I have no recollection of how I found pervscan.com. I do remember being impressed by how legitimately perverted the content was. It was at times highly disturbing. It was always fascinating. When you stopped publishing on February 14th, I assumed the selection of that date was purposeful, but was it ironic? Hopeful? Done without any further meaning than the desire to make people wonder about the significance? Quite possibly it was actually random or coincidental. 

There are plenty of deeper, intellectually challenging layers in your work, but man is the gross-out factor high at first glance. It’s unsettling in a way that forces the provocation of thought. The intricacy of it is mesmerizing. Alien sex hobbyists kidnapping young girls to act out their fantasies on, people having sex with corpses or preying on the emotional turmoil of others at funerals. I’ve read Perversity Think Tank a number of times and I’m positive I still don’t truly understand that one. The cover reminds me of Soulages. When I first touched it, I pictured slightly hairy hands, protruding from the sleeves of a blue button down shirt and brown tweed blazer, artfully glopping the paint on each jacket. Then I pictured a woman in a men’s undershirt, her bare just-got-back-from-vacation-tan ass seated in a leather chair, doing the glopping under your direction. Then I wondered whether you were a man or a woman, even though the text of Perversity Think Tank indicated you are male. 

See, at some point I developed something that could be defined as a fanaticism for the true bizarreness of your writing. When I ran out of books and website content, I read other people’s thoughts on your work. I found a handful of interviews. The absence of personal information was astonishing. At a time when it seems like nearly everyone puts the details of their life on the internet and there are people who actually do post pictures of every single meal they consume, you were nearly impossible to find any background on. About two pages away from the end of Google’s search results on “Supervert” I started to feel a bit obsessed. It’s one thing to consume all of a person’s work and do a bit of research. It’s another thing to go to the ends of the internet and build imaginary caricatures of them in your head. I went ahead and finished reading the last few search results.

What I perceived as your meticulous control of your brand’s image became beautiful to me. I began to value your personal anonymity for both its rarity and for the stark frame it provided your work. I developed an additional zeal, solely for this absence of information. Earlier this year I gave a professional acquaintance the cold shoulder for weeks because he emailed me a link to an article which confirmed you are male and mentioned your name.

A few weeks ago, I was setting up my aerial rigging at an event. A woman whose photography was being exhibited at the same event introduced herself (or maybe I introduced myself) and said that she’d seen the Hysterical Literature video. She knew you, and told me that you might be attending. I loudly blurted out that I didn’t want to know ANYTHING. I then attempted to explain why and eventually gave up because every sentence felt crazier than the last. 

It’s chilly where I am sitting right now. 49 degrees to be precise. I’m wearing a silk robe with panties and mens athletic socks. There are rivulets of sweat sliding down my ribcage from my armpits, just from remembering that moment. I do think I might be able to explain now:

Supervert is a thing… a brand… an entity that stands completely independent of the person who has created it. You’re like the Wizard of Depravity, and what lies behind the curtain could shake my blind devotion or add another exquisite note. I want to revel in my awe of the giant talking head a little bit longer before I look.

With the highest esteem,

Stoya

There’s a video involved. I leave it up to you whether you read or watch first.

I’ve never understood vibrators. I’ve gone on record numerous times saying various versions of “I dislike them all except for Lelo’s Nea which I really only appreciate aesthetically.” I think it’s the buzzing that bothers me. I’ve posed for plenty of photospreads with toys, but I’ve always seen them as a poor substitute for a person and I’ve never had an orgasm from one. Less than a month ago I was on a panel at Exxxotica   with some of the adult industry’s most successful female performers. Someone in the audience asked what our favorite vibrator was, and every single one of the other women shouted “Hitachi” in unison. That night I received an email from Clayton asking if I’d be interested in his new project.

He’s filming women sitting at a table reading literature. The twist is the things going on below the table. I like these sorts of things… This Empty Love was the first video work I enjoyed doing, making hardcore work with Digital Playground an interesting option later. I think the interesting parts of sex are in the hints of what can’t be seen. Penetrative sex, after all, is an exploration of something dark, moist, and cavelike.  

I’ve chosen a section of Supervert’s “Necrophilia Variations.” I’m fascinated by Supervert and their (his?) body of work. I went with the Necrophilia themed volume because I’m currently in an oddly non-morbid obsession with something triangulated by the way an orgasm affects brain chemistry, the reasons behind the french nickname of la petite mort, and why my mind goes completely blank when I’m at the height of a sexual experience. There’s something in there, death and sex, maybe change or growth, and I’ve been focused on it since shortly before I posted “Touch.” Sometimes I can brush this concept with my fingertips, but I can’t grab hold and inspect it yet. The only way to understand is to wallow in anything that might hold a clue until it all clicks together (or am distracted by something shiny… but it would have to be *really* shiny.) Tl;dr: That’s the book that felt right.

I’ve been told to dress as I would for a date with a man, not a boy. I’m wearing a dress from Vivienne Westwood’s Anglomania collection last year. The cut limits the range of motion of my arms, but ideally I wouldn’t need to open my own doors or feel the desire to talk on my phone while on a date with a man. My makeup is simple, my heels very high but relatively practical, and my panties are both sophisticated and expensive. Also, damp in the gusset. Sexually speaking I really enjoy things that I can’t predict and things that are new to me. This attempting-to-read-aloud-and-maintain-composure while being sexually stimulated game is new. The video camera adds a dash of exhibitionism which I always appreciate. Most interesting, though, is the Hitachi that my vagina is about to be making very good friends with for the first time.

When I tell Clayton’s lovely assistant for the evening that I’ve never experienced the Hitachi, her eyes light up. I’ve obviously gotten myself into the most fun kind of trouble. Lights get set and everyone assumes their positions. My underwear lays on the floor out of frame. As I start reading, my disbelief is suspended. I forget what is about to happen. The first touch on my thigh sends all available blood to my vulva. I continue to enunciate properly, focusing on the text. I’ve broken a sweat. If this goes on for much longer my hair will be plastered to my head with perspiration as though I’ve been working out or engaging in acrobatic man/woman penetrative fucking. I stumble over a word, my concentration breaks as I go back to pronounce it correctly. Neither the Hitachi or the woman wielding it will be denied, but in the interests of art (and because this feels so beautifully filthy I don’t want it to stop yet) I hold out as long as I can. This section of the world that I’m inhabiting slows down, zooms in. Like a stretched rubber band it suddenly contracts, and I am lovingly punched with an orgasm. 

I giggle-pant, hands on the table. Once enough pieces of my mind have come back I deliver the closing line.