How I Aced My Role as a Porn Star, With Help From an ‘Intimacy Director’

I was at work, standing in a small room, with the door closed and my back facing the far wall. Two men were blocking my way to the exit. One had both hands on my boobs, and the other had his hands all over my right thigh. My shirt was half open, and my skirt was hiked up over my hips. But this isn’t the beginning of a #MeToo story. It’s something more like the opposite.

I’m an actor, and in April, my manager suggested I audition for a role on HBO’s “The Deuce.” Set in 1970s New York, the series is one of the most inherently sexy shows on TV, with a character list full of prostitutes, pimps and porn stars. The role in question was “Heather,” an ambitious actress playing a female prison guard in an adult film.

The audition breakdown came with a warning: “THIS ROLE WILL REQUIRE PARTIAL NUDITY. LIKELY EXPOSED BREAST ONLY.” Before submitting my headshot and résumé, my manager asked if I was truly OK with that.

“I’d for sure go topless for Maggie Gyllenhaal,” I told her. (Actually, I phrased it more coarsely, but let’s just say that HBO and The New York Times have slightly different rules on language.) Gyllenhaal, who in Season 1 plays a Times Square sex worker named Candy, is one of my professional idols. She’s also a producer on “The Deuce.” If I got the part, it would mean three juicy scenes with her, on a program led by one of the top showrunners in TV — David Simon of “The Wire.” It would be a dream, realized.

Even better, the nudity question soon became moot. By the time I booked the job, the writers had changed the scene. It would depict an X-rated movie in the moments just before the clothes come off and the sex begins, and so would be shot clothed. Only one thing would be at all intimate, I was informed: My counterpart in the scene would be putting his fingers in my mouth. “Bring Purell,” my manager advised.

Around 9 the night before the shoot, though, my phone rang. A woman introduced herself as Alicia Rodis and said she handled the program’s nudity and sex scenes.

I knew something about that kind of tactic. Not long ago, on a movie set, the director and a producer tried to bully me into a sex scene at the last minute. I had never agreed to that, and they made me out as “difficult” for saying no — that is, for insisting that they honor the terms of our contract.

On the phone with Rodis, I had only a moment to worry before she mentioned her job title. It was one I didn’t even know existed: intimacy director. The position, Rodis explained, had become more common since the Harvey Weinstein scandal had rocked the entertainment industry and ignited the #MeToo movement. Rodis told me that she was an actor herself, and was proud to be an advocate for colleagues at their most vulnerable workplace moments.

OK, great, I said. But cut to the chase. Am I back to taking off my clothes on camera?

No, Rodis said. There still wouldn’t be any nudity. She was calling simply because I’d be playing a porn star in some intimate scenes, and she wanted to make sure I felt safe and knew there would be someone on set who had my fully clothed back.

On some level, I think I was confused. Why was I being treated this way? You know — like a human being, with thoughts and feelings, who deserved respect? But I quickly realized what a no-brainer it was for “The Deuce” to employ someone like Rodis. In human terms, the producers were showing sensitivity to actors; in business terms, they were stopping potential problems (and their expensive repercussions) before they started.

On the day of the shoot, Rodis watched over the set like a chaperon at prom. She made sure the man playing opposite me sanitized his hands before we started, and then wiped them down after every single take. She checked in with me constantly, bringing water and coffee and mints. She also choreographed certain movements, much like a stunt director. Rodis pointed out that in a simulated sex scene, an actor may be touched on a vulnerable part of the body and therefore deserves the same attention and protections as in a combat sequence. Otherwise, she told us, intimate scenes won’t look seamless and natural.

She gave us direction on how to make certain moments steamier and when to pull back. My scene partner and I felt comfortable and protected. So much so that after one take in which we got a little too comfortable and went a little too far, she walked over with some notes. Think of a flame, Rodis told us. “My job is to make sure there’s a spark,” she said, “but also to keep it from turning into a forest fire.” A good intimacy director advocates what is best for the scene and what is best for the actors, who are, of course, just people who want to be safe. In one scene, I was pressed up against a wall of prison bars, and a lot of skin was showing. Rodis made sure I realized what was coming across on camera. I did, and kept going; it was a choice I felt empowered to make.

Intimacy directors, or coaches, are a relatively new trend in TV — just the other day, I spoke with a major casting director who had never heard of the concept. Neither have many of the actors with whom I’ve compared notes recently. But some have begun to work with intimacy coaches and realized the benefits they provide. It’s not just women. One male actor I spoke to found that his intimacy director not only kept everyone safe and made parameters clear on set but also added a layer of choreography and attention that was beyond the realistic purview of the director.

Just before my first take on “The Deuce,” as I stood in the small room with two men who had their hands all over me, the one who spoke first was from the wardrobe department. “You look perfect,” he said, as he adjusted my costume with some tape, to accentuate my cleavage and cover my bra.

The second man was a sound guy. He was up my skirt, strapping a mic pack to my thigh, and he needed to check my levels. “Say something,” he said, “as loud as you’re going to talk in the scene.”

Normally in this situation, a collected professional might count to 10, or recite a tongue twister. That is not what I did. Thanks to the intimacy coach, I was comfortable and in character. In my porniest voice, I moaned, “Ohhhh yeahhhhh, that’s perrrrfect.”

The two men laughed.

“Sorry,” I said, in my normal voice. “It’s hard to turn it off.”

“Totally fine,” one of them said. “We’re used to it here.”