JUST PUBLISHED: Would you ever film adult content once in your life?

At some point in a modern relationship, someone always asks the question. No, not “Do you see a future with me?” That’s far too rational. I’m talking about the question that tests your self-esteem: “Should we film ourselves having sex?”

Mine started with an adult board game—the kind designed to spice things up. The winner got to pick a card and claim their prize.

My boyfriend of four years won. His prize card? “Choose any sexual favour.”

And just like that, he chose a homemade sex tape. With a plot. Dialogue. Possibly a backstory. He didn’t think I’d say yes. But I did. Out of curiosity. Spontaneity. Horny optimism. And because, deep down, I thought it might turn out like The Notebook. That, and we were deleting it straight after. 

POV: You’re Not Jenna Jameson 

I watch porn. I thought I had the blueprint. In my head, I was going to be sensual. Romantic. Cinematic. But the video wasn’t The Notebook. It wasn’t even Notebook adjacent.

We filmed it. He watched it. I watched it.

For three seconds.

“MAKE IT STOP!” My eyes were burning. My soul was burning. No one wants to see themselves like that. 

The Betrayal of Watching Yourself Naked

I wasn’t even paying attention to the sex part. I was too busy staring at my stomach like it had personally betrayed me.

Why is it folding like that?

Is that…a double chin?

Do I always make that face? 

Meanwhile, my boyfriend watched the clip like he was reviewing a short film for Sundance. Calm. Proud. Possibly thinking about submitting it for awards.

Men love watching themselves. I watched the sex tape like a forensic analyst reviewing crime scene footage.

Elevator Striptease: Because Apparently, I Like Suffering

Just when I thought I was done with filming anything remotely sexy, I dated someone new. Different man. Different fantasy.

He didn’t want a full sex tape. He wanted videos of me stripping. In public.

“It’s the thrill,” he said, “of maybe getting caught.”

Ah yes. The timeless foreplay of potential arrest.

So, there I was, standing alone in a mirrored elevator, wearing a trench coat with black lingerie underneath. My heart was pounding. I hit “Ground floor,” hit record, and went for it.

I raced through the strip like I was on a countdown clock. Coat off. Bra off. Panic fully engaged. It wasn’t art. It was chaos. The lighting was brutal. My angles were unfortunate. At one point, I nearly dropped my phone trying to balance it on the railing.

He loved it.

I had an out-of-body experience.

Flashforward to Muay Thai: My Other Humbling Tape

One another note, this wasn’t my first ego-crushing experience with video playback. Years later, my Muay Thai coach filmed me feinting a punch to help improve my technique. In my head, I was fierce. Deadly. Channelling UFC main event energy.

In the footage I looked like I was swatting a mosquito with my entire body. My punches were soft. My stance was floppy. I looked in pain. 

My coach laughed and said, “It’s too cute. No one would ever take that seriously.”

Cute. Not threatening. Not fierce. Just…cute.

I Write adult (And I Still Failed at it)

Here’s the real kicker: I write adult. Okay, technically erotic fiction, but let’s not split hairs. I write sex scenes for a living. And not the lazy, cliché stuff like, “he entered her, and it was amazing.” I write the kind that makes people grip their e-readers, text their ex, and mentally schedule a cold shower.

There’s an art to it. I’m a show, don’t tell girl.

Telling: “His tongue traced her clit.”

Showing: “His tongue traced her clit, sliding up one side, flicking back and forth, agonizingly slow over the tip of her nub, then up the other side—like he wanted to ruin her in stages.”

It’s about rhythm. Sensation. Detail. Getting inside the character’s body and mind. Making readers forget they’re on public transport. So naturally, I assumed that translated to real life. I thought, If I can write it, I can live it. How hard could it be? It was very hard. And not in the fun way.

Respect to Adult stars Everywhere

This whole debacle gave me a borderline religious respect for actual pornstars and sex workers.

I mean, I’ve done the reading. Jenna Jameson’s How to Make Love Like a Pornstar was practically my sex ed. One scene still lives rent-free in my brain: she was filming with T.T. Boy who orgasmed six times in a row. His only recovery tools between takes were water and tuna. Water and tuna, people!

Then there’s Ron Jeremy’s The Hardest (Working) Man in Showbiz, which made me feel exhausted just reading it. Pornstars are built different. They’re athletes. Visionaries. High-performance nudists with professional ring lights. I was out of breath after 40 seconds in a mirrored lift. And don’t even get me started on Johnny Sins. One of my friends at my Brazilian Jiu Jitsu gym looks exactly like him. Shaved head. That unmistakable, “I’ve played a doctor, a plumber, and a pilot before lunch” energy. It’s deeply distracting when he’s correcting my grip and all I can think is, Sir, please…this is a family gym.

So…Should You Do it?

If it feels empowering, or fun, or wildly unhinged in the best way—go for it. But do it for you. Not because your boyfriend’s been secretly storyboarding since 2021. Do it knowing you might cringe, laugh, cry, or spiral. You might even surprise yourself. But whatever happens—protect your peace, your privacy, and your camera roll. And if you do decide to strip in a lift, for the love of God, check for security cameras. Or wear a ski mask.

Because unlike pornstars…you didn’t sign a release form.