By the time I was an adult, I had lost that sense of mischief and innocence. It was replaced by genuine sexual stirring, and a painful inner suspicion that something was wrong with my reactions. Something was wrong with me. My childhood-in a rural and conservative family-had instilled a vague belief that sex was unsavory. Surely my fascination with it must be unsavory as well.

I embraced feminism as a teenager, but the movement did not relieve my confusion about sex and pornography. At that time, the feminist movement was developing the cracks that have now broken into an open schism over sex. One faction of the movement joyfully celebrated the wide range of women's sexuality, from motherhood to lesbianism, from masturbation to oral sex. Another faction vociferously condemned certain choices. Marriage and the family were oppression, heterosexual sex was rape, and pornography was violence.

Ideologically speaking, the latter faction won out. It won so decisively that, during the eighties, few feminists were willing to stand up and defend the graphic depiction of sex. Women were not willing to expose themselves to the backlash of contempt that would follow a confession of enjoyment.

For over a decade, I have defended the right of women to consume pornography and to be involved in its production. In 1984, when the Los Angeles City Council first debated whether or not to pass an anti-pornography ordinance, I was one of two people -and the only woman-who stood up and went on record against the measure. I argued that the right to work in pornography was a direct extension of the principle "A woman's body, a woman's right."

My defense was purely ideological. I knew little about the realities of the industry or about the women I was defending. Over the last decade, the anti-porn voices in feminism have grown louder and more shrill. An assortment of accusations is routinely hurled at the porn industry. Perhaps the most common charges are that women involved in porn are coerced into performing; porn videos are actually documentaries of rape and torture; and pornography inspires men to rape women.

But the business of pornography exists quite apart from any ideological attack or defense of it. It is a fact, not a theory. As I read and reread the onslaught against pornography, I realized I knew next to nothing about the industry. It was time to do some fieldwork. It was time to check out whether radical feminism's accusations were accurate. And whether my position was naive.

Specifically, I wanted to know:

The only way to have these questions answered was to ask them. To ask them of the flesh-and-blood people who produce pornography: the actresses who are said to be coerced, the producers who are said to be the beating heart of white male oppression.

The Winter '94 Consumer Electronics Show (CES) was scheduled for early January in Las Vegas. CES is huge. The total number of exhibitors at the show I attended was 1,056. Exhibits occupied more than one million square feet of space.

I was drawn to CES by the Adult Video Section, where most of the hard-core pornographers in America had booths advertising their wares. Soft-core producers, such as Playboy, would not be well represented. Their more respectable status allowed them to network and advertise elsewhere with ease. Moreover, the soft-core and hard-core industries tend to put distance between themselves, much as rich and poor cousins often do.

Pornography was once an important aspect of CES because it pioneered the popularity of videotape. In the early eighties, the few major studio releases that were available on videotape cost about eighty dollars. The more reasonably priced pornography attracted a huge audience of men and couples who had a taste for adult entertainment, especially within the comfort of their own homes.

Today, major studio releases run about twenty dollars and they quickly become available on videotape, for purchase or rental. Cable channels such as Playboy, Spice, and Adam and Eve offer high quality pornography that people can tape off TV for themselves. Pornography has lost its edge in both the video marketplace and at CES.

Accordingly, the Adult Video Section of CES was housed in the Sahara Hotel, far from the main convention center.

I had prepared for CES in two ways: emotionally and intellectually. As an intensely private person, I quickly resolved the emotional side. I was going to stay with the intellectual side.

I drew up two lists of questions: one for women, the other for men. The questions for women focused on whether they were coerced into "performing pornographic acts." If not, how were they treated? My questions included: Have you ever heard of women being threatened into performing in pornography? How much are you paid for a sex act or for a video? Do you negotiate your own contracts?

The questions for men focused on how pornography functions as a business, with particular emphasis on how women were treated. These questions included: How long does it take you to shoot a video? How many women work for you in a technical capacity, e.g., behind the camera?

I wondered how the women would react to my being a feminist. I wondered if the men would be dismissive. I was more than a little nervous about appearing ridiculous.

I began to make "guerrilla feminist preparations." I carefully chose a wardrobe of "feminist drag": Reeboks, blue jeans, and oversized sweaters ... and an ultra-conservative dress for the AVN Awards ceremony. I decided to wear little makeup, less perfume, and no jewelry. When I looked in the mirror, I looked like I was going to give a lecture on sex rather than investigate the real thing.

My first dinner in Las Vegas was a headlong dive into the hardcore industry. My husband and I waited at the reception desk of the Bally Hotel to link up with John Stagliano, who is arguably the most successful XXX pornographer in America. His nickname is "Buttman" due to the specific XXX niche his videos, such as Face Dance I and II, fill. After a telephone interview, Stagliano had invited me to dine with him. Another pornographer, John Leslie, was included as well. I was told that Leslie was of the "old school."

I had never met Stagliano, but I made a point of watching several of the videos he'd produced. Since John had a tendency to appear in his own work, I thought I'd recognize him. I did. My first impression of the porn producer: youngish, amiable, streetwise, and a bit on the L.A. trendy side.

While Stagliano answered the first of my questions-What makes something soft-core rather than hard-core? Leslie ordered two bottles of wine, one white, one red. As a connoisseur, Leslie sent one bottle back for a replacement; the other he liked well enough to have the waiter soak off the label to take home for future reference.

At first, Stagliano and I chatted about what constituted fetish porn, while my husband and Leslie discussed the growing importance of Canada's Niagara peninsula as a wine-producing region. In short, everyone felt each other out. Then, in a neutral manner, I steered the conversation toward the possibility that women were coerced into pornography. I asked whether the violence in hard-core porn, like the sex, was real, rather than simulated.

Those consumers who wanted hard-core pornography with more extreme images of violence could still find it-but only from expensive imported tapes. Expensive, because their importation was illegal.

As to coercion into pornography-the claim that women are forced to commit sex acts for the camera- Stagliano described how his company, Evil Angel, screened the women they hired as actresses. At casting calls, he and his partner Patrick asked the women which sex acts turned them on. From their answers, the two men knew the roles in which to cast the women. "Only if a woman enjoys what she's doing," Stagliano assured me, "can she give a convincing performance."

As an example, he recalled a shy woman who had come in on an open casting call earlier that week. Physically, she was what he considered perfect: young, a good hard body, a pretty face. But, after the first few questions, he'd decided not to use her. She didn't seem comfortable enough with sex to project real enjoyment to a camera. Then, Patrick asked her about bondage and she reportedly "came alive." The woman was hired for a bondage scene.

