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I Traded Scalpel for Skin Flicks: The Wild Rise of Dr. Charlie Forde

She could’ve spent her life elbow-deep in labradors and cat guts, whispering gentle goodbyes as the syringe kissed the vein — but instead, Charlie Forde lit the fuse on her white coat and walked into the sunset with a suitcase full of lingerie and ambition.

This isn’t just a story about swapping scrubs for stilettos — it’s a survival story wrapped in latex and lit with a camera flash.

Charlie Forde, 36, once a respected veterinarian in the sterile underbelly of Australia’s ICU units, now walks the golden sidewalks of LA as one of porn’s rising provocateurs. But don’t let the silicon and sequins fool you — the pivot from euthanasia to eroticism wasn’t born out of lust or laziness. It was pain. Pure and clinical.

“Being a vet was so exhausting. We have six times the national suicide rate,” Forde told DailyMail.com, slicing the air with a statistic most people would drown under.

Let that rattle around your skull for a second. You think porn’s grimy? Try spending your twenties watching animals die while their owners cry into the invoice. Fifty percent of her peers abandon the vet life within five years. Charlie didn’t just leave — she escaped.

She clawed her way through vet school on fumes and caffeine, clocking 130-hour weeks, bouncing between classrooms and clinics, barely sleeping, barely surviving. One long night ended with her crumpled in a car wreck, metal twisted, body battered, future uncertain.

“I wasn’t surviving financially. I was working just to pay for the exams that were killing me.”

Then came a suggestion, almost laughable if it weren’t so savagely practical: porn. An oasis of money, flexibility, and — for the first time in years — fun. No death. No grieving owners. No more administering the last shot.

Charlie dipped a toe in during her studies and found something stronger than survival: freedom. Sex work wasn’t a descent. It was a ladder. She built her brand down under, then took Europe by storm. Eventually, the call came from Mark Spiegler — the Don Draper of adult cinema — and with a visa in hand, she walked into America like she owned the place.

Now, Forde is more than just a performer. She’s a producer, a director, and the CEO of her own erotic empire. Her work’s been nominated for the AVNs — the Oscars of the flesh trade — and she’s reshaping the industry on her own terms.

“I love performing, but my heart is in creating. Directing. Building the thing from scratch,” she said. Not just a body on screen — a brain behind the camera.

She’s also quick to slap the rose-tinted glasses off any dreamers looking to follow her stilettos into the spotlight.

“The average OnlyFans creator makes $400 a month. You need a business mind, a full-time work ethic, and serious marketing chops if you want to make real money.”

Charlie didn’t just get lucky — she worked the game. She built a name, earned her audience, and stacked her chips with strategy. That’s not to say everyone should toss their degrees and jump into bed with a webcam. She’s the exception, not the rule.

But behind the bright lights and satin sheets lies the darker shadow of the story: the vet industry’s silent killer. The Royal College of Veterinary Surgeons has been on red alert in recent years, sounding the alarm on suicide rates among animal doctors. The tools they use to save lives can just as easily end them.

Dr. John Ellis, a 35-year-old vet from Winchester, took his life using the very drug he used to put pets to sleep — unable to stomach the hypocrisy of clients driving brand-new BMWs yet refusing to pay for life-saving treatment for their animals. His death echoed through the halls of a broken system.

“Access to lethal means,” the RCVS says. That’s what makes it so dangerous. Not just the pain, but the proximity to the end.

Charlie Forde chose to live. She chose to leave. And she chose to find power — and pleasure — in a world most people still pretend doesn’t exist.

So call her what you want: porn star, rebel, entrepreneur. But remember — beneath the gloss and glamour is a woman who looked death in the face and said, “Not today, sweetheart.”

Last modified: April 18, 2025

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