Features, The Stalk

The Night I Almost Became A Pornhub Intern And A Feminist

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It’s 2 AM on either a Sunday night or Monday morning, depending on who’s counting. Notorious rule abider and extra cautious street-crosser Gauraa might tell you it’s Monday, but I’ll take a walk on the wild side and go with the former. My affinity for the dangerous has led me to many dark virtual realms, but tonight my instincts have led me to one of the safest spaces the Internet has to offer: an application site for Pornhub intern hopefuls.

I wonder at first if I am hallucinating in a state of delirium after sleeping from 6 AM to 5 PM and eating only microwavable burritos the day before, but the longer I stare into the screen, the more real and enticing the opportunity becomes.

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I had just ended a phone call with my mother a few hours earlier, in which she badgered me about the uncertainty of my future–as she does in every one of our weekly calls. She also yelled at me for bearing a striking resemblance to her own mother who, despite living off of social security, recently spent $4000 on mall kiosk lotion because the man selling it was from Jerusalem. Nana once jumped up in the stands of my brother’s little league baseball game after his teammate hit a grand slam and exclaimed, “He’s the chosen one!”– to provide some context on the state of her sanity and Jesus-ness.

Nana had no remorse for exhausting her life savings in order to fuel her lotion-hoarding habits because she was certain God would reward her financial service to his holy people with a seat next to Elvis in heaven and a lifetime of youthful glowing skin. Like my grandmother, I have always assured my mother that I would one day be rewarded for my years of irrational decision-making. It was like God had finally answered my prayers. What screams respectable, hard earned career path more than porn?! I reached for the phone to give my mom the good news, but my excitement was cut short after looking twice at the listed requirements.

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I had gotten through the innuendo-laden internship description with a humored heart, but the last line read: “Note: a nice rack and lack of male genitalia is preferred,” and I was no longer DTF. For a girl who has been running from the feminist movement purely out of fear that boobie jokes would be sentenced to extinction, I was surprised by how upset the seemingly harmless comment made me. I just pictured Subway Jared’s lesser known but equally repulsive cousin behind the computer jacking off to a pile of poorly written sorority girl resumes to make up for years spent living in the shadows of his fat jeans and it all seemed so slimy to me. I know I probably shouldn’t have been expecting much from a company that prides itself on highly pixelated videos entitled “Homemade BJ” but it is a successful business platform that could seriously have some decent educational opportunities if done properly. And by properly I mean by listing anything other than a “nice rack” as a job requirement.

Maybe I was being hypersensitive because the night/morning before was spent convincing my friend that she wasn’t a whore after one of her male “friends” sexually assaulted her at a school party. I thought that type of stuff only happened in Lifetime movies and health class educational films, but there I was watching a very rational girl blame herself for being raped. And yes it is rape when you are drunk and saying no but he puts his dick in anyways.

I felt myself being overcome with the fury of a thousand raging feminists and I wasn’t even annoyed by myself. Was this what feminism was supposed to feel like? Maybe the significance of the movement has just been hidden so long under the armpit hair of self-proclaimed social justice warriors calling upon Instagram dictators to “free the nipple” that I forgot there were actual reasons to fight for the female race. Maybe feminism is in fact more than a trendy coalition of intolerable women fighting for the right to spew their menstrual blood on innocent passersby in public. And maybe a free amateur porn site asking for schoolgirls with nice tits to intern for them has nothing to do with feminism. But maybe it does.


It all just comes down to the notion that a woman is only as valuable as the number of erections she inspires. The objectification of women has become an almost tired subject and weapon of choice for overzealous PTA moms in their quest to stop rap music and other things black people do, but it’s taken me until now to realize how problematic of an issue it really is.

The music industry specifically can be a breeding ground for mistreatment. I’m reminded of that time a decently reputable musician “discovered” me on YouTube when I was 16 and recruited me to front his new band because he liked “my image.” And then almost undiscovered me after he found out I was hesitant towards changing my “princess hair” and wasn’t even five feet tall. I turned him down because I wanted to finish school and fulfill my dream of going to Berklee, where people truly cared about the music. Unfortunately, I found myself only running into a more expensive trap of superficiality yet again.

Former Led Zeppelin guitarist Jimmy Page smiles as he speaks after receiving an honorary degree of Doctor of Music during the commencement of the Berklee College of Music in Boston, Saturday, May 10. 2014. Looking on at right is the school President Roger Brown. (AP Photo/Winslow Townson)

After essentially locking myself in a room for my entire high school experience in an attempt to become a half decent musician, I was reasonably frustrated to find that the first thing a Berklee professor asked my mom when she told him I was applying was if I was pretty. My mom proudly whipped out an old Christmas card to show him and was excited to share with me afterwards that he thought I definitely had “the look” to get in. I did not share in her enthusiasm. But when audition time rolled around I fell victim to his shallow ways and spent more time figuring out what I would wear than what I was going to perform. And I was equally disappointed when another Berklee professor, before hearing any of my work, told me I would definitely get in because I was a girl going for production and “no girls” did that. So when I got my acceptance letter I couldn’t fully rejoice because I wasn’t sure if my fate was decided by the skin tight dress I wore regardless of the fact that it restricted my breathing and did nothing for my singing, or if the person who received my application put it aside after seeing the box checked female and thought I would look nice on their demographics report.


I love an obscene rap song as much as the next bitch but after watching 20 girls shake their asses on stage while Ty Dolla $ign and friends shouted lyrics including “I’mma put it in ya girl’s mouth like uh” and “She say my dick big, but she still will not choke,” things got real after Ty’s show ended. I was heading home from the concert when a man followed me to the train station and yelled that he was going to cum on my face and in my mouth and all over me. It just seemed a little ironic. I felt so stupid all of a sudden for chanting along in the audience and proudly documenting the night’s events on my Snapchat story. Was Ty Dolla $ign just a subway pedophile made cool by serving misogyny over a DJ Mustard beat?

I’ve always believed that music should be a place of true freedom. It’s the one space where artists like Ty should feel comfortable showcasing their poeticism and knack for metaphor-making by comparing women to “horses in the stable” that they can “ride anytime.” Like Ty, most people haven’t actually ridden horses, and probably do not have access to women they “can ride any time.” Art isn’t always meant to be interpreted literally, and confusion here is where art becomes dangerous. After hearing all about an insecure artist’s imagined sex life on the radio it can start feeling a little less wrong to impose your own unrealistic and unwelcomed fantasies upon the innocent girl trying to catch the L on a night out. Some choice delusional individuals have a difficult time differentiating what is an abstract account of a singer with a little dick complex trying to assert his manhood from what is reality, and that never ends well. Unfortunately, I don’t know that I have the solution. If I did, my most recent Google search would probably not be related to New York state laws on pepper spray. For now, regardless of your own personal feelings on the big ‘F’ word, I advise you to treat the disrespecting of women, or anyone for that matter, as you would anything you see on Pornhub or at a Ty Dolla $ign show: don’t try it at home.


November 23, 2015

About Author

Krista Krista is a fervent nightcore enthusiast with an impressive collection of sloth-themed paraphernalia. When she is not busy convincing her co-workers that Christian rock is a worthwhile art form, she can be found making an ass out of herself in front of important people.

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