When I pressed on about the possibility of coercion, Stagliano readily admitted that the industry was huge. Some women were almost certainly abused or misused. "This happens in every business," he explained, "from Standard Oil to banking." The most common abuse came from producers who manipulated women into performing sex acts to which they have not agreed in advance. Usually, the manipulation was in the form of peer pressure. For example, the director might comment, "No one else objects," or "You're holding up production for everyone else." Stagliano had heard of a producer who refused to pay a woman for past work unless she performed a sex act to which she objected. The woman knew it would be useless to sue, because courts do not have a track record of sympathy toward sex workers. This gave the producer a strong hold over her.

The conversation drifted on to whether or not there was such a thing as a snuff movie. This is a movie in which someone is actually killed in front of the camera during a sex/torture scene. (My question had political significance. In New York, over a decade ago, when a porn movie purported to be a snuff film, feminists had almost rioted outside the theater in which it played. This incident was the beginning of the "Take Back the Night" movement, under whose banner feminists still march through the streets of major cities to protest violence against women.)

Stagliano had no first-hand knowledge of snuff movies. But "a reliable source" had assured him that the movie that had caused such a sensation had been a scam. The producers had wanted to make more money. They thought a simulated killing, advertised as real, would make the ticket price skyrocket. They were right.

Stagliano interrupted Leslie's preoccupation with food to ask if he knew of any snuff films. The answer was no, but Leslie conceded the possibility of amateur snuff films. As he put it, "There are a lot of really sick sons-of-bitches out there." But no one "in the industry" would be stupid enough to put a murder on tape so that it could be used against them in criminal proceedings. In over thirty years in pornography, Leslie said he had never seen a snuff film, even though he had seen almost everything else, including what looked like real violence in Japanese videos.

As to the original film that caused such a furor, Leslie informed me that if I took the time to watch the video, I would see how the post-production editor had simply spliced new scenes into an old movie. The older movie was Mexican or South American, he couldn't remember. "It wasn't even good editing," he said, shrugging.

Next, I opened up the subject of contracts by asking how they were negotiated with actresses. Did the women usually sign whatever was put in front of them? Did they argue over fees or residuals? Did agents get involved?

A friendly dispute broke out at the table. Stagliano claimed he didn't sign contracts before shooting a video because he felt it might hinder the creative process. He didn't use scripts either. Instead, he relied on "concepts" which evolved during production. This meant his videos assumed a life of their own, in the style of cinema verite. He insisted that a contract that specified acts in advance could interfere with his method of production.

(I discovered later that Stagliano was one of the key producers who spanned pornography's transition from large-budget films to the currently booming amateur, or home, porn. During the seventies, porn films like Behind the Green Door and Emmanuelle had substantial budgets, trained actors, high technical values, and complex scripts with intricate plots. Today, the fastest growing sector of porn is home videos. These are videos that are shot by "regular" people-husbands and wives, boyfriends and girlfriends-who then sell them to distribution companies. The final tape combines several of these short amateur presentations under one label.)

Stagliano seems to fall between the two extremes of the seventies: big-budget and home porn. As a producer, he prides himself on technical values, especially on camera angles. The opening scene of Face Dance I still leaves me open-mouthed. But his videos do not have large budgets, prepared scripts, or the other trappings of the major productions of yesteryear.

As Stagliano explained why he didn't sign contracts in advance, I flashed on the anti-pornography ordinances which radical feminists had tried to push through various city councils a decade before. Under these ordinances, a woman who had performed a pornographic act could later bring a civil suit against the producer for "coercion into pornography." This would not have been a criminal charge. But it could have resulted in huge settlements for the woman. I wondered if Stagliano realized that his devil-may-care approach to contracts could have placed everything he owned in jeopardy.

Clearly, pornography had grown up as an underground industry. It had evolved by working outside the judiciary-outside the context of courts and contracts. The police and the legal system were still seen as hostile forces. And rightly so. If a contract was violated, it was touch-and-go whether a judge would even hear the case, let alone take it seriously. Women in porn were more likely to be mistreated by the police than protected by them. No wonder legal paperwork was given low priority.

"So far I haven't needed contracts." Stagliano seemed puzzled by my concern.

"What if you end up in court?" I asked. "If you don't have an enforceable contract, what are you going to do?"

"Why would I go after these people, Wendy?" he replied with a disapproving frown. "They don't have anything." He obviously thought I was heartless.

Before I could explain that these people might go after him, Leslie interjected, "I always sign contracts and releases in advance, just to get rid of the paperwork." Apparently, he was exhausted by the end of a project and didn't like to spend time at that point on loose ends.

The discussion of contracts quickly devolved into a heated denunciation of what Leslie called the "studio system." This is a system by which certain companies place aspiring porn actresses under exclusive contract. Typically, the contract promises the woman $5,000 to $10,000 a month. In exchange, the actress agrees to appear in some defined number of movies each month over a period of time, usually running from six months to a year.

(By "tame," they did not necessarily mean soft-core. Companies like Vivid Video do produce hard-core movies. But they are so sensitive to implications of violence against women that they shy away from even the suggestion of dominance, for example. Moreover, Vivid's hard-core videos are routinely edited down to soft-core versions for sale to adult cable channels.)

To me, the studio system made sense. It provided real benefits to the women who signed on. Not the least of these benefits was a decent, steady income over a predictable period of time. This allowed the women to make plans-to go back to school, for example.

Later I learned that a porn actress on her own earned only $150 to $600 for a day's work. I became even more impressed by the studio system. After all, most of the women who signed those contracts had limited education and limited job opportunities. And the fact that the movies were "tame" meant the women had a better chance of moving from porn into "legitimate" film. No wonder the studio system attracted women with talent and beauty.

I refrained from making such comments, however. My perspective was clearly out of step with the rest of the table.

I did continue to steer the conversation on to the broad subject of women in the industry. Did they like their work? Did they enjoy the sex scenes?

I asked the two producers what percentage of female orgasms in videos did they think were real. Both men immediately volunteered that one hundred percent of women's orgasms in soft-core videos were faked. But they disagreed radically about orgasms in hard-core porn. Leslie claimed that ninety percent of them were real. And that he could always tell. Stagliano estimated that ten to twenty percent of the women's orgasms were real. But he added, "The important thing is not the orgasm, but whether the woman shows real pleasure." He thought most women got involved in pornography to indulge a strain of exhibitionism within them.

I asked if the actors were also into "exhibitionism," or did they get something fundamentally different out of performing for the camera? Two comments shot straight back: Men get less money than women do, so money was less of a motivation; and, male orgasms are always real.

