Straight Edge Porn Star

Straight Edge Porn Star

I don't smoke
I don't drink
I don't fuck
At least I can fucking think.

-Out of Step by Minor Threat



I’d be lying to say it didn’t all start out as a joke.

Punk was dead. Hardcore had become a commodified trend. And straight edge was a movement that never even reached my home town.

I grew up at the end of an era. The musicians I looked up to were already disbanding. Kids turned out to shows with more makeup than dignity. The musk of blood and sweat became slave to hair product and the scent of name brand perfume.

The first time I saw a straight edge tattoo, it was etched on the calf of a jaded, young man pounding forties outside his own hardcore punk venue. Whatever scene he used to belong to was gone. I only witnessed the death of his idealism filtered through a can of malt liquor.

Sure, kids still sported X’s on their fists. And they banded together under the guise of a drug-free lifestyle. But it was like a game. Whoever came up with the most far-fetched way to avoid pharmaceuticals was king. Or at least the most pretentious of the bunch.

“I’d never take an anesthetic,” a boy once told me. “Even if I got my tonsils removed.”

“I’m not sure you can legally request that.”

“Fuck that,” he said. “It’s my body. I have the right to treat it with respect.”

There was little desire to associate myself with the straight edge scene. It just seemed like another outlet for posturing, or an excuse to wear bad ink. I never crossed the back of my hands with felt tip markers, nor did I harass my stoner friends for continuing on with my old habits. But at some point I made a decision.

When someone offered me a drink, I’d throw up my arms in the shape of an X, and laugh. “Where’s your edge?” I’d ask.

“Seriously? You’re straight edge?”

My response was always, “Well...”



The need for labels came with a new environment. I made my escape just as planned. My academic record granted me acceptance to a university far enough from where I'd used to call home. I was ecstatic. But in many ways, I had to start over. I had to reintroduce myself to the world. No longer did I have the history associated with childhood friends. To those around me, I was this: student, banana slug (my university's mascot), and dormitory resident. Anything else was an ill-informed guess.

But there were two observations most anyone could make. I was the guy who listened to hardcore, and the only one on my floor who didn't drink or do drugs. For those who grew up taking part in the former, there was a simple way to figure me out. I was straight edge. And whatever else I became, they could at least call me that.

So I owned it. I was steadfast. I became that straight edge kid.



Today, I acknowledge my practical idealism. It's something I take part in every day. Unlike god or politics, I don't have to preach my views to see the effects. I embody them. I am drug-free.

Yet, the label may have run its course. According to some, I'm as much a poser as the corporate hooker who calls himself “punk.” I fuck for money and swallow more Cialis than men twice my age. If anything, I wear the brand of youth subculture because I'm afraid to grow up.

And it may be true. My friends all live elsewhere. Otherwise, they're of a different sort. I hang out with film school graduates, pornographers, and other quasi-professionals. Our labels are based on what we do for a living. Or what we've already done. Our interests matter because they're part of what keep us friends. But I used to define someone by the music he listened to, or an arbitrary trait like the color of his hair. Now, it's just his job. And I fucking hate that.

So despite not holding a sign over my head, I want to keep my label. Perhaps not as the primary source of my identity, but I still want to be known as that straight edge kid. I yearn for the strict accountability only valued in youth: “Cops are pigs, politicians scum, capitalism- the worst system to befall man, but we can still make a difference if only we uphold these ideals. If only we fight.”

But fight for what? That's the problem when looking back. Stage dives and pile-ons are forms of camaraderie, but no one enacts social change from the floor of a crusty club. I suppose lyrics provide inspiration. Aggression may act as a catalyst for some other revolution. But if all I've taken past my adolescence is a personal pact to stay sober, I can't say I've had much success.

To this day, I put aside my beliefs for money. At least once a month I participate in productions where I'm asked to act drunk. Worse still, I watch hundred-pound girls down three vodkas and brush coke from the bottom of their nose. They look into the camera and say, “No,” to the following question: “Are you under the influence of any drugs or alcohol?" Then they nod when asked, "Are you participating under your own free will?”

But why I should I care? I'm not a straight edge evangelist. I certainly don't have grounds for moral superiority. Besides, most my friends partake in one or more controlled substances. And they all seem alright.

However, the kids are what kill me. The teenage porno hunters who read something, and then reach out to call my bluff: “Being sober is fine, but don't call yourself straightXedge. Read the Minor Threat lyrics. Having sex for a living isn't 'edge.'”

Never mind the hypocrisy of such statements. It's the suggestion that counts. I've grown to the age where I can now acknowledge this fact: I am capable of carrying out separate ideals in both my head and heart. My life is a contradiction. To those still developing their crucial world view, I have already failed. It doesn't matter that they probably have too.

So here's the only practical advice I can give a young boy or girl. It's more fun to fuck when your dick still works, and it feels better when you're not about to pass out. But if you think you've found the sexual holy grail by rolling on E, let me tell you this: to everyone else (or me), you're annoying as fuck. And you should cut that shit out.

But what do I know? I'm just a straight edge porn star.