It was a typical day at work on a set: a standard three-way. Slick with the sweat of mutual exertions, we were focused intently on performing the XXX Cirque du Soleil-inspired stunts that are typical of sex, and I never felt the cut until I saw the blood. This tiny cut, probably from a fingernail, brought the scene to a grinding halt.
Everyone had the same thought on seeing the blood that I did. No one had to say it.
Up until that point, I’d thoughtlessly felt safe from STDs at work. After all, we followed the adult industry protocols. Before the scene, for example, we’d swapped tests declaring us STD/HIV free. But now I started thinking about how those tests were 10 days old. I— or any one of my scene partners that day—could have filmed 10-20 scenes or more in