Cock Destroyer: how Rebecca More went from meme to the UK’s most loved adult star

It all started with a gang bang. Well, two gang bangs, actually. The day Rebecca More went viral, she’d just finished co-hosting a luxury gang bang at London’s St James’s Hotel in November 2018 with fellow adult performer Sophie Anderson. Tickets for the morning gang bang – priced at £300 – had sold out, but ticket sales for the afternoon session were sluggish. So they decided to record a promotional video to drum up interest.

Hi guys, says More, massaging her 800cc fake tits. Look at these lovely big tits.

Anderson comes into shot. Do you know what we are? We’re fucking cock destroyers.

Cock fucking destroyers, Anderson agrees.

We love to just get your dick and despunk them fucking balls. MMMM.

Let’s get these fucking balls in your mouth and we’ll tea bag you, Anderson says.

Muaahhahahahaaha, More cackles. They kiss.

More already had a sizeable and engaged gay fanbase, who delighted in her sassy theatrics and memeable promo videos. But this was electricity; liquid lightning. By the end of the day – and largely thanks to gay Twitter, who disseminated the video so far and wide it even ended up getting picked up by the BBC, they were viral stars.

And like that, the Cock Destroyer was born.

When she worked as a stripper in the noughties, More hated her breasts so much she’d go into the bathroom and cry at work. ​“They were like the most hideous tits,” she says, clomping around the AirBnB rental in London’s Notting Hill she’s using for an adult shoot later that evening. Listening to the audio back after our interview, the thud of More’s heels make her sound like a giantess.

It was back then that she learned to perform. ​“I worked out this way of faking a persona to make myself feel good about my body,” she says. After a year of stripping, More earned enough money to have her first boob job (she has had two). The morning of the operation felt ​“as emotional as having a baby. It meant so much. When I came around and I actually had these boobs, I loved the fact that it had been such a struggle to get them.”

Like Clark Kent spinning in a phone booth, the 500cc implants (she has since upgraded) changed More from a meek, averagely-performing stripper into the Cock Destroyer. She bounces her chest for me. ​“It changed my life! I was like, yeah, here I am! I’ve got fucking tits, and I’m going to show these fuckers off.”

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In person, More is a kindly, maternal presence. She’s immediately likeable, and far less frightening than her Cock Destroyer persona would suggest. You also sense that, on her set, she’s the boss. I arrive as she’s preparing for a point-of-view-shoot with an adult performer later that evening. Everything, down from the storyboard (More is a horny wife who borrows a cup of sugar from her neighbour), to the choice of male performer, location, and wardrobe, is More’s choice. She’s running things, with the help of male assistant Darren, who has worked for More for five years, and whose job responsibilities could best be described as ​“varied”. (“All the girls love Darren,” Rebecca explains, ​“because he doesn’t want to fuck them.”) Darren shoots and edits the footage More uploads to social media, takes her glamour photography, and officiates at gang bangs. ​“There’s always one dominant male at those things,” he tells me. ​“You want to make sure that everyone gets an equal amount of Rebecca.” For his sins, someone once spunked on Darren’s shoe.

More than anything, Rebecca More is a brand. She understands her audience, which consists of gay and straight men. For the gays, she’ll film comedy skits that will circulate widely on social media. (Shooting porn on the loo in Heathrow airport; giving a cheeky blowie on a First Great Western train, that sort of thing.) Recently, she traipsed around Canary Wharf holding a telephone she’d ripped out of the wall in her hotel room, pretending to make a call. ​“I’m shouting, I ordered ten dicks, but only three turned up,” More says, laughing like a drain. She doesn’t make money from these skits – they’re ripped from her members-only Only Fans page, for which she charges £12.99 a month for original content – but it’s all good exposure, and helps build her gay fanbase. For the straight men, she’ll upload original adult content like today’s shoot to her Only Fans page, as well as hosting live events like gang bangs.

More won’t work for other adult content providers, apart from Brazzers, because they pay loads, and she has strong views on how the UK porn industry exploits up-and-coming female talent. ​“The industry in the UK takes the fucking piss,” More says, sitting at a vanity table in a cloud of hairspray. ​“Being on set all day for £300?” She wishes she could advise girls to know their worth – More herself won’t get out of bed for anything less than £1000 a shoot. ​“It pisses me off that they take advantage of new girls. It really angers me… they offer you £300 and an extra £100 for anal. And you’re not getting any royalties from that content? Fuck off!” Again, I see flashes of a maternal warmth, tempered with ferocity. More is Peggy Mitchell throwing a disrespectful punter out of the Queen Vic; she’s the woman in a nightclub toilet who’ll lend you a tampon and call you ​“darling”, but also throw a drink on you if you start on her friends.

