In 1998, amidst the glitz and absurdity of Las Vegas, I found myself documenting the Adult Video News Awards with writer David Foster Wallace, photographer Nathaniel Welch, and Hustler’s Evan Wright.

It was there I encountered Jasmine St. Clair, a figure whose attempt to shatter boundaries in the adult industry left an indelible mark on the genre. St. Clair planned a gang bang involving 300 men—a logistical illusion, as only 30 men participated, with footage cleverly looped.

Wallace, in his essay on the event, described Jasmine as “so incredibly heavily made up that she looks like a crow.” This observation sparked tensions, especially after Evan Wright began dating Jasmine years later.

Around the same time, I met Annabel Chong, a USC gender studies major who pursued a similar feat, engaging with 300 men in one session, documented in Sex: The Annabel Chong Story.

I remember her posing with a store-bought chicken for a photoshoot during the Sundance Film Festival, an image as surreal as her subsequent notoriety. Later that week, an offhand exchange with the documentary’s director—asking whether I had slept with her—stuck with me.

It wasn’t just the bluntness of the question but what it symbolized about the industry and those drawn to its extremes.

The adult industry, especially in its more extreme forms, often carries an undercurrent of sadness.

From my vantage point as an older observer, the farther one ventures into these extremes, the more apparent the human cost becomes.

While some academics might argue against this perspective, dismissing it as overly simplistic or judgmental, it’s a sentiment that resonates deeply with those who have witnessed the industry’s darker corners.

This sadness isn’t merely theoretical. Both Wallace and Wright, who shared those surreal moments in Las Vegas with me, later succumbed to their own inner demons, committing suicide years apart.

Their deaths underscore how the surrealism and absurdity of the adult industry intersect with the vulnerabilities of those who observe or participate in its orbit.

The adult industry has transformed dramatically since the days of Jasmine and Annabel. Once dominated by high-cost videocassettes and professional studios, the landscape is now shaped by OnlyFans creators and amateur content.

The barriers to entry are lower, and the ubiquity of pornography has normalized its consumption. Yet, despite the veneer of empowerment that many performers project, the underlying dynamics remain strikingly similar.

This is evident in the recent YouTube documentary Lily Phillips: I Slept With 100 Men In One Day. Unlike the polished productions of the past, Phillips’ endeavor is documented with the rawness of phone-camera footage.

Lily presents herself as a feminist, dismissing judgments with a casual “I don’t mind being called a slut.” Yet her reasons for participating in such an extreme act feel rooted not in personal liberation but in financial necessity—what might be termed a symptom of late capitalism.

Lily Phillips is unremarkable, even ordinary—a quality that seems central to her appeal. As the documentary unfolds, her motivations and demeanor reveal a person more driven by economics than by any sense of personal fulfillment.

She openly admits to being uncomfortable during the act, breaking down in tears as she reflects on the experience. “I don’t know if I’d recommend it,” she says, her voice tinged with regret.

This moment of vulnerability offers a stark contrast to her earlier bravado. Her next planned project—engaging with 1,000 men—feels less like ambition and more like a cry for help. The parallels between her story and those of past performers like Jasmine and Annabel are stark: beneath the sensationalism lies a deep and persistent sense of emptiness.

The societal perception of pornography has shifted significantly over the decades. Once confined to the margins, the industry now exists in the mainstream, normalized by platforms like OnlyFans and social media.

Yet, the fundamental questions remain. What compels individuals to push themselves to such extremes? And at what cost?

There’s a scene in Phillips’ documentary where host Joshua Pieters explains her endeavor to an elderly woman outside a lingerie shop. Her response—“Oh, that’s interesting”—reflects the casual indifference of a world increasingly desensitized to such spectacles.

Compare this to my experience as a production assistant in 1980, when simply mentioning pornography could provoke visceral disgust. Times have indeed changed.

“If the rule you followed brought you to this, of what use was the rule?” muses Anton Chigurh in No Country For Old Men. It’s a fitting question for Lily Phillips and the countless others who chase notoriety in the adult industry’s extreme corners.

The pursuit of fame, money, or even a twisted sense of empowerment often masks a deeper, unspoken longing—a desire for validation, connection, or escape.

As an observer of this world, I can’t help but wonder if the industry’s evolution has brought liberation or merely new forms of exploitation. For performers like Lily, Jasmine, and Annabel, the line between empowerment and despair is thin. And for those of us watching from the sidelines, the sadness of it all lingers long after the spectacle has ended.

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