked at me, with mascara smeared around my eyes and greasy cheese on my chin, and deemed me perfect in that moment. 

I looked at him standing in the doorway, and I fell. Hard.




The Squee and the Chill

Early exposure to Fosse, my time performing at notorious late-night theatre/den of debauchery The Box, and that first viewing of Cafe Flesh. Maybe a dash of James Bidgood’s work and process. These are the major influences that added up to be Graphic Depictions.

I’ve now seen Cafe Flesh too many times to count. Paul Fishbein (one of the founders and former owners of AVN) asked me to talk about it for his Showtime documentary “X-Rated: The Greatest Adult Movies of All-Time” on the history of adult films and my god, did I babble.

And then one day I had a reason to try and get in touch with Rinse Dream, director of Cafe Flesh and quite possibly the most difficult former pornographer to track down. Eventually, with the help of a couple of other former pornographers, Mr. Dream’s email address was acquired.

I actually squealed, out loud. The cats flattened themselves to the floor and stared at me with huge eyes. Half an hour later, I’d re-written the subject line approximately fifty times and started in on the body of the email.

You’d think that by twenty-eight I’d have managed to develop some chill. Or if I couldn’t have chill of my own I’d’ve found a synthetic substitute to keep in my pocket for when it is needed. No such luck.

(If this next story seems well rehearsed that’s because I tell it to everyone who proclaims their own giddy nervousness when meeting me at a convention, and nine times out of ten it does seem to put them at ease.)

In 2010 Terry Gilliam was at a party. I was also at this party, and someone offered to introduce me to him. We walked over and the person making the introduction said “Terry, this is Stoya. She’s a big fan of your work. Stoya, this is Terry.” And then I said “ohmygodYou’reSoCool(gasp for air)CanITouchYou?”

Exactly like that. All the words smushed together.

Terry—who is the only person who can say what was going through his head at the time—replied “Sure.” So I slowly reached out with one of my index fingers, poked him somewhere in the vicinity of his bicep, and squealed.

The person who’d introduced us apologized to him profusely while gently pulling me away.

Earlier this year I was in a sketch for The Daily Show. They were filming in Vegas. When I checked into the Bellagio the desk clerk asked if we could talk about the email address the room had been booked with. I didn’t want to talk about the email address because the address belonged to someone from The Daily Show and telling a stranger what I was in town for felt like it might jinx it.

I did tell the desk clerk, and it didn’t jinx it.

I woke up the next morning and put on my professional face, metaphorically but also physically because there is, after all, a certain look which reads on camera as “porn star” and that look requires a certain amount of makeup.

I made it through all of the hellos and the whole day of shooting. On my way out the producer thanked me for being a part of the show.

That’s when I SQUEEd. All caps, high pitched, then words rushed into each other (as one does when they’re extremely excited and have no chill.) Absolutely paragraphs of OMG fell out of my mouth. I’m pretty sure I actually said I ought to retire immediately because I doubted anything cooler was in the cards for my career.

There’s no point to this post other than the fact that while some of us have chill, some of us really, really don’t.




Graphic Depictions, Scene 01


 Jiz Lee is everything delightful about sex poured into the body of an often-naked genderqueer hero. Lily LaBeau is one of the most gorgeous creatures to ever share her vulva with the world. They’ve gazed at each other across the places they perform in for years. Now, here, they are finally coming together. And we get to watch.

Is porn reflecting life or is life reflecting porn?

The answer is both. But if we’re defining pornography as portrayals of sexual subjects for the purposes of arousal, we can’t neatly parse specific activities or habits into the separate categories of ‘sex’ and ‘pornography’. This is because all partnered sex involves observation of some kind, though not necessarily visual. 

Each layer of being observed tends to bring an increase in reaction to that observation, a heightened degree of communication via moans, panting, writhing.

Have you ever masturbated alone at home with the doors locked, window coverings drawn, and lights off? If you have, I’d guess you were much more internally focused than you are when having sex with a partner. 

Now add a partner to that pitch-black room. Assuming all five of your senses are functioning typically, you can smell their pheromones, taste any part of them you put your mouth on, hear them mutter unintelligible nothings or shout commands to keep going, and feel their warmth and sweat.

Take that same partner and turn the lights on: you might become more conscious of the parts of your body on display to them, and appreciative of the visual stimulation their body may provide. 

Bring other people into the room: the sexual acts you’re engaged in take on a degree of performance, both for the pleasure of your audience and as something the two of you might take pleasure in—you might derive enjoyment from giving others a show.