Growing up, More was a tomboy. Because she had a boy’s haircut, she’d play with the other lads in her hometown of Taplow, South Bucks, until they got wise to it. Her dad was in the print industry, and she started working for the family firm at the age of 14. ​“I’ve been a right old grafter from a young age,” she says.

More was always fascinated by sex, and an early aficionado of webcamming. After she had her son (More has two children – a son and a daughter), she’d meet up with men she encountered in chat rooms online while he was at nursery for a bit of fun. She was working at another print company by then, and in between work she’d be chatting to men online. (“I got busted so many times!”) Porn was on VHS back then, so she’d swap tapes with colleagues at work and bring the carrier bags home to watch, in her own time.

Later, she had her second child, and moved to Swansea to study law. Things didn’t go to plan – her partner had mental health problems and the relationship turned nasty. To escape, More moved into a women’s refuge with her children, and then relocated to Ealing, where she completed her law degree at the University of West London. ​“I don’t use my degree,” she tells me. ​“I just tell people about it. It’s pretty cool!” She worked for the Citizens Advice Bureau for a while, but the money wasn’t good enough to provide for her two children as a single parent. So she started webcamming, then stripping, then escorting.

Escorting helped More turn things around. The money was good – really good. When she started out, she’d earn £150 an hour, but by the time she got out she was charging £800 an hour, and thousands for overnights. ​“My PA said, ​‘You should put your rates up to £350, look at all these other girls, they’re shit compared to you. I remember putting my rates up to £350, and I was still as busy, and I thought, ​‘what a fucking great move.’” Snapping gold bangles up her arm, More laughs. ​“Good old Kirsty.”

In addition to the money being great, it was exhilarating. ​“Escorting – I used to absolutely fucking live for it,” she says. ​“Some of the parties we’d have.” More loved ​“the freedom of finding out what turned people on,” the travel, and the money of course. But the actual sex was less rewarding. ​“The truth is – I’ll be really honest – girls don’t like their clients. Clients think they do. [They say], what turns you on, you lady? When you post the money through the door and fuck off! And any girl that doesn’t say that is lying.”

Clients were irritating. The worst ones would wake her up in the middle of overnight stays, demanding sex. That felt especially violating. ​“It’s like, fuck off! Don’t touch me. I don’t even let my boyfriend wake me up in the middle of the night.” She stopped doing overnights a long time ago. ​“I don’t give a shit how much they pay. I am happy to exchange money for sexual services and that, but it’s got to be on my own terms.”

Besides, More was partying too much, and feeling burnt out, and the stigma of escort work was starting to get to her. ​“I got into porn to get away from the stigma of escorting,” she says, explaining that people treat you with more respect as a porn star. More started shooting porn at the age of 29 – she’s 39 now – and initially she struggled to get a foothold in the industry. A throwaway comment from the mother of adult performer Paige Turner left a lasting impact on her. ​“She said to me, ​‘Paige made it, but you never did,’” More exclaims. ​“That bitch!”

Determined to prove her wrong, More gave porn her absolute fucking A‑game: even before the Cock Destroyer was born, there’s a campy theatricality to her performances which makes for joyous viewing. I watch an old clip of More having sex in the back of a black cab on Red Tube. Another car pulls up, and More lurches to the front of the cab and ducks. It’s Fleabag-esque in More’s subversion of the conventions of scripted porn; she all but breaks the fourth wall as she gestures to the camera with a Phoebe Waller-Bridge-like flourish. (More is, predictably, a Fleabag fan.)

If most pornography is about ordinary men suspending reality to imagine themselves having sex with pneumatic goddesses, More upends the genre. She’ll give you the cum shot, and slap her tits together and let you spunk on her face, but it’s with a stagey wink, as if to say, how ridiculous this is. How ridiculous that you’d even think you could have sex with someone like me. Even in her early work, the Cock Destroyer is there.

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There’s an asceticism to More that some might find surprising. She’s a vegan, and teetotal – she’s been sober for three years, and attended Alcoholics Anonymous. She’s also mad into fitness. The morning of our shoot, More went to a hot yoga class, and then to the gym. She’s also a member of amateur cycling club The Porn Peddlers, whose affiliation was recently revoked by British Cycling in a blaze of press. (Whispering, behind her hand, she tells me that ​“there’s no such thing as bad publicity.”)

