TOPEKA, Kan. – Sometimes you run into a person whose story is so parallel to your own, it’s downright creepy. I had that experience when I read the story of Theresa Carey, who could be my mirror image. You see, I’m not proud to admit it, but it’s a fact: Before I saw the light and became a lesbian porn star, I once went to church for 683 Sundays in a row, over a span of more than 13 years.
At the time, I didn’t think it was a big deal. After all, in my home town, everybody was doing it. It’s only looking back now that I realize was an addict. My spiritual habits were destroying my life, ruining my relationship with my family, and I didn’t even know it. It was a lot like being a meth-head, now that I think about it—only with far less fucked-up teeth.
Sitting there every Sunday in my pew, I felt like I was part of something bigger than myself. I just knew we were on to something in that congregation, that we had our finger on the pulse of God, a crystal-clear view of The Truth and plenty of well-lit parking spaces.
Even when the preacher, who was also my husband, would say things I was a little uncomfortable with—like 9/11 was caused by America’s tolerance for homosexuality or, collectively, Catholics were the equivalent of Satan’s bellhops on Earth or the world was going to end in six weeks unless parishioners came up with a half-million dollars in a hurryI—I would just smile, dutifully nod my head and pass the collection plate.
It all started innocently enough in Sunday school decades earlier. Initially, I attended because I was curious, and also to relieve the pressure from my peers, who would tell me that if I didn’t go I’d find myself in Hell—or, at the very least, not invited to the big annual picnic and miss out on Edna Wilmer’s legendary potato salad and the epic three-legged race.
Before I knew it, I was hooked. Pretty soon, I found myself not just a user of religion, but a dealer as well. I started recruiting my neighbors, with a particular focus on young people and their impressionable little minds. I’d draw them in with promises of a glamorous life (or a glamorous after-life, anyway) and encourage them to make everything else in their life subordinate to their new religious endeavors, from their parents to school to their girlfriends and next-gen video game consoles.
It happened so gradually, I didn’t even notice. Over time, it seemed like a natural, normal progression from parishioner to proselytizer to preacher’s wife. I didn’t see it as the addictive escalation it was. In my rationally impaired state, I thought of it as spiritual evolution.
Make no mistake, we were rolling in cash due to our religiously high-flying lifestyle. By leaving that life behind to make lesbian porn, I sacrificed a lot on the financial front. The collection plate at our church overflowed every Sunday—although, to be perfectly frank, a big part of the reason for the overflowing plate might have been that senile old Mr. Buckingham kept trying to contribute his size-9 hat.
It’s hard to describe the hold my husband had over me. It was a dominance that was both spiritual and personal—and when it comes to submission to God, there’s no such thing as a “safe word.”
When your husband is also your preacher, he expects you to make the whole journey with him and the rest of his flock. He never lets up on the rules, he doesn’t relent with the admonitions, and on Sunday morning he will just keep on sermonizing, no matter how far past lunchtime it has become.
People often ask me how I turned it all around. How, they wonder, did I manage to break free from an environment where critical thought is discouraged and blind obedience demanded?
The answer might surprise you. The answer is Anthrax—the band, not the disease caused by Bacillus anthracis.
One night while I was doing a routine Spiritual Purity Sweep of my eldest son’s room, I found a number of items of grave concern, including a handful of spent cigarette lighters, a photograph of Kate Upton in a bikini, two little pills that looked an awful lot like phenobarbital (but turned out to be Wild Berry Skittles) and a music CD with the words Spreading the Disease on the cover.
At first, I assumed it was a collection of my husband’s sermons addressing the sin of homosexuality, but as it turned out, it was a font of wisdom that would change my life as well as my political party affiliation…but that’s another conversion story, altogether.
The music and words were so stirring, so liberating, I was immediately overcome. Anthrax spoke to me on a level the Bible simply never had, filling me with hope and optimism I hadn’t felt since I was a toddler. In particular, the inspiring lyrics of “Gung-Ho” stick with me to this day:
[QUOTE]Striking down the enemy
Fighting hand to hand
Troops are thrusting onwards
Time to take command
Ready to devour
On the attack
Bodies lie dismembered
Maimed, killed, and hacked.[/QUOTE]
Even on their face, those words are pure poetry, obviously, but what I was drawn to was the hidden message within, which was not lost on me: It was time to leave the church and start performing cunnilingus on camera for a living.
It’s no exaggeration to say that by pointing me toward the salvation of Girlfriend Films, Anthrax saved my life. They freed me from a world of endless bingo and dreadfully dull charity functions, and most importantly, saved me from the overbearing righteousness of my husband, from whom I am long since divorced.
These days, I hear my Sapphic iniquities are the subject of my husband’s sermons on a regular basis. He even refers to me as the “Second Whore of Babylon,” which is either mildly ironic or squarely appropriate, as that’s also the title of my next film.
As for me, I’m finally a happy camper now. I no longer spend my time worrying about The Apocalypse, The Gays or The Government. A couple of times a week, I sit for makeup for a while, then energetically bury my face between the thighs of someone like Jessie Rogers or Sunny Lane…and get paid to do it. That’s not such a bad way to live, right?
Granted, none of my films will be winning Oscars any time soon…. But then again, neither will Left Behind.
