This fall, adult film actress Sasha Grey will make her debut on HBO’s Entourage as Adrian Grenier's girlfriend. What does this mean, to us, the sex-positive people of the world?

Well, it's no real news that the “mainstreaming” of heterosexual porn has been going on for the better part of a decade, and Sasha Grey getting on an HBO show hardly seems a landmark occurrence—at least at first. Jesse Jane and Katie Morgan, both well-known porn starlets, have already made cameos on the half-hour drama; but their presence, and their breasts’ presences, on the show that many have characterized as the male version of Sex and The City basically amounts to gratuitous shots of Manolo Blahnik suede crisscross sandals on Sarah Jessica Parker’s tootsies.

Sasha Grey is a porn star of a different ilk than her giggling blonde counterparts. I won’t go as far to say that she’s Jean-Luc Godard's love child, or even John Carpenter’s, but she is dirty, she is intelligent, and most importantly, she is intelligently dirty. To wit: Grey is very much in ownership of her rather outrageous brand of sexuality. A self-professed “pain slut” and zealous participant in numerous six-on-one sex scenes, Grey boasts a filthy mouth complemented by a savvy sneer that says she understands the implications of what goes on.

The Barbie-doll world of high production-value sex was never Grey’s world, really; rather, she made a name for herself in the weird, cheap playground of Gonzo pornography, where anal sex is a no-brainer and the toilets don’t work half the time. Less memorable actresses check in, do their six scenes, and disappear forever. Grey was discovered, instead. By Soderbergh.

By now, the story’s a familiar one: Famed independent filmmaker Steven Soderbergh contacts newbie adult actress Grey via her MySpace page, with the invitation to play the part of a prostitute in a movie he would call The Girlfriend Experience. The backstory, of course, is missing from this tale (because Soderbergh must have first watched her performing … right? And perhaps found that performance … stimulating enough to drive him into a quick bout of onanism … right?) But this is par for the course, for Grey’s seamless entrance into mainstream television very much depends upon the true nature of her very flagrant sexuality going missing.

But America is skillful at the practice of half-seeing; America, in fact, specializes in deliberately obscured vision. Currently, Ice Cube has a show on TBS. Ice Cube. The one-time anger-rapper, whose credits include “F*** the Police” and “Straight Outta Compton” now makes his living portraying family men in movies like Are We There Yet? and Are We Done Yet?—and TBS, sensing more of the money that Tyler Perry's already brought them with the African-American targeted sitcom House of Payne, is willing to go along with the facade.

Does Cube still believe that N.W.A’s-wanted-for-homicide? The official line, of course, is no, but conventional wisdom says that Cube likely bears some of the original sentiment of racial anger and mistrust he bore publicly 20 years ago—he’s just not talking about it. If he’s a stand-up guy and doesn’t bring it up in interviews, TBS tacitly agrees to play the same hush-hush game; and in the long run, they’ll both profit monetarily from the tamping-down.

The same holds true for Grey. It’s not that she’s denying she’s a porn star; it’s that she’s denying she a certain kind of porn star. While on HBO’s Entourage, you’ll definitely see her prance about sexily, while delivering her lines in that curious cadence which can only be described as teenage mushmouth (unlike the lauded Cube, the verdict on Grey's acting skills is still out). And it’s likely you'll see her half-nude, too—and that’ll draw viewers, for sure, to a show that has seen its ratings and drop steadily in the 18- to 49-year-old demographic over the last several seasons.

You won’t, though, see Grey performing the tricks that made her famous to a different and more specialized audience—the vicious deep-throats and the flying spittle; those feats will instead be implicit, and at the same time, denied. Double-think. It’s good for the ratings.

Some would argue that America needs double-think. After all, it’s adaptive. How else could we possibly watch Tiger Woods play golf these days? Even 10-year-old boys realize that Woods messed up, big-time, in his marriage last spring, and those of us who spend way too much time on the Internet have likely read a few of his weird, inarticulate sex-texts: “I know you have tried every positing imaginable but what turns you on besides a dp?

None of us like the sexaholic, cheataholic, Hootie and the Blowfish listening multibazillionaire—but then, at the same time, golf would be even more intolerable than it already is without him. Network TV announcers are saddled with the job of not laughing when they talk about his wrist action; the simple fact is, they are under strict contractual obligations to never utter a word about the details of his indiscretions. Unwritten rule: You can talk about it in US Weekly—but you can’t let it slip while he’s on the small screen.

The refreshing thing about pornography, then, has always been its tendency to include everything—the filthy details, the peculiar fetishes, the boring minutiae, and most famously, that sordid kind of nonsense that pre-scandal Woods apparently spent most of his down-time between putts fantasizing about. All that stuff gets center stage, on display for all to see under the harsh, bright lights, and the result is a jarring disjuncture from the well-laid lies of big-money corporate entertainment. For many viewers, tired of the bullshit, the effect is not altogether without pleasure.)

But with the mainstreaming of pornography, and the publicizing of many stars’ private sex lives, from Kendra Wilkinson’s tedious sex tape to Delonte West’s supposed disastrous affair with LeBron James’ mom, from Bill Clinton to the newly divorced Gores, a confusing breach in the once placid fabric that separated sub rosa carnality from surface suburbia has appeared. Those who once agreed to remain closeted have begun popping up in the noonday light. What’s next, after all—porn stars on the Teletubbies? Max Hardcore, popping up on QVC, or getting chummy with Pat and Vanna?

Or perhaps, will the pendulum swing back in the opposite direction: As pornography grows less a world apart from the mainstream, will it become more inhibited, less designed for serving the confessional impulse? Will Sasha Grey and Belladonna, no longer spurred on by the need to appear transgressive, begin to mail in their scenes—producing yawners where once we gaped in admiration?

Most of us liberals applaud integration. But maybe the double-thinkers know something we don’t. For America to continue to function effectively—and for our sex industry to retain its weird, strong flavor—perhaps these worlds are better off separate.