Now imagine yourself in front of a camera and absorb the knowledge that the resulting video will be seen by unknown thousands, hopefully millions, of people: this is what working as a performer in adult videos is like. 

The ways in which people have sex in pornographic videos are a natural, authentic response to all those layers of observation.

So what we have here, in this scene between Jiz and Lily, is an ouroboros of looking. They look at each other, and both know that I am looking at them. We are all aware of the crew, the camera, and the collective weight of all the eyeballs that will hopefully view the resulting video.

Also, they’re beautiful and covered in rhinestones and have sex with each other. Which is a major part of why we look at pornography, right? To watch people having sex together?

Watch it now on





Tubes vs. Torrents: the Ethics of Piracy

While the cost to produce a work and the need to recoup that cost in order to make further production feasible—much less a viable career—does bear mentioning, more interesting to me are the ethics of piracy.

The adult film industry has been in a downward spiral of budget slashing for years. Performers’ rates have remained generally unchanged while inflation increases each year. Long term crew members have found themselves replaced by inexperienced people willing to do their jobs for lower pay. The quality of videos made under these conditions tends to suffer.

It is easy to point at online piracy as the reason for the declining sales that are causing these budget cuts, but the situation isn’t quite that simple. 

A long time ago, when the internet was much more like the Wild West and adult video companies made their money selling VHS tapes to brick and mortar stores, everybody charged too much for their product. Rather, they charged what the upper limit of what the market would bear, knowing the consumer didn’t have many options.

As access to the internet became more widespread, studios popped up to serve the new digital market. This prompted established production companies to either build their own commercial web presences or sell the rights to their back catalogue for pennies. Shady business practices abounded, including hidden add-ons—inconspicuous pre-checked buttons signing the purchaser up for extra services at extra cost unless actively un-checked, similarly to Columbia House’s negative option billing system—and alleged double-processing of credit cards. In his book Beaver Street, Robert Rosen provides rare documentation of a scam involving High Society magazine, in which users were asked to verify their age via credit card information to access an ostensibly free tour and then auto-billed $60 a month.

Not that business practices ranging from disingenuous to fraudulent are unique to pornography. Ponzi schemes have existed since the early 1920s, and product subscriptions like Enzyte and Proactiv can be notoriously difficult to cancel. But dirt is always dirtier when it’s in porn’s backyard.

By the mid 2000s when free tube sites full of explicit streaming videos arrived on the scene, the online porn viewing audience was primed to adore them. They’d been overcharged; they’d been taught that giving their credit card information to an adult site could result in theft. It is difficult to blame them for choosing to watch stolen and freely distributed content, given the risk involved with paying for it.

According to a 2011 feature in New York, a man named Fabian Thylmann bought a company named Mansef in 2010 to mash their tube sites and other properties together to form a new company called Manwin.

Take a minute to look at that name: Manwin. Man. Win. The name seems to drip patriarchal entitlement.

Manwin’s tube sites enabled users to upload whatever they pleased, including videos owned by other production companies. All this free porn helped Manwin grow the traffic flowing to their websites. 

As you may already know, when consumers view content on free sites (whether blogs, news outlets, or porn tubes) they’re paying with clicks. While that doesn’t cost the consumer anything, it enables the website they’re clicking on to generate money.

Manwin used their traffic to sell ad space to those same production companies they enabled theft from. Production companies paid a lot for banners. Manwin then began buying the companies they had helped devalue, including Digital Playground—the company I was contracted to for a number of years. I believe the worst sorts of capitalists would consider Manwin’s behavior a win of the highest order.

I see a major difference in intent between torrents and tube sites. With regards to pornography, tubes and torrents are diametrically opposed reactions to the infinite reproducibility of online content. 

Torrent sites like the Pirate Bay seem committed to freedom of information and freedom of speech, hosting anonymous leaks exposing government and corporate misconduct alongside copy written entertainment media. One founder, Peter Sunde, has been incredibly vocal about the overreach of proposed laws like SOPA and PIPA.

Aside from notable exceptions like WoodRocket and PornTube, most of the major tube sites are owned by Manwin (now called MindGeek.) The Manwin/MindGeek network of tubes looks like effective, market crushing monopoly and many of their properties have engaged in “settle or we’ll sue” tactics—directly targeting individual downloaders with lawsuits demanding inflated payment for product viewed—known as copyright trolling.