At this point, the pasta had been eaten; the wine had been drained; it was time for dessert. Conversation drifted away from my priorities and onto Leslie's extremely graphic reminiscence of a Scandinavian girlfriend. I remembered the words with which Stagliano had ushered me into the restaurant only an hour before:

"Now you'll get a candid look at the psychology of pornographers."

At some point, I must have turned beet-red, because Stagliano leaned over and whispered, "Don't be embarrassed." Before coming to CES, I had resolved not to be prudish. For one thing, my background was hardly that of a wallflower. For another thing, I knew that sexual morality was largely a matter of geography and of the subculture you happen to be moving in.

Nevertheless ... I was embarrassed, but not by the explicit language, or by what anti-porn feminists would call "reducing women to sexual parts." I was embarrassed by the loudness with which Leslie described "a fuck in the alley." At every table within listening distance-and that included a fair number of people were gawking at us. Conversation in our end of the restaurant had ceased, except for the pointed jokes and comments being muttered back and forth, all aimed at our table. Two women made their disapproval clear through glares and scowls directed, oddly enough, at me! I was thankful there were no children within earshot. At Leslie's description of "jerking off" to a phone call, another few tables fell silent.

As the blood pounded in my cheeks, I did what usually helps bring things into focus: I switched into critical mode. I analyzed the situation. I reached my first conclusion about the psychology of pornographers. They do not consider sex to be a private matter. This may seem to be a facile and painfully obvious insight. But-until then-I had thought pornography might be a business that shut down at five o'clock, like a post office.

This conclusion was confirmed as the convention progressed. People in the industry kept telling me intimate and unsolicited details about their sex lives. I realized that pornography was as much an attitude or lifestyle as it was a business. The line between private and public was sometimes blurred to the point of being erased.

The attitude toward sex in porn circles was like a brass band, with red tasseled uniforms, blasting its way down Main Street. The attitude was: Sex should be flaunted; conventions are to be scorned; shocking people is part of the fun; and, we are the sexual sophisticates, we are the sexual elite.

Yet, mixed up with this in-your-face approach was a strange eagerness to be understood and to be taken seriously by the regular world. Several times in the middle of a conversation, I suddenly realized it was important to the people I was talking to that I accept them, that I like them.

As Leslie talked, I reached a second conclusion. The porn industry reminded me of the gay community, in which I am lucky enough to have a few good friends. Before I'd been adopted as a "sympathetic" outsider, I had encountered a strange blend of suspicious hostility and total openness. This mix was sometimes manifested in the same person within the same ten-minute conversation. People in porn reacted to me in a similar manner. And probably for a similar reason. They were used to being rejected, even despised, by the people around them. On one level, they hungered for decent treatment and acceptance from the "legitimate" world. On the other hand, they had acquired the survival skill of automatically treating others with the contempt they fully expected to receive back.

These were the raw theories spinning out in my head when the only truly offensive comment of the evening occurred. As Leslie finished the account of the Scandinavian encounter, he made a casual remark that went right through me.

"She was gorgeous-totally fucked-up psychologically, but, oh, what an ass!" he exclaimed. Perhaps I overreacted. Perhaps I was more embarrassed than I realized, but it bothered me to hear a woman's angst being dismissed so lightly, while the curve of her ass was eulogized. I wondered if some of the criticism leveled at pornographers was accurate: Perhaps they did treat women like commodities to be valued, but never respected.

After dinner, we retired to a music-blaring, smoky bar, which spelled death for conversation. Miraculously, there was an empty chair next to Stagliano's business partner, Patrick Collins. In their company Elegant Angel/Evil Angel, Patrick constituted the "Elegant Angel" half.

Conversation dissolved into screaming sentences at each other. From the snippets I caught, I gathered that Patrick and his wife worked as a team in the industry; she was nicknamed "Buttwoman." He had abandoned an upscale career in investment banking in order to pursue "excellence" in the one area that gave him satisfaction: graphic sex. Collins, with his gentlemanly way of speaking, was an antidote to Leslie. But the screaming was rough on my throat and I finally settled back to watch the crowd.

A young blond woman, with a hard face and an equally hard body, came over and ran her fingers persistently through Stagliano's hair. He had barely acknowledged this, when a brunette in incredibly tight jeans sat down in his lap and began to grind her hips into his groin. From my days of working in television, I'd seen this sort of behavior-in a more subtle form-displayed by women toward TV producers whose favors they wished to garner. It surprised me to see it displayed toward a porn producer. Perhaps I had accepted, on some level, that women were seduced and coerced into the industry.

Having spun out this speculation, I began to punch holes in it. One immediate difference came to mind: There were no unions in porn, no SAG, no AFTRA, no ACTRA. Without their presence, pornography did not mirror - even darkly - any other aspect of the entertainment industry.

There was no protection from courts, which routinely dismiss suits brought by pornographers against distributors as "frivolous." Nor from police, who are far more likely to harass than to protect sex workers. This, too, was a difference of kind, not degree.

There was no genuine respect for hard-core pornography, except on the shadowy fringes of society. No mainstream newspapers, magazines, or TV news shows would review porn movies. No talk shows would invite the women as guests, except as curiosities. The better the women were at their trade-the expression of sex-the less likely they were to receive respect.

Too tired to speculate further, I walked away from the bar and the unfolding party scene.

By eight in the morning, most of the regular exhibitors at CES were running at full throttle, demonstrating their products to anyone who wandered by. I had been warned that the Adult Section operated on a different timetable. It would not start buzzing until after noon, perhaps because of the parties that tended to run into dawn. I decided to check out the larger convention and get a better context for the Adult Section.

The size of CES was stunning. A sea of booths hawked the latest in automotive technology, the best in audio and visual systems, the most sophisticated burglar alarms, and much more. The fastest, the biggest, the loudest, the best. And, in many booths, well-endowed women in revealing outfits leaned forward to smile brightly at interested passers-by, almost all of whom were men.

With a better sense of CES, I caught the shuttle back to the Adult Section, which was located a safe mile or so away from the more respectable exhibitors. Even within the distant Sahara Hotel, the Adult was isolated. An escalator provided the only access. At the bottom, two security guards checked badges to ensure those who entered were at least twenty-one years old. At the front doors of the exhibit hall, two more guards gave people a similar once-over.

It was nine o'clock and the Adult Section was stone quiet; most booths were unoccupied; most aisles were empty. I wandered around, looking at the displays. Some fifty exhibits offered a broad spectrum of sexual material and information. The offerings ranged from fetish videos to phone sex services to a Free Speech counter. At the latter you could leave a donation in a gold fish bowl sporting a sticker declaring "Stop Censorship!"

