On the Moral Imperative to Commodify Our Sexual Suffering

by Christopher Zeischegg

I was first fucked for money at the age of 19. Someone tied me up and shoved a silicone cock in my ass. A digital camera captured the entire process. I was paid $300. It was fun, I guess.

“He just liked the money and the thought of doing something ‘wrong.’ Passive anal sex is not his thing.” – the assistant narrator.

I allowed flesh cocks to replace silicone cocks. My ass was sold for well below market value. Then, at last, my cock was allowed the chance to fuck. For money. Also below market value.

At the age of 21, I attended a Southern California university to pursue an education in film production. Pornography was the obvious choice for part-time work. I signed a contract with a now-defunct adult film studio to sell my sexual labor for $600 a scene. The studio required that I perform in six scenes a month. An average scene required two to six hours of labor. It was low-production-value, gonzo content for the end of the internet porn bubble; the easiest job I’d had in my life.

By XXX standards, I still earned terrible money. Colleagues of mine were pulling in $30,000 a month. But they were full-timers. I was just trying to pay my rent while in school.

Whatever. I had a good time.

Then I graduated from university and made a professionally catastrophic decision: I continued to perform in porn.

“You’ve heard of the website PornHub.com? It’s owned by an international corporation called MindGeek. They used to be called Manwin, when they were developing a strategy to make free-mostly-pirated-porn sites the new normal. Employees were paid to rip DVDs and upload pirated content faster than any porn studio could send out their DMCA notices. MindGeek single-handedly caused the collapse of the pay-for-porn model of business. Kind of like how Napster killed the music industry. Except Napster did its damage and then disappeared. MindGeek went on to buy out every financially gutted porn studio until it resembled a production/distribution monopoly. MindGeek is Brazzers. MindGeek is Elegant Angel. MindGeek is Men.com. MindGeek is PornHub. You get the point.” – the assistant narrator.


If I’d left school and pursued the sensible career path of Hollywood production assistant → low-level producer → other decent paying job that I’d probably hate, I would have escaped the privileged knowledge of what it’s like to be a full-time sex worker before the full-on collapse of (pornographic) sex work.

But I didn’t. I fucked for money. And in my free time, I engaged in literary whining over the state of my hooker community.

I complained because I missed that golden-era money (never earned a six-figure salary). I complained because government agencies began to crack down on barrier protection (i.e. condom) safety violations that could, in theory, detract from whatever porno profits still remained to be had. I complained about the resurgence of anti-porn feminism in both media and academia. I complained about right-wing, anti-porn moralism. I complained about the amount of performance-enhancing, erectile dysfunction pharmaceuticals I was either swallowing or injecting into the side of my penis. But I was missing the point.

Producers were willing to pay me $500-700 a day so that I could stick my dick in someone. Even on nightmare productions (i.e. getting hard for a 65-year-old woman who hated me), my paycheck hinged on the reality of my orgasm. There was a direct correlation between cash flow and the release of endorphins/serotonin/phenylethylamine. My job was objectively great even when it wasn’t. It seemed important to share the reasons why.

Through sex work advocacy and pro-porn, feminist propaganda, I did my part to normalize a profession that should have remained in the shadows. MindGeek was dumping enough free porn on to the web to desensitize the world to every explicit, sexual circus act. And I was among the crowd championing the personal empowerment of getting fucked in the ass for money.

Eighteen-year-old girls started showing up on set, comfortable in their conventionally unattractive bodies, and claiming an innate love for pornography. They’d accept embarrassingly low-ball offers, working nearly for free, because their performance was a self-proclaimed ‘political act.’ It didn’t matter that their sex-work career was over in a month, or that they’d just closed the door on several dozen other professional options, or that they’d pissed off their parents enough to cause a two-year lapse in familial communication.

“You know how every urban, twenty-something community is made up of broke-ass DJs, models, photographers, musicians, filmmakers, and writers? Add ‘porn star’ to that list. It’s become just as boring and pointless. And you’re always a stone’s throw away from someone unremarkable who will do the job for nothing.” – the assistant narrator.


I quit performing in porn, though not by choice.

