I went to the porn awards and spent a night with the UK’s naughtiest performers

I recently descended on the SNAP Awards — an annual glitter-strewn, latex-sheathed gathering for the great and good (and gloriously bad) of adult entertainment.

SNAP, for the uninitiated, stands for Support Network of Adult Performers, but for one glorious, throbbing evening it might as well have meant Sequins, Nylon And Pheromones.

It felt like every model I’d ever spanked — and about a thousand more I hadn’t yet, but wouldn’t mind having a go on — turned up in their finest fetishwear.

Corsets you could cut diamonds on, seven-inch heels, clouds of hair and perfume. All of them ready to party like tomorrow might require arnica.

I’d been nominated for Niche Performer of the Year, which delighted me far more than it probably should have. I’d never been nominated before, in fact I’ve never won any type of porn award.

I didn’t expect to win, of course — I was up against a young woman with 300,000 followers on X — but what a delight to hear my name mentioned.

Knowing I wouldn’t be ending the night clutching a statuette actually made it all the more restful. I didn’t even hover near the stage when my category was announced, I just carried on chatting to a photographer from the Midlands about the pros and cons of oiled latex versus PVC.

The gender ratio was about eight women to every man, which meant the men in attendance wore identical expressions: well-groomed, mildly panicked, and faintly hopeful.

One and all they sported clipped haircuts, goatees and nervous grins. The women, by contrast, were majestic: statuesque dominatrices, goddess-like pole artists, glittering glamour models.

My dear friend Alora, up for two awards, had swathed herself in head-to-toe gold in an inspired bid to resemble an actual Oscar statuette. The men could only squirm and stare fixedly at their feet. Safer that way.

Now, full disclosure: I’d never been to a club before, like the one where these awards were hosted. Not a real club, anyway. My ears rang. My shoes stuck to the floor. The smell was equal parts sweat,  lube, and ambition. A DJ barked “Make some ******* noise!” every six minutes.

There was a trapeze artist pirouetting overhead — suspended by her hair —while beside me a charming man explained how he’d given up his job in the city to make auditory porn: whispering naughty bedtime stories to a mostly gay fanbase who adored his nerdy alter ego.

All these years I’ve gone around claiming men can’t make money in porn. What do I know? 

It wasn’t just glamour and mayhem, either. Around the bar were stalls offering everything from STI checks to help navigating the new laws around online age verification.

One table belonged to National Ugly Mugs (NUM), a brilliant organisation dedicated to ending violence against sex workers. They help us report dangerous clients anonymously, share alerts across the country, and even offer a tool — “NUMChecker”— where you can run phone numbers or email addresses before agreeing to a booking.

They support survivors through trained advisers, work with the police (with consent), and literally save lives. I thanked them profusely and joined on the spot.

Then, something unexpected and lovely happened. A young woman approached and said, ‘You’re a legend‘. I blinked.

She introduced herself as Lola Rae and asked for a photo. She told me her mum had watched a documentary about me — Fifty Shades of Fetish Model— and, thanks to that, had grown to accept her daughter’s career in adult work.

‘You’ve changed my life,’ she said. ‘Mum and I even read your books.’ I felt my head swell to a dangerously unflattering size. Honestly, just as well I didn’t win anything: I’d have floated off into the sultry night like a smug helium balloon.

Not ten minutes later, another beautiful young woman — encased head to toe in latex despite the thirty-degree heat — said, ‘I googled to see if any sex workers were in Mensa, and your face popped up’.

I nearly died on the spot. She was referring to the high IQ society dedicated to creating a space for smart people. ‘That was thirty-five years ago!’ I stammered. ‘I’ve drunk most of my brain cells away since then!’

When, exactly, did I become a feminist icon, worshipped by younger performers? I’m not sure, but I like it.

By 10:30, I was flagging. I’m ancient, and Question Time was on. But I left clutching a goody bag stuffed with unexpectedly useful gadgets and emblazoned with the phrase Kink to Cash. 

Outside, I found a red carpet and a queue of photographers, so I posed and pouted like a woman half my age and with twice my energy.

I’d also promised more shoots with more artists than I’ll likely live long enough to fulfil. What an absolute joy to be wanted still.

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