I picked up literature and took notes on posters advertising XXX movies. Over and over again, I was struck by how attractive the women were: young, aerobically lean, and overwhelmingly blond. From over their shoulders, bent over peering through the V of their legs, sprawled on beds, looking up from on their knees-they all stared back at me with attitudes that ranged from submission to brazen bitchiness.

On my second tour of the floor, I approached the few people who were available and introduced myself as a feminist doing research on pornography. (After three such introductions, I dropped the word "feminist" because it seemed to alienate people.) Since no women were evident, I tried to get a sense of the "business of porn" from the men.

They were all in a mood to complain. Apparently CES had circulated a memo that morning to the Adult exhibitors, laying down strict rules of conduct. The rules included no full frontal nudity and no display of private parts. A burly red-bearded man, who was demonstrating interactive computer pornography, took particular exception to the abrasive security guards who ensured that photos of women's nipples and vaginas were duly covered by black dots. The hotel management had provided sheets and sheets of these dots.

When I asked security for a copy of the memo, they were strangely unable to find one. Two days later, I got a copy of the memo from Bill Margold, a veteran of the porn industry, who goes by the moniker "Bear." In the meantime, I had received three competing theories from exhibitors about sheets of nipple concealing dots:

• They resulted from an incident of the year before. A buxom actress had gotten carried away with enthusiasm at meeting fans and impulsively bared what have been called "the best two things about her videos."
• They were a backlash against another incident from the year before. An after-hours fund-raising tent had been pitched in one of the hotel parking lots. Entertainment had been provided by several women, who engaged in a public sex act. The City of Las Vegas had laid charges, which included "felony sodomy" and "felony lesbianism."
• Nothing had changed. The rules were exactly as they had always been.

As exhibitors rushed to contradict each other, I began to realize that the porn industry was not a monolith.

As many of them shrugged off the incident, I realized something else: Pornographers were inured to being treated with contempt. What other industry would so blithely accept not being able to display its wares at its own conference? How many other exhibitors at CES would tolerate the intrusive surveillance of security guards, who constantly toured the floor?

A session of the Free Speech Coalition-an organization that protected porn producers and distributors from prosecution was scheduled at noon. I arrived early to find three people present: Bill Margold; a man engaged in vigorous conversation with Bill; and, Cookie-a thin blond who looked like a little girl. I overhead the man asking Bill whether things had been arranged with Cookie. Apparently, he wanted her to appear in a video he was producing. Bill shrugged and replied, "She's over there. Ask her yourself."

I'd heard Bill was an agent, so I opened a conversation by asking how people usually got into "the business." He referred vaguely to casting calls; then he said something surprising.

"I discourage people from getting into porn," he explained, "because you have to have a death wish to succeed at it." He expanded on this theme. "Pornography gets into your blood and you can never get away from it. No matter how many hard knocks you take, you'll always be part of the industry."

The grain of truth in this was worth puzzling over. I would do almost anything to be a writer, which involves nothing so much as an ostentatious display of my mind and opinions. What if other women felt the same way about displaying themselves sexually? I always prefer to be published by magazines with wide circulations. Why wouldn't they want to be seen by as many people as possible? Was there that much difference in the two forms of exhibitionism?

When Cookie drifted out the door with a clipboard in her hand, I followed. As a veteran of political meetings, I figured she had pulled hostess duty. That is, she was the pretty face delegated to greet people at the door and make sure they signed the mailing list.

I resolved to conduct my first interview with a "woman in the industry." Things began well enough. I asked Cookie if she had time for a few questions. She said yes and gave an insecure little girl laugh, which seemed to punctuate all of her sentences.

I asked whether or not she signed contracts with the producers for whom she worked. She looked confused. I explained that there seemed to be no standard in the industry as to whether or when contracts were required. I was curious about what her experiences had been. Cookie laughed, then frowned then said she only worked on videos. It wasn't like she was making movies or anything.

Sitting there, I began to glimpse a political line in the sand that industry people were drawing. On one side was sex, which was good. On the other side was violence, which was bad. Yet it was the rejection of violence (primarily against women) that was driving the anti-porn crusade.

In other words, a woman who claimed her rapist had been inspired by a centerfold could sue Playboy for "causing" her assault. The organization Feminists for Free Expression (FFE), founded in 1992 to fight censorship was instrumental in defeating this Act. FFE pinpointed the intellectual sleight-of-hand that occurs whenever violent crimes are blamed on words or images, rather than on the criminals who commit them. As FEE commented:

The Peterborough storeowner was one among many industry people who seemed eager to concede that violence on TV leads to violence in the street. Yet, in agreeing that images and words are threats to safety, he virtually conceded the entire anti-pornography position.

Finally, Cookie was free again. I resumed the interview, which I now realize must have resembled an inquisition. I asked if she had ever been "coerced into performing a pornographic act." The question had one salutary affect: She stopped laughing nervously. She scowled out the word no. I asked if she knew of anyone who had been coerced. At this point the scowl deepened into genuine annoyance. She repeated no and looked pointedly away.

I closed my notebook, put aside my pen, and apologized for not having better questions to ask. My apology was strategic. Bill Margold had urged her to talk with me and I knew Cookie was insecure enough to blame any unpleasantness on herself. I didn't want her to feel she was to blame.

In fact, my questions were precisely the ones I needed to have answered. It was my technique that needed work. I had treated Cookie like a case study, instead of a human being. She was not a lab animal-she deserved courtesy. Thereafter, I asked women about violence only when the conversation provided a natural segue.

The experience with Cookie made me rethink my methodology. I decided to squelch the skepticism I had about what people were telling me. This was difficult, because I tend to doubt most of what I hear. With people in the industry, my skepticism was heightened by at least three factors:

I began to critique my own methodology as though it was that of a stranger. The first thing I'd want to know about the researcher was his or her underlying assumptions. Mine have already been detailed.

Next, I would object to the anecdotal nature of the report; that is, it does not contain hard statistics or double-blind studies. Fortunately, my research was aimed at countering accusations against pornography, which are also anecdotal. For example, the allegation that women are coerced into pornography is based on first-person accounts, such as the one provided by Linda Lovelace. Perhaps the most appropriate response to such data is "in kind."

A third problem with my methodology was the sweeping statements I made based on a limited exposure to the industry. Was I generalizing from too few particulars? Fortunately, for my purposes, generalizations were not necessary.

The anti-porn claim is that every woman in porn has been coerced into the industry, either through direct violence or indoctrination. All I had to do was to discover one woman who had not been so coerced. This would disprove the accusation. (This follows the old logic-book example: All that is necessary to disprove the assertion "All swans are white" is to find one black swan.)

