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Olivia Nova talks about her work as an adult film model
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Inside peak at the life of Olivia Nova as she works to be a model
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Published: 16:19 BST, 20 January 2018 | Updated: 21:04 BST, 20 January 2018
Another porn star who worked in the US adult entertainment industry has been found dead.
Olivia Lua, 23, died in a rehab facility in West Hollywood on Friday morning.
The actress, who used the screen name Olivia Voltaire, is believed to have died from mixing prescription drugs and alcohol .
It is not known how she got the substances into the facility where she was being treated for addiction.
Her agency, LA Direct Models, confirmed her death to XBiz , the porn industry's news outlet, on Friday.
Olivia's death is the fifth in just six months across the US and Canada. Four other women have died from suicide, accidental overdose and UTIs.
Olivia Lua, whose screen name was Olivia Voltaire, died in West Hollywood on Friday aged 23
In his statement, Derek Hay of L.A. Direct Models said Lua had been battling addiction for some time and was seeking help.
He said it was a 'coincidence' that the two most recent deaths were of women who belonged to L.A. Direct Models.
'Much comment has recently been made on the number of adult stars having passed in the last year and with great sadness we must inform that the list has grown longer.
'Olivia joined LA Direct Models in April 2017, though had not been available for work since early October of last year, as she had been facing some personal challenges that had seen her in residential rehab for a period of nearly three months and from which she had been out for about a month, hoping to make a return to work in the early part of this year.
'We learned today that she had returned to a different facility in West Hollywood after a relapse, approximately a week ago, at which she was found deceased this morning.
Lua had been seeking help for substance abuse problems. Before she died, she tweeted a final selfie (left) and said: 'No one alive can be an angel forever'
Olivia's agency said they were shocked by her death. She had not worked for some time due to her addiction problems
'Family and close friends [said] they had deep concern at the volume of prescription drugs prescribed to Olivia and the danger this posed [to] her. If this was mixed with recreational drugs or alcohol, it is believed this to be the cause of her passing,' he said.
Olivia Nova, who died in Las Vegas earlier this month aged 20 from sepsis that is believed to have been caused by a UTI, also worked for LA Direct Models.
Hay said it was merely a 'coincidence' that the two most recent deaths were of women who belonged to his agency.
'We at Direct Models obviously can barely believe we are issuing a notice such as this, not once but twice, in such a short space of time.
'The coincidence that both of these models chosen stage names is Olivia is solely that and they otherwise have no connection. We actually do not think they had ever met.'
On November 9, Shyla Stylez, 35, (left) died in her sleep at her mother's home in Calgary. August Ames, 23, (right) hanged herself on December 5
Days before her death, Lua shared cryptic social media posts including one which read 'no one alive can be an angel forever'.
It is not clear if any of the five models who have died recently knew one another.
So far, there has been no proof of a link between any of their deaths beyond the fact that they were all porn stars.
The first death was that of 35-year-old Shyla Stylez. Stylez died in her sleep at her mother's home in Calgary on November 9. So far, no reason has been given for her death.
Stylez left the porn industry in 2016 after 10 years.
In December, actress August Ames, 23, hanged herself in California, where she lived with her husband.
What prompted her suicide remains unclear but in the days beforehand, she found herself in the center of a firestorm on Twitter after publicly saying that she had refused to work with a man she knew did both straight and gay scenes.
Yurizan Beltran, 31, (left) died from an overdose in December and Olivia Nova, 20, died from sepsis (right) on January 9
Ames' argument was that because the male actor worked with both men and women, he was more likely to have contracted STIs and she believed it put her at risk.
Days after Ames' death, 31-year-old Yurizan Beltran died of an apparent drug overdose at home in California. It is not known if the overdose was accidental or intentional.
On January 9, 20-year-old Olivia Nova died in her bed in Las Vegas.
The young actress had been tweeting about how she was alone for the holidays and wanted to call a fan to lift her mood.
At first, it was suspected that drugs or alcohol may have played a part in her death.
However police reports which have emerged recently suggest the woman was suffering from sepsis.
She had prescription medication given for a urinary tract infection at the home when she died, according to the report.
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By Suzan Sherman • 06/10/02 12:00am

My mother told me to do it. Initially, I was horrified by her suggestion that I intern at a porn magazine, but soon the feeling turned to titillating curiosity. Her best friend’s daughter worked at Penthouse —sadly, my family’s only connection to the New York publishing world. My mother described the job as “a foot in the door.” I giddily contemplated the possibilities offered by this “experience”—editorially speaking and, presumably, beyond.

Now, as the quaint world of print pornography quietly shuffles through what many are calling its twilight, I look back fondly to the summer of 1988, the summer that I became Penthouse ‘s first (and, at the time, only) intern.
Every morning, my father and I would commute together from suburban Long Island. He’d drop me off at the Penthouse offices on Broadway and then head crosstown to his upstanding job at the United Nations.

My first day, I wore a pressed skirt and blouse, though when I emerged from the elevator into a corridor hung with framed posters of naked Pets on Bob Guccione’s knee, I wondered whether the dress code was nothing at all. The editor in chief looked me over as if I were Snow White fluttering into his den of perversity. I was certain he could discern, with his pornographer’s X-ray vision, that I was still a virgin.

