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Following Christ at a Porn Convention, Exxxtacy 2010

Dawn Herzog Jewell writes on www.christianitytoday.com – I left work at noon last Friday to attend Exxxstasy 2010, Chicago’s first visiting porn convention.

Why? My friend Heather has a deep burden for reaching wayward women entangled in the porn industry. I’ve ventured into brothels and red-light districts before, recording how Jesus’ followers are working to loosen the Enemy’s grip there. I figured I could handle this convention, if covered by the prayers of the church. I wanted to support Heather on this exploratory mission and be the presence of Christ in this dark place.

The Donald E. Stephens Convention Center looks like any downtown modern, immaculate convention center where businesspeople exhibit their wares and make pricey company purchases. We enter the first-floor doors, and a huge sign for a sports exhibition greets us, but there’s nothing advertising Exxxstasy. At the information kiosk, a policewoman directs us up the escalators.

On the second floor, we spot signs for “Tickets/credit card/cash.”

We head over to the counter, where a young African American woman takes Heather’s credit card as if she is checking out at Dominick’s supermarket. Forty dollars each buys us a gray paper bracelet that allows us all-day entrance. We decide to walk the hallways and get our bearings.

I’m careful not to look closely at the tables, but signs above various booths advertise “Best adult entertainment,” and tables display body jewelry, sex toys, and DVDs. A lawyer’s booth encourages customers to “know the law when you set up your adult website,” and a techy booth sign reads, “How to set up your own adult website.”

Obviously, the Internet plays a big role in this industry: In the U.S. alone, Internet porn generates $2.84 billion per year — and the worldwide industry is worth $4.9 billion. The whole industry is larger than the revenues of the top technology companies combined: Microsoft, Google, Amazon, eBay, Yahoo!, Apple, Netflix, and EarthLink.

The center looks relatively empty. I realize how much we, the only females who aren’t exhibitors, stand out. Women stand in front of display tables, a few already posing with customers who want a free photo op with porn stars. A few women are flanked by men, maybe bodyguards or boyfriends. In one corner we spot a van advertising a Chicago strip club named after a certain body part.

With relief we reach the break area, some round tables set up in front of a refreshment kiosk. We pray for wisdom about what to do next. Do we hand out the Ghirardelli chocolate squares in our purses? Pink labels on the squares read, “H. & D. You are loved,” followed by a Gmail address that Heather created for today’s purpose. Everyone is handing out something, so we’ll blend in. A man from an adult toy shop has already handed us some lollipops and a business card. Heather looks closely and discovers the lollipop is a condom.

We walk the aisles, trying to decide how to approach the women. The truth is best, Heather decides. We’ll say, “Would you like some chocolate or lotion, if you don’t like chocolate? We know this is hard work, and we want to let you know we care about you.” That’s my version. Heather is bolder. She adds at the end, “We love you.” And she means it. While I love these women in a spiritual sense, I cannot muster the courage to say it to a stranger.

We head down an empty aisle toward a blond woman wearing a halter sundress, sitting alone. Unlike other table displays, her photos are tame. A black and white shot of her face reveals little nudity. Another photo shows her posing fully clothed in a tight blue Star Trek shirt.

“Hi, I’m Dawn, and this is Heather,” I say. “We’re from Chicago, and this is our first convention,” Heather says. “Oh, this is my first one, too,” Kelly* says, warming to us. “I live in Wisconsin, so this is the first one that I could drive to. I didn’t know what to expect.” Her blue eyes are heavily made up. I guess she’s in her early 20s until I notice lines under her eyes. We offer her chocolate and tell her we know this must be hard work. She takes a couple squares. “We’ll come by again,” Heather says. Kelly gets up from behind her table, gives us hugs, and says, “You made my day.”

We are starting to feel encouraged. Thank you, Lord. But other stops are not as hopeful. Around the corner, a tall brunette in a leopard print dress stands next to a muscular guy in white polo who appears bored — her bodyguard. We introduce ourselves. “I’m Julia Brazil,” she says, smiling. We offer her chocolate; she accepts.