In the final analysis, I settled for offering an honest account of my impressions of the industry. Short of laboratory conditions, no one could do more.

As I returned to the room, the meeting commenced with a dramatic flair. Bill Stolbach (nicknamed "Pinkie"), the president and founder of the Free Speech Coalition, had suffered a heart attack the day before and was still in a Las Vegas hospital.

A woman named Carol read the speech Pinkie had prepared before his heart attack. It began by stating the original purpose of the organization: to help all manufacturers, distributors, and storeowners combat the problems they had with the justice department: "to stop the cancer of censorship that is killing the industry" by providing an organization in which everyone stood firm together. Unfortunately, Pinkie noted, industry politics were destroying the Free Speech Coalition.

In his words... only a few give a shit as to what happens to others. In this industry, it seems that people are only out for themselves.... We have had people go to jail, people who are now facing jail sentences and big fines for no reason at all.... There are so many of you out there who would not join the organization because someone on the Board would not give you special pricing or some other stupid reason.... Does anyone here think that because you have an organization the government will just roll over and give up?"

In conclusion and in frustration, Pinkie resigned as president of the Free Speech Coalition. His speech closed: "I hope to God that no one else in our industry will have to go to jail. God bless all of you who have supported us."

An uncomfortable silence hung over the room. Without commenting on the resignation, a series of speakers presented their analysis of the "political state of porn." I was familiar with one of them, attorney David Wasserman, because of his writing on freedom of speech. Wasserman began by declaring that although the Clintons were in power, the battle wasn't over; it had only changed. I found this encouraging, until Wasserman called on the audience to support "our President."

This was the same President who had appointed Janet Reno, the woman who'd threatened television producers with stiff regulations if they did not squelch violent images, like those contained in Bugs Bunny. Her reasoning: People imitate what they see on TV. (Ironically, this is the same point Dan Quayle made when he suggested that shows like Murphy Brown were partially responsible for the increase in illegitimate children. Media people went crazy over Quayle's comment. They screamed out that Murphy Brown was a fictional character. But when Reno took a similar stand, there was silence.)

Industry people seem to be lulled by Clinton's imagined sexual tolerance. The result?

John Weston stood at the podium and declared, "Look at this. Nobody's here. In recent years, this room has been the hardest ticket to get into . . . two-thirds of the seats are empty. Where is everybody?"

Fewer than one hundred people were present. In a Newsweek article (January 1994), Catharine MacKinnon had informed readers, "Pornographers are worried.... They do sit around in rooms and figure out how to try and discredit what we're doing and destroy our credibility." (Obviously, this planning session was one I did not attend. More's the pity!)

The meeting dissolved into Q&A.

The most interesting audience comment came from a video storeowner from New York City. He had attended a task force meeting called by the Mayor of New York, who wanted to ascertain if the sex industry should be regulated. The storeowner said that everyone who got up spoke "so bad [sic] about people in the industry" he felt embarrassed to be there. When his turn came, he told the task force that he was a resident of the city, a parent who paid his taxes and swept the sidewalk in front of his store. He told them, "You may not like my product, but I have a right to be there."

After he'd finished speaking at the task force, a female sex worker had risen to say, "I am a parent as well and taxpayer and a past president of the PTA in Greenwich Village." The New York Times picked up the story. The storeowner said he had learned something from the task force meeting: It was important for people in the industry to be good neighbors who "got along." They should stop being on the defensive, and start standing up for themselves as a legitimate business.

It was after 2:30.

The Adult Section was a buzzing hive of activity. The aisles were crowded. Behind booths, women in peek-a-boo gowns and skimpy costumes assumed poses for the fans; they signed photos and handed out membership forms for their fan clubs. I encouraged my husband to stand in line after line for autographs so I could stand beside him and observe the women give him the "fan" treatment.

Some lines were quite long. The pleasanter the woman was, the longer the line, since she chatted and accommodated requests for photographs. One petite brunette had about thirty men (and me) waiting: I found myself standing behind an impatient fan in a T-shirt that read "Will work for sex." When he reached the front of the line, the brunette scanned his chest and asked with admirable innocence, "Do you lay the?"

In booth after booth, I watched how the women handled themselves. Some looked tired; some were obviously playing a role; others seemed-as one woman phrased it-"high on life." But at least two things were constant:

All of the women treated fans well. I remember one blonde in a tight and sequined emerald-green gown that made her look like a mermaid. She was posing with a shy Asian man who'd requested a photograph. Handing the camera to a friend, he placed a tentative right arm around her waist, letting the left arm dangle at his side. She reached over and placed his left hand on her hip. The man beamed. Off to the side, a burly bouncer watched the interaction closely, ready to step in at any sign of the woman's being mistreated.

All of the women seemed to have fan clubs, which cost money to join. Membership costs ranged from a one-time fee of about twenty-five dollars to a similar yearly sum. The fee seemed to depend on what the clubs offered for the money. All of them advertised "personal" responses to letters. All of them entitled members to "very special gifts," "truly daring photos," and "items never made available to the general public." The ones with yearly fees seemed to have the added incentive of monthly newsletters.

My favorite club featured the blond and buxom Kitty Foxx, who promoted "XXX-Rated Videos of Mature Women in Hardcore Action." True to the ad copy, Kitty was a fetching older woman with the rounder curves that come with maturity. The videos she hawked were entitled Older, Bolder and Better Volumes One and Two, both of which had been produced by her own company. After talking with her, I got a photo picture inscribed "Love your attitude! Kitty."

Next, I stopped at a booth that sold Hot Spots - a guide to hot nightclubs and novelty shops. The co-author, "Jane" (a.k.a. porn queen Veronica Hart), was signing autographs and greeting fans. When I reached the head of the line, I went into my patter. "Hi, I'm a writer who's covering the Adult Video Section of CES, and I wanted to see how things are going for you." Somewhere, the word feminist arose, because "Jane" erupted:

"I don't need Andrea Dworkin to tell me what to think or how to behave." She seemed genuinely angry. "And I don't appreciate being called psychologically damaged! I have friends in the business who call themselves `Anarchists in High Heels.' They'd love to have a word with her."

I must have looked stunned, because she abruptly stopped talking. She was the only woman at the convention to bring up radical feminism, and it threw me so totally off guard that I still don't remember how I responded. At the words "Anarchists in High Heels," I looked straight down at my Reeboks. "Jane" shook her fist in the air and declared, "Don't worry, we'll fight for your right to wear sneakers, too!" I suddenly felt outradicaled.