I’d dug myself a mildly sustainable niche in the middle-class, fucking-for-money sector. Then I ended up in the hospital for priapism. All the ED drugs had caught up with me. I’d become psychologically addicted to Cialis, and I ingested enough of the stuff to keep my cock hard for more than 12 hours. My penis had to be bled out with a monster-sized needle.

To save the future of my non-medicated erections, I had to quit medicating my dick for porn. But without the drugs, I was terrible at the job. So I had to quit (performing in) porn altogether.

“He was very much into his identity as Danny Wylde, even though he hated the name. His disposable level of celebrity made him feel like a sex symbol. At least to the teenage, tube site-addicted crowd. What would he do without all the fan email?” – the assistant narrator.

I entered a period of severe depression, which may have never waned. My search for employment landed me a number of low-level production jobs in the adult industry. I settled on a full-time gig, in which I filmed, edited, and carried on with a variety of content management tasks for the most popular male porn star on the planet.

“He thought to himself, ‘How lucky I am to have completed my degree in cinematic arts. Now I work 40- to 60-hour weeks for the same monthly salary I earned while in college.’” – the assistant narrator.


I could say with some certainty – after staring at several hundred hours of content in the absence of arousal – that porn had become boring.

There was flesh and it was fucked. Everyone over the age of 12 could list the ways in which a cock could fill a hole. Pornography was the equivalent of pop music – culturally omnipotent and void of all significance. It was visual mediocrity compounded by such widespread financial collapse that there might never again exist the capitalist incentive for novelty or spectacle.

The shift in my labor had robbed me of the neurological impulses that once facilitated my sex-positive rants. I went on to exist among the sedentary cogs of middle-class America. And I indulged in their ritualized acts of self-hatred.

There was no physical struggle, no political cause to which to lend my hand. There was only carpal tunnel syndrome, debt, stagnation, self-mutilation, and my boss’s penis at the center of an Apple Cinema Display (purchased on credit), thrusting back and forth at a rate of 1000-plus strokes per hour.

“Bruh, that’s called first-world problems. That’s called ‘you’re mad you never made it.’” – the assistant narrator.


“There had to be a way out,” I thought. And so I flirted with the idea of conventional prostitution (an act I’d initially given up in my early twenties). For boys, it was just called hustling.

I posted a sort-of joke on social media, offering a handjob in exchange for a date to an art-house movie.

The first response came from a man I’d met at Nordstrom. He worked in the fragrance department and often gave me free samples of cologne and grooming products. It was obvious he wanted to fuck me.

We began our date in his Prius, parked in the movie theatre lot. Both of us were nervous and unable to achieve erection. “Can we watch the movie first?” he asked. “Then head back to my place?”

I nodded.

“First, I’d like to say that I received a promotion. I’m now a store manager. That means I make a lot more money. Let me take care of you.”

He shoved his tongue inside my mouth and I thought, “Yes.”

For the night, I fell in love with him. We went back to his West Hollywood apartment and sucked each other’s cocks.

I made the mistake of leaving without any discussion of money. And I made the mistake of answering his texts. When I finally asked him what he would pay to swallow my semen, he replied, “I don’t know. $50?”

“The author is fucking terrible at setting boundaries. But he wants me to note that this was not an isolated incident. Many potential clients approached him for the legally precarious act of prostitution. They swooned at the emotional vulnerability he displayed in all things related to pumping them full of cock. And they balked at the suggestion that such an exchange might cost them more than a tank of gas.” – the assistant narrator.


As my friend and I strolled down the east side of Hollywood Boulevard, we were approached by a homeless boy who asked us for money.

The boy was cute. If he were to shower and cut his hair, he might have looked like one of those Bel Ami porn star types. I suggested he take up sucking cock to save himself from poverty.

“It’s not so easy anymore,” said my friend. “Think of sexual liberation, the gay rights movement. Fags can marry each other. There’s Grindr. What’s the incentive to pay a young hustler for a blowjob?”

“The author knew his friend was right. David Geffen used to offer three grand for a ‘massage.’ Now, he’s likely on PrEP and getting top-shelf twinks to swallow his loads for free.” – the assistant narrator.  

“A wise observation,” I said. “Women have been suffering for years. The best markets for prostitution are now in the Middle East. Each of my porn star ex-girlfriends was flown to Dubai to fuck the prince. I think they pay about $15,000 a girl.”

“See, that doesn’t happen in America,” said my friend.