We explain that our visit is a first and that we are local. She’s in LA, she says. But the conversation dies. We cannot get beyond her porn persona, the fake smile she wears for everyone that day. We walk away. “She’s hardened by the industry,” Heather explains. How long has this woman been pretending to be “Julia Brazil,” the fantasy woman of thousands of men? She won’t take off her mask for us.

At the next table is Lisa,* a petite woman with a big smile wearing a modest denim bikini. “What ethnicity are you?” I inquire, hoping that my half-Asian background will provide a connection.

“Filipino,” she says. “I’m in LA now, from Chicago originally. I moved there five years ago to get into acting, but it didn’t work out,” she frowns.

“Did you get to spend time with your family here?” I ask. “Oh, yes, I spent yesterday with my mom and sister. They have no idea why I’m here,” she says. “You know Filipino families. . . ”

“That’d be hard for any mother,” Heather says, “You’re her daughter.” “I’m a big girl, I can make my own decisions. That’s what I’d tell her if she found out,” Lisa says, uncertainly. A guy approaches, so we say goodbye.

We head back and pass Kelly again. “How’s it going?” “It’s okay,” she says, glad to see us. She tells us she has a four-year college art degree but couldn’t get a job with it. After earning $25 a day waitressing, working other stints 8-10 hours a day, she tried porn. “These are my kids,” she shows us, holding up her iPhone to show us three children that look like models in a family magazine.

“How old?” I ask. “Twelve, three, and 18 months. I drive a few hours once a month to do a shoot for four hours, earn $1,200, and I can pay my rent and monthly bills. I can do art still and spend time with my kids.”

“What kind of art do you do?” I ask.

“My boyfriend is writing a children’s book, and I’m doing the watercolor illustrations,” she says. “I also do other fine art, and some hats and mittens,” she says. She has an Etsy page where she sells her ware. When I ask for her website, she writes her real name on the back of a business card. Names are important, an inseparable part of one’s true self.

At the last booth of the day, we are eager to unload chocolate. Ann,* a dyed blond wearing horn-rimmed glasses, likes white chocolate, so we drop the chocolate mints on her table, which is littered with DVDs. “I used to be over 300 pounds, but I lost 180. I still eat chocolate but I work out,” she says, pointing to a nearly nude DVD cover of herself.

“Good for you,” I say, then notice her tattooed arm. “What does that say?” I ask, while reading: “I am not afraid, I was born ready.” “I have another on my back: ‘determined and driven,’ ” Ann says. “I have to look in the mirror to remind myself. I’ve had a hard life.” Heather and I are quiet. “I’ve been on my own since I was 16,” Ann says, tearing a little.

“You are a strong woman,” Heather says.

“You guys are nice,” Ann says. “Can I give you a sticker? You gave me chocolate.”

She peels off two heart-shaped stickers from a roll. “I heart Ann,” they read. “I like to put my heart on people,” she says. She has probably said that many times, but her words seem to carry spiritual weight.

As we leave, my heart is heavy thinking of Ann’s unspoken past. Her table was laden with porn that she has been creating for years. Is she the one who might reach out for a listening ear via Heather’s e-mail address? I tell Heather how I feel, and she feels the same. I encourage her to return to Ann’s table, while I wait downstairs and dump my porno fliers in the garbage. She returns in five minutes. “I told her she was a beautiful woman, and that she ever wanted a listening ear, please contact me. Then she asked my name.”

We drive home, praising God for our conversations, thanking him that he knows the women’s real names. We pray he waters the seeds we may have planted and sends other Christ-lovers to these women.

On Sunday in worship, I picture the seraphim and angels surrounding the Lord as we sing in praise. I see all in bright white. My soul is full and feels clean as I sing.

The darkness has no place in the kingdom of God. I belong here, one of his people, his beloved sons and daughters, cleansed from all selfishness and sin. Tears stream down my face as I picture the faces of Ann, Kelly, Lisa, and others at the convention. I long for them to know the freedom and glory of belonging to this heavenly family.

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