Would you care to guess which one I’d prefer you pirate my work from? As TRENCHCOATx starts to release the first pornographic videos I’ve directed (and funded) into the world, I’m wishing the Creative Commons had an Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike-NoTubesOnlyTorrents license. In lieu of that, I have this blog.

So I’d love it if enough people paid for Graphic Depictions to make it possible for me to make more things like it, but I don’t believe in copyright trolling or cracking down on sharing. Create all the GIFs, clips, and screen grabs you want (just know that the rights to the music belong to Sxip Shirey) and share them with the world, but please don’t charge people for them and please keep the name of the project attached. And please, for the love of all things filthy and explicit, keep it off the damn Manwin/MindGeek owned tube sites.






Almost a decade ago, another lifetime entirely.

When we met he asked if I was old enough to drink. I responded by sucking a mouthful of well whiskey through the tiny straw, spitting it in his face, and then licking it off.

I wasn’t old enough to drink.

We both kept the same late night hours. I’d just moved to southern California for the first time, drifting without my social group. He’d pick me up in his car and we’d drive all over Hollywood and the Valley in the middle of the night, talking about absolutely everything. I bluntly flirted and got the slightest hint of interest in return: much discussion about the impropriety he’d exhibit if he were to become physical with me.

One night we drove all the way to San Diego. I think I’d said something about still being unsure the Pacific ocean actually existed. Why he took me that far to stick my feet in it I don’t know. But he did, and I waded in as the sun came up. It smelled very different from the Atlantic and was much colder.

We got coffee after, and he insisted on paying. In the car on the way back to LA I then insisted on blowing him. Finally one of us had checkmated the other.

A week later we stopped the car in what looked like an empty field, or whatever barren space of sand and dirt served for an empty field in Burbank. I crawled over him, into the drivers’ seat. Flipped my body upside down, firmly clasped my legs around his neck to press my cunt into his face, and swallowed as much of his cock as I could. 

When we were done I dismounted. Rolled back to the passenger side. And spotted a cyclist. 

We’d parked smack in the middle of a bike track and dawn had come while we were distracted. A veritable marathon of 30+ people were cycling around the car. He hurriedly zipped up while I maniacally giggled. 

We ran, metaphorically. But we were safely ensconced in the vehicle and the car was fast enough to escape before someone reported us for public lewdness.

The head of his dick was pierced. Still is, as far as I know. Although I wouldn’t be in much of a position toknow as I haven’t seen it in years. 

I’ve seen him lots since. Slept next to him in his bed, been analyzed by him in ways I wouldn’t take from most friends, much less a stranger—regardless of whatever psych degrees they might have. 

Almost irritatingly, he’s always right.

During the period of our lives that we were fucking he had special condoms with a baggy tip. When people ask if I’ve ever had sex with someone with a ring through their cock, and then ask what it’s like, I hedge my response with the preamble that I’ve only had one such partner.


It’s like all the rolling internal stimulation of being fingered by an expert with all the entwined bodies and pelvic bone-to-clit sensation of being fucked by someone with a penis. 

We were once friends with benefits. Now we’re friends, without benefits and also without the “just.”





I’m not releasing anything yet, so I know I’m just being a tease by talking about shooting explicit videos. 

But there’s something I like about being a tease.

There’s also something I like about booking shoots. I like telling the director of photography what energy and aesthetic I’m after, adore working out scheduling to get the talent I want. It makes me feel like a boss. 

A fucking boss.

Last week I carefully shuffled through the slushy streets of New York, occasionally jabbing the heel of my boot into an unavoidable patch of ice. I was on the way to a photoshoot for an unspecified fashion magazine. Everyone on the team (except the makeup artist) was a young woman in college. 

They had a shot list. For a magazine editorial. I was blown away by the level of organization and professionalism they were operating at.

When the day was over I walked up to the village. Frozen rain hit me in the face, and I thought if these kids are any indication of our future then the future is gloriously bright.

Neither of the projects I just discussed have a release date.

There’s a time warp that happens with production of media. Things are shot but release dates depend on the schedules of editors, publications, and—in the case of my explicit videos—billing processor approval. 

Conversations about work frequently go like this:

“What’ve you been up to?”

“[insert project here]”

“When does that come out?”

“That depends on when ____ and ____ happen.”

“When is ____ going to happen?”

“Good question. I have no reasonably accurate answer.”

So in the meantime, here’s a box cover and a still from Dana Vespoli’s Fluid 3. It releases on March 11th. I’m honored to have had the opportunity to be directed by and work with her.