Another fan took advantage of my confused silence to catch her attention. A perplexing emotion consumed me: I was depressed. My husband kept asking me, "Are you okay?" Finally, I admitted that the exchange had depressed me and I didn't know why. He burst out laughing.

He explained it to me. "Jane" was the first woman to challenge me on my own intellectual ground.

I had to admit: He was right. I felt threatened. I felt bested. I realized that my defense against being sexually intimidated by these women was a belief in my intellectual superiority. My trip to CES was the political equivalent of missionary work in deepest Africa, where I had found a native who spoke English with an Oxford accent. No wonder my husband was laughing at me.

It was a chastened feminist who returned to the exhibit floor. The first booth I visited was Crystals, a company that does the artwork on the box covers of about eighty percent of the porn videos in America. There, an older and hard-looking woman explained that she'd been around the business for a long time. She made a point of telling me she'd put four children through college with money made from the industry.

"This convention's far more tasteful than it used to be," she assured me. "Of course, it used to be four times as big as it is right now," she conceded. And exhibitors used to be able to sell their product from the floor, whereas now they could only take orders to be shipped later. In the olden days, some companies used to make up two sets of invoices: a real one and a bogus one that read "Free samples only." The customer showed the bogus invoice to guards at the door. The tax people shut this practice down.

When I asked whether she thought more repression of pornography was coming, she assured me, "Reagan and Bush and that Meese crowd are out on their asses. I'm not worried about Clinton. I mean he's a liberal and I think he's even for pornography, isn't he?" Is he?

The only male star I saw signing autographs was Randy West, a blond with a wall-to-wall chest and a Dudley DoRight chin. I didn't get his autograph, but I picked up an ad for his new movie (Up & Cummers). It included a paragraph on his formula for producing pornography:

"I find the best looking, hottest new babes with up and Cumming star potential.... Find out what turns them on & who they would like to be with, put them together and let them go wild. Live, for real, no script, no acting, no fake orgasms."

Producers seemed fond of giving their philosophy of porn. In another handout-this one an ad for Sodomania: Tales of Perversity by Elegant Angel-Patrick Collins described his slant on pornography:

"Sodomania is dedicated to all of us who hate watching women fuck that don't like fucking! ... But if you like girls who like getting fucked in the ass, girls who like to lick cum off their toes, and girls who just love to suck.. .Then this is the tape for you!"

As I read these accounts of "real action" and "natural sex," I wondered if pornography was relegating itself to an amateur status. After all, art is not natural; it is the opposite of nature. The best scripts and acting are consciously conceived and painstakingly sculpted; they come from skill and hard work, not from spontaneity. Pornography seemed to be eagerly defining itself out of the artistic realm.

This was confirmed by the fact that home porn is the fastest growing aspect of the industry. Home porn is short videos produced by "real" people, with ordinary bodies, who then sell the tapes of their sexual encounters for public viewing. Several short subjects are spliced together, then marketed. These videos were fairly inexpensive-e.g. nine tapes for about one hundred dollars. One exhibitor insisted that the tapes he received from amateur producers were far more innovative than the mass-produced ones. Moreover, buyers knew the action was real. The home porn market included newsletters, computer bulletin boards for downloading "full-motion video clips," and an introduction service for amateur fans.

A booth to my left promoted sex toys; on my right, a woman reached into a huge goldfish bowl full of condoms and handed them out to passersby. (Coin-sized and wrapped in gold foil, they reminded me of the chocolates I used to love as a child.) Interactive computer displays flashed porn with low resolution and a low update rate-ten or fifteen frames a second. Another booth distributed mock samples of "Prepaid Private Issue Calling Cards." The purchaser of such a card simply dialed an 800 access number, gave his authorization code, and was able to dial a list of sex phone lines. No phone calls showed up on his home or company phone bill.

Next I stopped at the Adult Video News (AVN) booth to ask about a matter that perplexed me. AVN is the trade publication for video porn. In the table of contents of the January issue, an article entitled "I've Finished My Calls, So . . ." was listed on page 20. A subtext described the article: "Our esteemed publisher comments on some of the less esteemed people in the adult entertainment business." The idea of the industry regulating itself by exposing malfeasance was interesting. But page 20 consisted of an advertisement. No article with that title appeared elsewhere.

A man at the AVN booth told me that the article had been yanked so quickly there had been no time to change the table of contents. Further inquiry resulted in a brush-off. I asked people at other booths to speculate about the matter. According to the best-informed source, the article was about a porn producer known for writing rubber checks. It was disappointing that the magazine was unwilling or unable to expose fraud.

The most prominent type of pornography at the convention seemed to be fetish porn, especially S/M and dominance. In one booth, women role-played at dominance and submission, using soft whips and other equipment. As I watched, I started to get upset-not because I thought the women were coerced or psychologically damaged, but because I don't like even "mock" humiliation.

And I was bothered by the reaction of the men. At one point, a producer from a public access station asked one of the women to "perform" so he could film her. She crouched down on her knees, her ass jutting into the air. With the hand farthest from the camera, she raised a whip and flicked it down across her backside, all the while moaning to herself to "do it harder." The producer kept shifting his position to get a better angle, or, maybe, just a better look.

This is my clearest memory of the convention and it never fails to disturb me. I am convinced that the woman performed of her own free will and that she was not physically harmed. She appeared to be enjoying herself. I am also convinced that my sexual preferences and reactions are no more natural than anyone else's. Nevertheless, a sinking feeling always accompanies this vivid memory.

In sorting through S/M videos and publications, I tried to answer three questions:

Invariably, it did. A few magazines showed photos of bruised women, but the marks were clearly makeup, with only one bruise vaguely resembling the real thing. There was one exception: the spanking magazines-usually imported from Britain-showed asses that seemed sincerely red. More than anything, the S/M magazines seemed campy.

I saw about twice as many cases of women dominating men than the reverse. For example, one of Bizarre Video's June releases was Mistresses at War, with the subtext, "A slave is torn between two dueling mistresses. Where does his loyalty lie?"

The violence was restrained and less graphic than can be seen in many studio releases. Common sights included: someone in chains or wearing a collar; hair pulling; women with fearful expressions; women on their knees (often in front of other women); and spankings.

But the fetish market is much more than S/M. There was porn featuring fat people, feet with painted toenails, women with incredibly large breasts, and a Cousin Bubba magazine advertising "Country Corn Porn."

To tell the truth, as I perused the S/M and other fetish porn displayed, I was not disgusted or distressed. I thought most of it was rather silly.

