MySweetApple interview: Becoming World famous Adult Film Stars
- May 28
- 7 min read
They fucked for thirty days straight while two IBM laptops sat open on the table like sad little corporate tombstones. That’s how this story starts, and honestly, anything softer would be a lie. Kim and Paolo — MySweetApple if we’re using the name the internet knows — aren’t selling some polished fantasy. The real version is hotter, messier, and a lot more human.
Before the cameras, before the money, before the internet turned them into one of the most recognisable couples in adult entertainment, they were working at IBM in Argentina. Kim in admin. Paolo in IT. Proper office jobs. Password-reset energy. Corporate coffee. Fluorescent despair. They met at a carnival in one of those “single groups” where everyone arrives in two cars and acts like chaos is somehow organised because there’s a plan for who’s driving home.
And that’s the thing with people like this. You can feel the mess coming early.
Watch and listen to the full episode with MySweetApple below.
Their first sexual experience together wasn’t some slow romantic origin myth either. It was Paolo’s birthday, an electronic festival, a threesome, and then the third person left and the whole thing cracked open. After that they went home and spent a month basically locked in their own little horny apocalypse. Two IBM laptops sat on the table, fully ignored, while they fucked for thirty straight days like work was a rumour made up by sad people. That’s not “finding yourself.” That’s a full system failure. The kind I respect.
The camera came in almost by accident. Kim’s sister brought her a GoPro from Miami, and that was that. No grand business plan. No moody manifesto. Just a tiny camera and a woman who hates posing, hates fake smiling, hates all the stiff nonsense people do when they know they’re being looked at — but feels completely free naked. Honestly, I got that immediately. Some people look most false when they’re dressed and “behaving.” Some people only become themselves when the costume comes off. Kim’s first instinct with the GoPro was to show her boobs, which is the sort of directness I trust more than any “empowerment journey” paragraph written by a publicist.
That instinct is a huge part of why they work. They were never trying to become glossy porn dolls. They weren’t chasing studio legitimacy. They were chasing the opposite: room to be messy, horny, funny, tired, imperfect, soft, real. That’s much rarer than people think. The adult industry is packed with people performing spontaneity like it’s an Olympic sport. MySweetApple built a career out of not doing that.
Argentina, though, wasn’t exactly built for that kind of freedom. Too much stigma, too much danger, too much social crossover between your family, your office, your friends, your neighbours, your old classmates, your cousin’s weird husband, everyone. They talk pretty bluntly about wanting out of that atmosphere, and I don’t blame them. So they moved to Italy — partly for citizenship, partly for the clean slate, partly because sometimes you need an ocean between your body and everybody else’s opinion of it.
In Italy, Kim waitressed while Paolo became what they called the stay-at-home boyfriend, which, in fairness, sounds lazier than it was. He was cleaning, cooking, figuring out the webcam business, basically reverse-engineering a new life while she brought in money. There’s something weirdly romantic about that setup. Not Instagram romantic. Real romantic. Shared-risk romantic. “We are trying to build a thing and one of us is scrubbing the kitchen while the other survives customers” romantic.
Then they found the holy grail: the “Block Argentina” button on cam sites. That tiny feature basically gave them permission to begin. No family stumbling across them. No old IBM people seeing too much. No immediate social implosion. For about a month, anyway. Then everybody found out regardless — friends, office people, siblings — because the internet loves humiliating anyone who thinks they’ve found a clean solution. Still, by then it was already moving. You don’t put that kind of toothpaste back in the tube.
And here’s where I get cynical, because someone has to be: the world loves sexual labour right up until the moment sexual people want access to normal infrastructure. Then suddenly everybody turns Victorian. Banks get twitchy. Instagram loses its mind. Payment processors start acting like they’ve discovered morality by accident. People will consume your work with one hand and deny you a business account with the other. It’s the same hypocrisy you see everywhere sex touches money. Kink, porn, nightlife, queer scenes — society wants the aesthetic, not the worker. Same old rot, just better branding. We’ve touched that contradiction before in Berlin’s unique position in European BDSM culture, and porn lives in the same nasty little tension between desire and denial.
What I loved most, though, is their “why.” Not the abstract why. The actual one.
Eat before sex.
That’s it. That’s one of the pillars. Hungry sex is mad sex. Kim says if she’s hungry, she’s in a bad mood, and if she’s in a bad mood, nothing good is happening. Exactly. I don’t know who decided eroticism had to be calorie-restricted, but I’d like a word. They don’t care about bloating. They don’t care about looking “camera ready” in the sterile way studios mean it. They care about whether the sex is good.