More’s working hard at the moment, because she wants to get out of the game. Even Cock Destroyers have to retire some day. She wants to move abroad with her partner in the next few years and set up a business, although won’t tell me what business it is. More doesn’t want to shoot porn forever, and already she’s started slowing down. She won’t do anal scenes any more, because after doing them for so long, they’ve taken a toll on her body. But there’s still a lot she wants to achieve, like fulfilling her dream of shooting a gang bang by a swimming pool. ​“I want it to be awesome!” she exclaims. ​“Full glamour.”

More appears taken aback at times by her own fame – a meet and greet recently with her gay fans at Manchester’s G‑A-Y had queues snaking around the block. Which brings me to the question – why do gay men love her so much? ​“It’s everything about her,” one 25-year old theatre twink, who’d prefer to remain anonymous, tells me. ​“Her sassy habits, her mischievous persona.” He references some of More’s iconic videos, like the time she said: ​“There will be a small fee to pay, but I’m sure you won’t mind,” in one promo clip, or her observation that ​“You’re poor. That doesn’t excite me at all.”

But it runs deeper than that. Gay men love More, because to be a Cock Destroyer is to subvert the conventions of heterosexual masculinity. Cock Destroyers look at the phallus – that ancient symbol of patriarchy – and laugh. A Cock Destroyer will take your money and destroy your cock with no fear. ​“It’s the way she subverts and mocks the macho masculinity she so earnestly vows to destroy,” the twink tells me. He thinks gay men respond so well to More, because of how she speaks to straight men like they’re worthless. ​“It somehow reminds me of the internalised shame I, and others within the community, have frequently felt.”

The character of Rebecca More, the Cock Destroyer, is also extremely drag adjacent, from her makeup to the over-the-topness of her performance. (In a piece of meta-theatre, there are now drag tributes to More herself, and RuPaul himself endorsed Anderson and More in a recent tweet.) ​“To a community that spends so much time inhabiting dream-like spaces, her sassy theatrics are something we really identify with,” the twink tells me. Rebecca More the Cock Destroyer – as opposed to the Rebecca I meet in person, who is understated and kind – is a performer. I realise this as I watch her posing for Darren’s glamour shots. More slips in and out of character with each shutter click. She’ll be nattering away about nothing in particular, and then throw the camera a hammy look as precise as Roger Federer nailing a baseline serve during the final set of the American Open. And when she looks into the camera, More looks like she wants to rip your cock off and gobble it down.

The best word to describe Rebecca More is, of course, camp. As defined by Susan Sontag in her 1964 essay Notes on Camp: ​“the essence of camp is its love of the unnatural, or artifice and exaggeration”. You don’t know whether you want to laugh at More’s performances, or wank. The campness, More says cheerily, comes naturally. ​“It always did. I just can’t help myself.” And the Cock Destroyer’s sexuality is so ferocious that men often turn up to her gang bangs frightened to meet her. ​“They’re always like, ​‘You’re really nice!’” she laughs. ​“But when I’m on camera, I act up.” She tells me a story about a man ejaculating into her mouth during a gang bang. More stood up, and spat his own cum back into his mouth. The other men cowered. ​“You’re not going to do this to us, are you?” one asked.

Like Bruce Wayne and the Batsuit, when More peels herself into her PVC and lace, she feels the Cock Destroyer persona settle over her. ​“Slowly, as the outfits come on, I become this person, and even my voice changes. I can’t help it,” she tells me. The character of Rebecca More the Cock Destroyer is ​“a bit over the top, a bit Dynasty… She’s married, and a complete cheat, and is horny all the time. And of course I’ve got my own gimp.” It’s an absurdly exaggerated – and occasionally grotesque – parody of the male gaze. The Cock Destroyer asks men what they want, and then spits it back into their mouths. And when More and Anderson are together in full Cock Destroying flight, as they were in that original viral video, ​“we are fucking sexual animals. We are the alpha females. If you come into our presence, we are going to fucking ruin you.” More pauses. ​“We’re literally going to feast on your cock like fucking vampires.” She laughs like a harpy.

In her essay, Sontag writes: ​“camp is esoteric – something of a private code, a badge of identity even among small urban cliques”. More gets recognised, and often. I tell her that there’s a woman who wears a Cock Destroyer t‑shirt to my gym, and she laughs and told me she got stopped by a fan en route to the shoot. It’s fair to say that Cock Destroying has become a movement. ​“Be proud of who you are,” More sums it up. ​“I think that’s the message. Own it and be confident. No shame at all.

“Being a Cock Destroyer is fun. It’s not taking yourself too seriously. Positive energy. Being who you want to be.”

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