“Why not?”

“Wealth is one thing, but it’s not the only factor. Cultural conservatism breeds shame. At least, in terms of sexuality. And what else do johns need in order to part with so much of their money?”

“Hmm…you heard that RentBoy.com was shut down by the feds, right?” I asked.

“Yes. I heard.”

“Progressives have been complaining about it on social media. But perhaps the explicit government assault on sex work is good business for hustlers?”


It seemed obvious to me that ‘normal’ sex would never again be of value in the United States. But what about all those government officials, celebrities, and Wall Street bankers? If history were of any merit, one could only assume that libertines still thrived among the wealthy.

I had grown old and could no longer pass as an underage piece of meat. The obvious connoisseurs of child pornography were out of my reach. Besides, children rarely dictated the financial terms of their sexual violation. Exploiting the upper class with some age-play scenario wouldn’t do much for me at all.

But I knew there was money to be had, and that I was the perfect candidate to steal it. Post-sex-work adulthood had left me miserable and willing to debase myself in nearly any manner. I only sought the proper price.


As if by the power of Rhonda Byrne’s manifestation, I received an email from a wealthy libertine. He offered $1000 for a condom full of my semen. The price was above average, but the product seemed typical – until I discovered the reason for its acquisition.

The libertine wished to consume my semen for the purposes of necromancy. He explained very little of the ritual, but said that my seed would contribute to his power over the spirits of the dead.

I’d yet to participate in anything useful during the course of my life, so I was intrigued by the prospect of aiding in the libertine’s dark magick. I offered up my fluids when he asked, and he paid me in return. He wanted blood, piss, saliva, and cum. I opened my holes for him; my DNA flowed freely.

“The author had always been an atheist, but the libertine piqued his spiritual curiosity. He began to study ancient grimoires, such as The Key of Solomon and Grimorium Verum. Confused as to how to obtain many of the ceremonial elements depicted in such books, he refrained from all magickal practice. But he did often dream of a better life; perhaps one enabled by demons.” – the assistant narrator.


Dear [redacted],

I know you are better than I am. At almost everything. I am a merely a cow who dispenses milk.

But I may have more to offer than what comes shooting out the end of my dick. At least, my inherent loss of value has forced me to think outside the box.

What is the purpose of sex work but to bypass the horrors of poverty, professional mundanity, and capitalist-personal-time-theft? Now that a good fuck has dropped below the price of corporate office labour, a hustler must rub his genitals for at least 40 hours a week, or else compensate with the sort of dreariness he sought to escape.

It’s true. There may no longer be financial incentive for sex work at all. Though, many hookers have yet to come to terms with this reality. And many – like myself – are equipped with no other practical skill.

Note: The editing of pornographic video content is something I am capable of, and even good at. It’s also a career on the verge of extinction.

Yes, there is the service industry, retail, and holding up a stop sign at the edge of a highway construction site. In this, sex workers are no different from peasants in their access to poverty.

But I want no such thing. My goals are as follows:

to earn an extraordinary amount of money.
to kill myself.
Prior to meeting you (in the digital sense), I had no plan to enact my first goal. But I’ve dedicated at least two hours a day – since my porn star retirement – to meditation on suicide. Compounded by other acts of self-abuse, this leads me to believe I am highly qualified for the ordeals of my second goal.

At last, I may have figured out a way to combine the two. With your permission, of course.

Is it true – in your dealings with necromancy – that you have discovered how to bring the dead back to life? I read through a resurrection spell in the Grimoire of Honorius, but I understood none of it. Like I said before, you are better than I am. At almost everything.

I expect nothing out of the goodness of your heart. You deal in capital. What I propose is a plan to make us both a lot of money.

Often, I close my eyes and imagine the pornography I’d like to see in the attics of ultra-wealthy purveyors of excellent taste. One such image can be described like this:

I am on the floor. My ass has been opened with a speculum, and now resembles a bleeding crater. A masked man kneels beside me and holds a lit match near the edge of my hole. There is a canister of lighter fluid or gasoline nearby. I have not yet burst into flame.

My face has been impaled by a jagged but cylindrical piece of scrap metal. My eyes are wide and looking towards camera – full of the knowledge of impending death. A man fucks my slack mouth with his cock.