The Adult Video News (AVN) Awards Show is where excellence in the industry is recognized through awards such as "Best Editing for a Film," "Best Actor, Video," and "Best All-Sex Feature." On January 8, it was the hottest ticket in Las Vegas.

The room held 125 tables, which seated ten people each. My table-number 102-boasted a perfect stereo view of the stage via two huge screens to my right and left. Music boomed loud enough to make the floor quake and conversation impractical. I shared the table with an angry looking woman in a black dress and sequined red jacket. To her right sat a bored looking man. They were an attractive couple in a non-porn fashion, meaning they didn't look either hard or glitzy or thrilled to be there. The woman had an air of slumming.

From their silence, it was clear I would have to initiate introductions. They turned out to be doing a documentary on the U.S. porn industry. Trying to keep up the conversation, I asked the woman what had surprised her the most about the convention. She answered, "Nothing. There's nothing surprising here. I'm used to working in Hollywood."

To break the ice, I volunteered, "The thing that surprised me the most was how conservative these people are." This piqued the man's interest, who leaned his elbows onto the table. I expanded, "They all believe that the government will protect them now that Clinton is in power."

Both nodded agreement. The man admitted to not being "up" on the current state of censorship in the U.S. He asked me for a thumbnail sketch. I obliged, then launched into a critique of the class structure of pornography, wondering aloud where the new blood was. "Where are the Young Turks?" I exclaimed. The lady remarked, "One of them is seated across from you. You should go and talk to him."

Later I realized my enthusiasm must have irritated her. As the Awards ceremony progressed, the contempt in which she held people in the industry became obvious.

The Young Turk was named Greg Steel. About twenty-five years old, in a rumpled suit topped off by a Brillo-mop of red hair, Greg's appearance was in sharp contrast to the trendy "I'm into my body" look of the crowd. He provided a natural opening for conversation.

"You are the only person I have seen," I smiled, "who is wearing an AIDS ribbon. In a sexually aware crowd like this, I expected to see them everywhere." He offered that a friend of his had recently died of the disease and added that he produced gay as well as straight videos. In fact, he was up for an award in a gay category.

I asked how the "younger generation" conducted business differently than the older one. I learned that contracts were signed in advance; at the actresses' discretion, the actors used condoms; the actresses were asked whom they wished to perform with; scripts were prepared in advance and distributed to the cast for rehearsal; the minimum fee for a day's work was six hundred dollars. I was amazed; he seemed to approach pornography as though it was a craft, a profession.

When I asked about politics, Greg gave one of the most intriguing and dismissive answers I received. "I don't concern myself with politics," he said. "It doesn't interest me." Then he added, "Censorship has nothing to do with politics. They don't want to close us down. This is a huge industry and they want a cut of it."

I started to contradict him-to point out that the Religious Right and anti-porn feminists were on a moral crusade. Closing him down was precisely what they wanted. I stopped short. There was as much truth in his perspective as there was in mine. Most politicians probably were happy to let pornography exist ... as long as it paid for the privilege.

Another Young Turk named Shawn Ricks and his protégé actress, Sydney, joined us. A tall blond woman sat down. And ... The Awards ceremony began. The incredibly square chinned Randy West hosted the event and began by singing, "It shows a lot of class to take it in the ass." Or, at least, that was the gist of the lyrics. Unfortunately, whoever mixed the sound must have learned his craft at rock concerts, because the instruments overwhelmed the voices. But the screens provided a perfect view. As the Awards progressed, I ignored the other people at the table and chatted with Greg. A specific event triggered this decision. The blonde and the documentarian had been trading bitchy remarks about the people onstage. Perhaps the insults were accurate, or perhaps the two women were catty cynics. Whichever…their attitude made me feel ridiculous for enjoying myself and for admiring the "in your face" attitude of the industry.

The turning point: A flustered young actress burst into tears at receiving an award. When the other women at the table hooted in derision, my back literally bristled. Why shouldn't the woman cry? This was her night to be proud of her work, to be touched by the tribute of her peers. Who knows what abuse she swallowed from the world about how she paid her bills? Listening to the insults fly, I felt as though the casual cruelty of the regular world was sitting across the table from me.

Anger had a salutary effect. If being sophisticated meant having contempt for other women, then fuck it! I had a second glass of wine and settled back to enjoy myself.

Not knowing the videos or people up for awards was a barrier to appreciating the event. Instead, I cued in to the flow of the show and to the education I was getting from Greg.

As to the flow: Part Two of the ceremony focused on the technical and gay awards. This section was remarkable for its brevity. In other sections, the presenter read off the nominees and the winner rushed onstage to accept. In Part Two, only the winners were announced and only the most important gay awards were handed out in person. Since gay porn constitutes a huge chunk of the industry, this short shrift was puzzling.

I was even more baffled when Chi Chi-perhaps the most famous gay sex performer-capped off the Awards Event with a dazzling production number. On a Caesar-like reclining throne, he/she was carried onto the stage by slave boys, who proceeded to join in the musical number, "Love Doll." The audience couldn't seem to applaud or cheer loudly enough. What was this? I wondered. A schizophrenia about gays?

My political sensibilities perked up at two other points. The first: An elegant man stood up to receive a major award and people at table 102 began to mutter. Greg explained that the fellow had worked for only six months last year because he'd had a sex scene with a woman who'd turned out to be HIV positive.

Health certificates had become standard practice in the industry; I now wondered if they were as easy to forge as documents proving age.

The second incident concerned another Young Turk. A black producer named Sean Michaels was passed by for an award. Sydney, the lady on Shawn Ricks's arm, commented wryly that it would be a long time before the AVN presented an award to a black person. The next day, people to whom I mentioned this remark took exception. But they admitted that black men were not common in porn; Asian men were unknown. And they couldn't remember a black man ever winning in any category.

After this, the mood at table 102 changed. Everyone who'd been nominated, or connected with a nomination, had been passed over. It dawned on me how much these people had wanted to win. Now Shawn Ricks began to tell me about his philosophy of pornography. He wanted to be on the cutting edge, to break the rules. As I would do with any other young rebel, I wished him luck.

A bright Sunday morning-and the Adult Section was deadly quiet. Fortunately, the one gay booth-which shared space with a straight company-was occupied by a lean young man and a plumpish woman.

I walked up, and into an interesting situation. A rather plain girl was asking how she could get into porn. The plumpish woman behind the counter cut her off coldly, because (as she later explained to me) the aspiring actress was so unattractive that the only honest answer would have been "in your dreams."

I was surprised to see a woman so eager to get into the industry. The woman behind the booth assured me that it happened all the time.

