Sofi lies back on the bed, holding eye contact with Dave, making sure he’s watching. She has already playfully tied his hands with rope and gently pushed her pants into his mouth. Now her hand strokes her collarbone, cups her breast and slides down her stomach, past her suspender belt, moving between her legs. “Cut,” John shouts. “Katie,” Jane asks, “do you want more masturbating?”
In a magnificent Italian villa on a Wednesday afternoon, I am making a porn film. One I wrote, am directing and, more importantly, one that asks a question: is it possible to make feminist porn?
I have always been a feminist, I’ve always watched porn and always worried whether that made me a hypocrite. Now, as porn dominates conversations around the UK’s Online Safety Act…