And because they’re not trying to turn sex into theatre, they also don’t do fake orgasms, fake abs, fake chemistry, fake polished-body nonsense. They talk about farts, stomach noises, soft dicks that get hard when somebody’s actually horny instead of when a director wants a shot. That’s not just refreshing. It’s intimate in a way polished porn rarely is. Human arousal is awkward. Bodies make sounds. Erections are not a democracy. Anyone who’s actually had real sex more than twice knows this. Their whole thing is built around leaving that truth in.
Then there’s the “Guard” story, which is exactly the sort of thing that makes me trust them. It was for a custom video: spoiled brat fantasy, AirPods involved, Paolo meant to look the part. Except he turned up wearing jeans instead of proper suit pants, because men are forever finding fresh ways to misunderstand costume notes. So they had to go out and buy the right trousers. And because this is their life, not a sanitised screenplay, they ended up fucking in the fitting room. Perfect. Embarrassing. Efficient. Completely on brand.
The swinger club disaster is even better. Kim was drunk, in a fancy dress, wanted Paolo to pee in her mouth, and then realised too late that fantasy and practical execution are not always the same thing. She didn’t know what to do with it, everything went sideways, and she basically peed on her own face and dress. I’m sorry, that’s art. Not because it’s elegant — God no — but because it’s exactly what real sexual experimentation looks like half the time. Hot idea, flawed logistics, bodily chaos, and hopefully enough humour to survive it. If you’re the kind of person who reads that and thinks yes, unfortunately, I understand, then our yes-no-maybe manifesto is probably more useful than pretending you’re above curiosity.
And then the detail that really lodged in my brain: the Jesus songs. They both went to Catholic school, and when they’re drunk it all apparently comes leaking back out — hymns, baby language, and this strange little shared reference point they call up with “Aripiprazole” weirdness and school-trauma comedy. That’s so specific it could only be true. I love details like that. Sex tells the truth about the body. Drunken singing tells the truth about the ghost furniture in your head. You can become globally famous for fucking on camera and still have your nervous system cough up Catholic leftovers when the wine kicks in. Extremely human. Extremely embarrassing. I’m obsessed.
They’re also not doing that boring thing where success has to end in lifestyle porn. No minimalist villa. No smug wellness farm cosplay. Ten years from now, what they want is a farmhouse with animals. Peacocks. Cows. Creatures just walking around, living their best little animal lives while Kim and Paolo watch them with the satisfaction of people who escaped something. That dream made total sense to me. After enough performance, witnessing ordinary aliveness probably starts to feel holy.
People are always searching the same practical questions, so here:
How did MySweetApple start?
Kim and Paolo met at a carnival in Argentina while both working at IBM, in one of those single groups arriving in two cars. She was in admin, he was in IT. Their first sexual experience together was a threesome at an electronic festival for Paolo’s birthday, followed by a month-long bender at home where their IBM laptops sat untouched while they ignored work and fucked for thirty days.
What camera did MySweetApple first use?
Kim’s first camera was a GoPro her sister brought from Miami. She’s said she hates posing and fake smiling, but feels natural naked, which is exactly why the camera worked for her. The first instinct wasn’t performance. It was freedom.
Why did MySweetApple move to Italy?
They wanted out of Argentina’s stigma and danger, plus they had citizenship reasons and needed a clean slate. In Italy, Kim worked as a waitress while Paolo ran the house and figured out the webcam business. They used the “Block Argentina” feature on cam sites to avoid family and colleagues seeing them — at least until everyone found out anyway.
What is MySweetApple’s philosophy about sex on camera?
Eat first. Don’t fake it. Don’t chase fake abs, fake orgasms, or sterile studio standards. Leave room for real bodies, real noises, soft dicks, stomach sounds, farts, and chemistry that actually exists. If you’re curious how intensity and psychology start tangling once sex gets more honest, our piece on impact play for intellectuals gets into that from another angle.
What are the wildest stories from the MySweetApple interview?
The custom “Guard” video where Paolo wore jeans instead of suit pants, the emergency shopping trip that ended with sex in the fitting room, the fancy-dress swinger club pee disaster, and the drunk Catholic-school hymn singing that still lives in their bodies like unfinished business.
That’s probably why they’ve lasted. They’re not selling perfection. They’re not even selling chaos, exactly. They’re selling recognition. The filthy little relief of seeing two people admit that sex, work, shame, tenderness, logistics, family trauma, and comedy are all tangled together anyway.
Which they are.