Peter was middle-aged, with dark, thinning hair, though his strongest feature was his teeth, which were incredibly crooked, giving him a kinky menace when he smiled at me. He led me around the narrow banks of cubicles and introduced me to everyone on staff, most of whom were women. (To rationalize their work, they quoted the First Amendment constantly, with the righteous flourish of Bible-thumpers.) Some appeared indifferent to my presence, while others looked me over with concern, as if they were witnessing the conclusion of my wholesome girlhood.
Much of my time was spent reading the slush pile, which was composed of bizarre, poorly written short stories, usually sci-fi, where women’s measurements were more amply described than character or plot line. Then there were the infamous Penthouse Forum letters—the sexual escapades, real or imagined, of “ordinary” men. Hunched over my desk, I found myself more than slightly aroused by my first-time foray into libidinous wordplay. My favorite was the well-endowed lawn boy who, with a few deep thrusts, defrosted the haughty housewife. I also liked the mailman and the lusty ladies on his route who licked his postage stamps (and more). The Forum editor was a smart-talking, gum-chewing, big-haired gal who wore spandex pants nearly every day. She crossed out sentences with red pencil between chortles and burst Bubblicious bubbles. At the other end of the spectrum was the prudish, tight-lipped copy editor who let me proofread every article except the Forum, as if this would preserve my fast-fleeting purity.

Sexual slurs, I soon discovered, occurred offhandedly between coworkers; no one seemed to realize how deeply the magazine’s content had invaded our psyches. After one of his martini lunches, the editor in chief stumbled over to my cubicle and slurred, “Can I come into your box?” “Sure,” I breathed, testing my burgeoning sexuality, “come.” Later in the week, he gave me Susan Minot’s story collection, Lust and Other Stories , as a gift. I smiled sweetly—this innocence of mine, I noted almost immediately, had a certain cachet around the Penthouse offices. My virginity was palpable; it was as strange and rare as a near-extinct animal and seemed to leave everyone wracked with ambivalence on whether to preserve it or kill it. Holding Lust to my chest, I told Peter that I would read it.

Naturally, in this heightened atmosphere, I developed a crush on a co-worker. He was the mildest, most befuddled man in the office: Bob, the managing editor. I dreamed about him incessantly, imagining us in a variety of uncomfortable poses, usually involving his desk, the sharp edges of which poked with painful pleasure into my hips. Bob had worked at Penthouse for years, though he was still clearly uneasy with the magazine’s content. When I would knock on his door to tell him that his mother or fiancée was on the phone, a centerfold inevitably lay splayed across his desk. Bob checked each photo for splotches and inconsistencies, but when our eyes would meet, his face reddened with shame. My crush was inevitably short-lived: I turned the page on Bob, as I had the numerous steamy scenarios in the magazine.
I brought the July issue home to show my parents. My mother passed over the centerfold with a nod, though her face revealed an expression of pure disgust. Clearly, until now, she’d been unaware of the magazine’s actual content. Skimming the pages, she described what she saw there as “naughty,” as if Penthouse were a disobedient child that needed her punishing. Flipping to the back, she settled on a sobering article of some sort. “Look how thick it is,” my father piped in, adding, “A lot of advertising this month.” I chuckled at my father’s slip of the tongue, which my mother seemed not to have noticed.

After dinner, I stashed the magazine under my bed. Penthouse deserved a dark, dusty and secretive space, despite my parents’ peculiar acceptance of porn. Every night, I opened it wide to the center, exposing the three metal staples securing the pages. The Pets, with their perfectly feathered hair, seemed to coo in silent ecstasy, their parted lips revealing a bit of tooth or tongue. Their nails were long and perfectly painted, unlike my own bitten-down stubs that ran over the magazine’s cool gloss, smudging the pages. Their breasts seemed inflated, like water balloons near bursting, and their pudenda were swollen and shaved to a thin swatch of heart-shaped fuzz. I was both disgusted and fascinated by this pornographic perfection. I attempted to mirror their droopy bedroom eyes and parted lips before I went to sleep in my twin bed.

At work, during my lunch hour, I began to paint my nails—”Lickety Split” and “Transpire,” my colors of choice. I knew the feminists at my college went righteously unshaven and would consider me a traitor for picking up a razor, but I didn’t care. I shaved, reasoning that their bookish beliefs weren’t nearly as exhilarating as my smooth skin, which I groomed in preparation for the impending plucking of my petals.
On my last day at Penthouse , the editor in chief gave me a good-bye gift: an oval abalone pin set in silver that I still have but never wear. “Here,” he said, “let me put it on for you.” As he sent the sharp pin through my blouse, I felt a small stinging prick as it hit my skin and a pleasurable quiver as he rested his hand on my chest. I smiled demurely back at him. My innocence by then had an ironic, knowing edge. Later, when I took off my blouse, I saw that Peter’s pinprick had drawn a small dollop of blood—not exactly the stimulating stuff of a Forum letter, but, I figured, it was a start.

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