I began to wonder whether the reason porn actresses are poorly paid was simple economics. If there is such a glut of "talent" that people will perform for free, this would depress wages for everyone. The same would be true in the legitimate film business, if it were not for unions, which prevent "volunteer" labor. This might also explain why porn actresses are so good-looking; producers can pick and choose.

To open conversation, I asked the fellow in the gay booth whether porn actors ever crossed over into legitimate film. He said no, but that the reverse often occurs. People give up on "legitimate" careers and get stuck in porn, where they are stigmatized. He turned and addressed an imagined critic standing to his left. "I'm sorry, not all of us can do Seinfeld. I'm sorry, I have rent to pay."

I commented on how the absence of AIDS ribbons surprised me. He replied that gays were not well received by straight pornographers, who were into being "macho sex machines." Then he explained how gay porn had pioneered condom use within the industry. Every gay shoot, he insisted, had a big bowl of condoms that the actors were required to use. Grimacing, he said that producers of regular porn didn't even want to hear about condoms because they claimed, "The audience doesn't want to see them."

(Every discussion I had with straight producers confirmed this. For example, when I suggested the possibility of using the condom in a sexy manner-perhaps having the woman put it on with her mouth as a prelude to oral sex-I was told brusquely "It's been done." No one was interested in the ethical issue, despite the fact that there had been recent AIDS scares and scandals.)

The fellow added that gay porn had changed the straight industry in at least one way: The men were better looking, simply because gay actors were so attractive. I offered an alternative theory: Namely, more couples and women are consuming porn and -whatever feminists said - women wanted sexier men.

Upon hearing the word "feminist," a long, annoyed monologue erupted. "There is no coercion on any porn shoot," he assured me. "Everyone on a set knows exactly what is going on and that's why they're there."

For the rest of the day, the exhibit remained quiet, with some booths not even opening. I said my good-byes to the people who'd been generous with their time.

While I thanked Bill Margold, he took the opportunity to introduce me to a cherubic man who had invented phone sex lines. He looked familiar. I asked if he had attended a certain political meeting. He choked out an amazed yes. We had met years ago, in another context. A mild-visaged soft-spoken businessman, he would have never crossed my mind as a "sex worker." An accountant, maybe.

Pornography frightens people. Women in the industry threaten women who are not.

This became clear to me when I eagerly discussed my experience at the CES with girlfriends. Their reactions varied widely, but they all agreed on one point: I was a fool to have taken my husband along.

Two assumptions lurk beneath this reaction. First, men cannot be trusted. Second, women in porn are predatory.

The first assumption is a pure insult to men and not within the purview of this book. The second assumption is also an insult, directed at women in pornography. But it is a part of what this book is about.

Women in porn do not appreciate how much they intimidate "regular" women, who usually put in long hours at tiresome jobs before rushing home to feed their kids-all the while trying to retain the fading blush of youth or enthusiasm.

Such women are intimidated by the images of porn on several levels:

First, the women in porn today are extremely attractive, young, with large, unsagging breasts and aerobicized asses. They are a walking reproach to women who are trying to lose weight and to tighten up what gravity is loosening. There is no way to compete with the image of sexual perfection that porn projects. A lot of the scorn heaped on women in the industry undoubtedly springs from feelings of inadequacy and jealousy.

Second, the women in porn seem to be sexually available, uninhibited, and easily satisfied-none of which is true for the rest of womankind. Whether it is actually true of women in porn is irrelevant: This is the image projected. And, again, it is almost impossible to live up to. After going through a great deal of angst over sex, I know who I am sexually and I like that person. But even now I am not perpetually available or totally uninhibited. I can only imagine the deep resentment felt by women who have real problems with sex.

Third, the women in porn receive a great of sexual attention from men-most of whom are husbands or boyfriends. This is upsetting to their wives and girlfriends, whose emotional and sexual needs are often being neglected. They blame the men. They blame the porn actresses.

For their part, women within the industry are less tolerant and sexually open than they imagine themselves to be. As accepting as these women are of each other, they can be strangely intolerant of outsiders. Some of this probably comes from a natural suspicion of the "regular" world, which usually treats them with disrespect. But much of the intolerance comes from a sense of sexual elitism.

People in porn consider themselves to be more sexually sophisticated and more liberated than the average person. They evince contempt for those who live conservative lifestyles-e.g. the Midwestern housewife with three children and a monogamous marriage. They call these choices "uninformed" or "unnatural." They claim that the little housewife simply "doesn't know what she is missing"; if she did, she'd be stripping for the camera.

If the housewife retorted, with absolute accuracy, "You have no idea what the rewards of my lifestyle are," she would be dismissed out-of-hand.

I tried to argue that no choice was "right" for every person. Sexuality is richer than that: It is a banquet of choices and possibilities, none of which we can afford to dismiss. Yet over and over, in both small and large ways, I saw the "wrong" sexual choices being dismissed or ridiculed. They were not condemned as right or wrong, good or evil. Instead, they were disdainfully brushed away as uninteresting, boring, or mundane. The effect was the same.

For example, when I brought up the sexiest movie I've ever seen - Sex, Lies and Videotape - the incredibly disparaging comments that came back ensured my silence. True, I wasn't called perverted, only boring. I was left to wonder which I preferred.

So ... what of the two main questions with which I approached CES?

Were women coerced into performing pornographic acts?

I saw no evidence that women are forced into performing pornographic acts. I saw overwhelming evidence of informed consent. Although I heard rumors of women who had been pressured into performing sexual acts, no one I spoke to had experienced it themselves. Of course, this does not disprove the rumors.

How were women in the industry treated otherwise?

Not especially well. Indeed, a few pornographers seemed determined to live up to society's worst caricatures of them. They spoke of women in brutally cold and dehumanizing terms, which appalled me. Other pornographers, who probably believed they did treat women well, actually displayed considerable contempt for them. These were the men who refused to deal with women as equals in contracts and negotiation.

At this point, men in the industry will loudly object that they acknowledge women as the core of their business. Without women, they will proclaim, the industry would not exist. This is a form of acknowledgment, but not a form of respect. Women in the industry are like thoroughbred horses, without which there could be no day at the races. The women are valued, they are cared for, they are protected-but I didn't see them respected.

For example, when men spoke of each other-whether to praise or to bury-it was about their work, their accomplishments or lack thereof. So-and-so was a genius, active in the Free Speech Coalition, or a bad agent. Women were always discussed in terms of their physical components. This one has a good ass, that one's lost too much weight or her breasts are sagging.

As in every other endeavor-in or outside of the business world-women in porn will probably get respect only after they get power.