A subsequent image might exist in which I appear like a blackened log at the bottom of a fire pit. There might also exist video evidence of the moment I expire.

Thousands of variations are possible, but only with your help.

I could surely find someone to fuck and then murder me. But what good is it if I’m not brought back to life? Why should I give freely to those who’ve already taken everything?

You’re friends with Jeffrey Bezos, yes? The founder and CEO of Amazon.com? How many other tyrants do know? The whole lot of you must find some great satisfaction in the unending violence you wage on the world. I wish only to contribute to your entertainment. And, of course, to charge a craftsman’s price for what I guarantee to be an exceptional product.

Of course, there is some sort of minor competition. An excess of militant Islamic snuff films currently floats around the web. But the closeted faggots in Boko Haram don’t dare pump their soon-to-be corpses full of cock. At least, not on camera.

And what about the Kazaa-era, lo-fi breed of sexual violence? Grainy, unlit, and inferior by all possible standards.

I’ve worked in mainstream pornography for years. I know how to light an orifice, to position my body for maximum visibility, and to capture moments of sexual terror with amazing clarity.

So I offer you open-ended access to high-production-value, documented, sexual murder in which I am the star/victim.

My only requests are that you bring me back from the dead with your magick, and that you spread the word among your upper-class colleagues (i.e. potential clients). In return, I will negotiate with you a healthy percentage from each sale.

Together, we can dominate the market of unregulated, high-end, snuff pornography.


Christopher Zeischegg

aka Danny Wylde


I waited two whole weeks for the libertine’s response. He would only talk to me once I’d been electrocuted, blindfolded, and thrown into the back of an unmarked van.

“My name is [redacted],” said the libertine. “I’ve been swallowing your blood, piss, and cum for several months now. Thanks for being such a sport.

“I was impressed by your letter. You seem to have caught on to your lot in life. You fucking cum rag. You fucking dumb piece of shit.

“The fact that you want to die is not surprising. It’s as funny as watching any animal tear its fur out at the zoo. Though, maybe you’re not as stupid as I thought.

“To not attempt the trivial journey of turning your life around, but to indulge in your role as a sliced-open and fucked piece of meat… that’s exciting.

“Let me say this. I don’t actually know if I can bring you back to life. Magick is a hobby of mine. It appears to bring me great fortune, though it’s hard to verify a direct correlation between ceremonial practice and wealth. What I mean to say is that I’ve come from money.

“Anyway, I’m going to kill you in about 30 minutes. I imagine it’s going to be a whole lot of fun. Especially for me. And maybe in some fucked up way, for you. After, we’ll see if there’s anything to this resurrection spell.

“Don’t think that I’m trying to rob you of your profits. This is simply a product test phase before we bring your smut to market. If it doesn’t work out, don’t be disappointed. I mean, it won’t matter. You’ll be dead. But know that I’m just carrying out the inevitable. You were born to have your face beaten in with a rock.”

“The van stopped and the author was dragged into an abandoned warehouse. There, he was made to endure an excruciating amount of pain, before having his head lopped off and fed into a wood chipper.” – the assistant narrator.


“There’s been only one mention of the author’s snuff collection on the dark web. I say ‘collection’ because two separate art prints were mentioned in which the author was depicted in the throes of both orgasm and death. Due to the varying locations and forms of execution, a question was posed as to the authenticity of the violence. Nonetheless, the prints were described as ‘excellent jerk-off material’ and ‘worth the exorbitant price.’

A seemingly unrelated post appeared the same day on a sub-Reddit forum:

‘I am a former porn star and current life hacker. Thanks to all of you who’ve stolen the content I helped create for Naughty America, Vivid, Hustler, Evil Angel, and Kink.com. I once tried to appeal to your ethical sensibilities, to convince you that my labour was worth your hard-earned cash. I now know that it’s not.

Tomorrow, I’m going to be fucked by 12 men and then cut into 300 pieces. A ritual will be performed, mid-act, with the intent to hex each and every one of you. The whole thing will be videotaped. None of you peasants will ever be able to afford to watch it.

I have a feeling it will be among the best days of my life.’” – the assistant narrator.


Watch the exclusive film inspired by this story and created by Luka Fisher & Matthew Kuandart here.


Illustration by Luka Fisher

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