Sera Miles

Me in an Early Spanking Video, Nice and Pink

Five years ago, I took the ferry from Manhattan to Staten Island, and Kelly Payne, producer of spanking fetish videos, picked me up. Kelly and I had met through someone we both knew–an acquaintance of mine who had done videos for her. Kelly had emailed me for months, encouraging me to visit. At first, I thought her propositions couldn’t be “real”–I could get paid to spank and be spanked, to basically live out what I’d secretly fetishized since I could remember? I finally acquiesced, for I wanted to satisfy my curiosity, both in terms of my own fetish and in terms of the reality of a business around it. Terribly nervous, I dressed “sexy conservative,” in a maroon wrap-around skirt that fell to my calves, with a tight black tank top that skimmed my waist. Kelly’s enthusiasm relieved my nerves. Walking into her house a few minutes later, and seeing how lovingly decorated it was, and then being served a nice glass of wine nearly dissolved my nerves.

She promised me that everyone I met that day, and the next, would be a spanking fetishist. Everyone was. An hour or so after our wine, I performed in my first video–”The Voyeur Husband.” I played a wife whose husband had peeped in at her neighbors. The neighbors come over and offer to show the wife “how to deal with such behavior.” After the neighbors spank and strap the errant husband, it’s the wife’s turn. This marked the first time I’d ever really spanked anyone. I went soft on him, but Kelly and the other actress more than made up for my softness.

The next day, I filmed my first submissive video, “A Lesson From Aunt Kelly Part 2.” Kelly, who possesses a degree in Fashion and whose closet is practically the size of a bedroom, dressed me in an ass-skimming red plaid skirt, little white blouse, and sheer panties. We filmed in a large kitchen. I played a teenage niece who has been staying with her aunt while (theoretically) attending summer school. Aunt Kelly receives a letter from the school, informing her of her niece’s poor attendance. Despite the niece’s protests of being “too old for this,” Aunt Kelly delivers a firm over the knee spanking. When the niece claims she was “sick,” Aunt Kelly verifies the girl’s health (you can imagine how, I’m sure), and turns up the heat with her hairbrush.

One of Kelly’s long-time clients watched us film, and then we adjourned to a playroom to do a live session with him. It was my turn to spank, once again. I remember being shocked at how hard Kelly spanked the man, and I went easy on him. He even joked that every time he was over my knee he got a “break.” Later, I would come to understand his–and others’, and my own as it developed–need to be taken deeply into a submissive place through the role play and the spanking. At the time, I wanted most to “get through it” and at least be charming. I suppose I was, as the gentleman saw me numerous times after that.

When it was time to go home, Kelly paid me for all my work, and I had more cash in my wallet than I knew what to do with. I journeyed off to Queens to visit a friend. I still remember the first two things I bought with my first sex biz earnings. I went to Le Chateau, a wonderful store that keeps closing in too many cities, and bought a pair of skin-tight black pants with gold studs trimming the waist and ankles, and a thin black sweater with sweeping sleeves, long enough to hit me mid-thigh (this was very in style in 2001–perhaps some of you remember the look?).

I finally went home to Baltimore, and I knew I would return to Staten Island to work with Kelly again. My first weekend had been a whirlwind, and I couldn’t find one thing to complain or feel bad about. At moments, I felt guilty to have done something “like that.” I could barely put words to it at the time. But, my guilt seemed manufactured–I felt as if I was sensing what society expected me to, rather than experiencing a genuine reaction. For I knew that I had not only found a way to indulge my fetish, but I had also entered a community of warm, generous, accepting people around whom I could freely express any fetishistic desire.

I’ve stayed in “the biz” for a multitude of reasons. Now, I often tell my clients of this first weekend, and I remind them that I had just turned twenty-five when it happened. I was fortunate, not to be taken into “the biz,” but to have that community so early. Without that weekend, and all the personal and professional doors it opened, I wonder if I would have lived several decades hiding my fantasies, trying to get rid of them. Before I met Kelly, I would masturbate to spanking fantasies; I would use them during sex if I had trouble reaching orgasm. I’d then promise myself to never fantasize about it again. I’d secretly buy BDSM novels, and I’d throw them away after reading them. Now, anyone who walks into my home could easily see my fetishistic side immediately–at this moment, several spanking/BDSM porn DVDs are on top of my TV; I’ve framed a handful of my publicity photos; and my canes and crops adorn the top of my massive ebony-framed mirror. Beside my bed, I keep a basket with sex toys for easy reach–the usual suspects: lube, condoms, harness, dildo, little paddle. The only time I hide any of these things is when my mother visits. I want anyone who enters my home to know what I do; why would I invite them if I had to hide? Moreover, though, I want anyone who enters to know that this is a safe place to speak of their fetishes, their desires, that nothing they say will garner them “a look” from me. The only look they’ll receive is one of intrigue, one of understanding.

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This August, I’ll have been part of the sex industry for eight years–nearly a decade. Last year, after the birth of my daughter, I thought about leaving the biz. Ha, ha. A few months later I’d gotten a gig recording sexual fantasies. I don’t know what happened to my mp3 recordings, but I know I was paid handsomely for them. I also appeared in the video game Bonetown, the world’s first porno game. That job was particularly a blast–I got to go to a fancy recording booth and say the sicket stuff I could think of, and fake orgasms, and curse. God, I hope that company hires me again!

Somehow, the sex biz is my home. It’s increasingly difficult to think about leaving, in large part because I’m spoiled. I’m spoiled by not just the fast money (time to dollar ratio), but by the community. Where else can you work where you are not judged for parts of your identity that are beyond your control? Where else must everyone avoid judging others’ sexual proclivities, because it is a job requirement?

This is not to say the industry hasn’t fucked my head in some ways. I have trouble believing in what some people say, believing that marriages are sound, believing that partners are honest. Thankfully, I married a fellow pervert. But when I see non-admitted pervert marriages … well, I’ve made a great deal of money because our society tells people to shut their sexual selves down.

Much of that is another post entirely, one I’ll have to gather the emotional energy to write.

I love what I do. I love what I’ve done. We all know when we have found our professional home. That sunny, hot morning in Staten Island, I knew. Any shifting I’ve tried to do has just spun me right back into the biz. It’s home.