Author’s Note:

 The following is a work of fiction.

 It is not a prediction. It is not a manifesto.

 It is a story.

“Clean Hands, Dirty Deals” is set in a dystopian near-future America where pornography has been outlawed, sex work driven underground, and legal protections dismantled in the name of “moral restoration.” This is not reality—but it is a reflection of the real-world dangers when ideology is weaponized against bodily autonomy and freedom of expression.

Any resemblance to real events or legislation is intentional.

 Any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental... mostly.

======================================

They didn’t outlaw porn all at once.

It started the way fascism always does—like a concerned neighbor with a clipboard and too much free time. Then came the Interstate Obscenity Definition Act, a pearl-clutching fever dream from Senator Mike Lee that handed the Department of Justice a national morality stick and told them to start swinging. States didn’t wait. Florida passed the Obscenity Restoration Act before the ink dried. Texas followed with its own crusade. Alabama wrote theirs in blood and called it a blessing. Local ordinances cropped up like weeds. Platform bans silenced creators overnight. “Parental rights” bills wrapped in pink ribbon and Bible quotes made it all sound like a bake sale instead of a purge.

By the time the Supreme Court overturned Griswold v. Connecticut, declaring that there was no constitutional right to private sexual choices in the digital age, states were passing bans faster than courts could catch up.

They didn’t need to win every case.

They just needed to exhaust you.

And so they did.

Then came the revival: The Comstock Act.

Buried in the graveyard of 19th-century madness before being exhumed and brushed off, given new life by men in suits who’d never seen a clit but could recite every line of Leviticus.

It criminalized the mailing of “obscene materials”—including sex toys, lube, erotica, and digital media deemed to “arouse.” Pornography, in any form, became evidence. Sex work, in any form, became trafficking. Desire, in any form, became a threat.

Mira had been working legally out of Nevada. She’d built a fanbase, a brand, a name that meant something. Her stream was tasteful. Empowering. Hell, she did book clubs and safe sex tutorials in between shows. But none of that mattered the day the state folded under federal pressure.

Her last stream ran for 17 minutes before the cease and desist dropped in her inbox. She watched the viewer count tick up even as the camera froze on her face. Twenty-eight thousand people watching her lose everything in real time. 

Then the site went black. The admin vanished. And Mira? She was just another red dot on a watchlist.

Now, she’s in Utah. Of all places. Working out of a converted baptism hall called The Confessional. No signs. No website. No last names. Everything’s word-of-mouth and end-to-end encrypted. You want to come? You better know the passphrase.

And even then, there’s still risk.

Vigilantes love The Confessional. Not the customers, of course—those are fine, respectable men with wives and donation records. No, the vigilantes come for her. For the girls like her. For the performers who didn’t crawl into a convent when Congress declared abstinence the only holy export.

“Guy’s clean,” says the owner, nodding at the next appointment. He used to direct indie films before the platforms nuked his studio and PayPal froze his accounts.

Clean means no wire. No badge.

Maybe.

Mira steps behind the curtain anyway. Because insulin costs what it costs, and her sister doesn’t stop needing it just because Jesus is trending.

The man smells like expensive regret. He talks rough, like he’s auditioning for a snuff film no one asked to watch. She doesn’t touch him. That would be illegal. That would be dangerous. Instead, she performs behind a polarized glass screen, lights on, mic hot, eyes locked with his through a one-way feed that lets him forget the wall between them.

He treats her like a contraband indulgence, a forbidden artifact smuggled out of a freer time. But Mira’s done pretending any of this is about connection. She doesn’t fake moans anymore. Doesn’t build illusions. The thrill isn’t in the sex. It’s in the risk.

Afterward, she wipes everything down—lens, surface, seat—with industrial-grade cleaner. Not for hygiene. For control. Her hands shake, just a little, as she disinfects the last edge of the stage.

Body. Spirit. Dignity.

Scrubbed raw with chemicals and spite.

The church bell from the old steeple still rings every hour. Nobody’s praying here, but the sinners have their rituals.

Near the exit is a poster, laminated and bolted to the drywall: “Obedience is the Path to Salvation. Sin is a Choice.”

She leaves a lipstick kiss on it, smeared in defiance, and walks out into the night with her keys tucked between her fingers—blade-side out.

She’ll be back tomorrow.

Virtue doesn’t pay the rent.