Devon Hunter

It’s funny how certain conversations seem to happen in batches. This weekend I am visiting friends and seeing clients in DC. Last weekend I was dancing in Greenville, SC and Asheville, NC. I was booked for the latter first, which was a fundraiser, and since it interrupted my weekend I decided to book the former to have something to do. My good friend Roxy C. Morecox is a widely celebrated female illusionist, and we talk pretty candidly about the escorting. She asked me which I preferred, escorting or exotic dancing. Oddly enough, I have had three clients ask me that question recently too.

I have to say it: Unequivocally, I prefer escorting. The bookings at the clubs this weekend drew everything into sharp focus. I don’t do the clubs hardly ever anymore, so when I do I keep having the same reaction: I used to put up with this abject bullshit? Really?? For TWELVE YEARS???

First, my clients are ALWAYS sober, clean, polite, and respectful. The place where I meet them is comfortable, and I am very relaxed and happy with the time I spend with my clients. I walked into the doors at the clubs and already felt out of place. My asshole even puckered tightly shut when I first walked into one of the clubs. Really? I mean really?? Why does this place have to be so gross?

Let me start by comparing the two. Whether I escort or perform I have to be conscious of my body, appearance, hygiene, and manners. Regardless of which I am doing I also have to be very sensitive to others. Also, whether I dance or date I have to be on top of my business.

However…

When I escort my clients are ALWAYS gentlemen. When I dance, gentlemen are almost nowhere to be found. When I escort my clients compliment my appearance. When I dance I get told any number of insulting comments about whatever feature is most offensive in that particular moment. When I escort the men are interested in talking to me and knowing something about me. When I dance they are far more likely to do or say anthing possible to embarrass or humiliate me. When I escort I can pay my bills. When I dance I am commanded to do any number of ridiculously inappropriate sexual circus tricks for a dollar. When I escort I stay in comfortable hotels. When I dance, the club owners stick me in places that I would be ashamed for clients to see. When I escort there are never requests for barebacking. When I dance I have this thrown at me in the dressing room: “Can I fuck you raw? I am into felching. I like to wipe it on my face - it’s good for the skin.”

Are you kidding me with this? I even had one loathsome individual try to tip me with my own money. He was so high that he thought the tips I’d handed to a friend to count was the cash he’d brought in to tip me with. Ummmmmmm… no. Not so much.

I had a very good time laughing and dancing with Roxy, and I would love to travel with her some more; however, I made in an entire weekend what I can make in two hours without the sleepless nights, smoke, drug addicts, alcohol, wanton groping, and strained muscles/sore back.

I definitely prefer escorting.

Well, where to begin??? As always, too much to do in too little time; however, I prefer being overwhelmed to being bored ANY DAY. I have to say it: I entertain myself pretty well. What with all my projects and drama, there’s never a dull moment, eh?

Okay, so it’s time to start getting ready for the summer. This is going to be a time of change for me. Literal physical change. My exclusive contract with Sean Cody will run out at the end of May, 2010, and my friends at Fabscout: NOT SAFE FOR WORK/Music may play when page opens (whom I don’t believe I’ve mentioned until now) are hopefully going to be keeping me pretty busy with a variety of gay video projects. One of the many aspects I have enjoyed with Fabscout so far is their unrelenting expectation that their models use condoms. I wouldn’t continue on with the porn if I thought I’d be expected to do bareback scenes.

What does this mean in terms of going to the next level? Well, I am going to workout with my trainer an extra day each week during the next few months, and I have restarted a system of very clean and high quality supplements by Cellucor (I will be doing the Lean Muscle Growth system). I know some of you will see some red flags in this, because of what I have said in the past about anorexia and Dysmorphia; however, there are videos on Cellucor that explain how the supplements work. I also want you to know that I am approaching this from the perspective of healthy, sustainable gains, not obsessive or exaggerated notions about my shape. Also, I am keeping the word “supplement” firmly in my mind: I am definitely eating (I just polished off a whole box of couscous with two chicken breasts, 1/8 yellow bell pepper, a cup of fresh spinach, and a handful of cherry tomatoes… and I’m still hungry. My baby gotta eat!).

Don’t worry: I AM EATING. I’m just getting polished up. Always remember, my little ones: Pain is temporary… Video is forever!!

I am not so worried about getting help with body fat - I have been trying to monitor refined carbs (CHOCOLATE!!!! xoxoxo I love you, and I miss you dearly… we shall meet again soon one day…), and I’m confident I can manage that on my own. But what I am preparing for right now is to do some photoshoots in the coming weeks and video shoots beginning at some point in June. I gotta get my sexy on in a hurry!

OMG… I have to hang with the Big Fellas again… I really do hope this isn’t Swinging Richards all over again. I’m not feeling (in terms of social mores) any conflict about this, and once I get some fine tuning done on the chassis I think my confidence will be just fine. I am excited at the idea of working with models who are gay. No matter what, that has got to make filming easier than what I did last summer: I really don’t dig working with Paysexual dudes. They’re pretty to look at sometimes, but the ladies can have them, thanks very much.

Oh great Goddess, it has been a crazy day. But a very empowering one, nonetheless. Lemme break some knowledge down for my peeps…

So, I was flirting online with a total freaking hottie. Oh. My. God. Becky. What? Anyway, he turns out to be a veteran of gay adult video, and thinks I’m stunning. I’m not going to disuade him, not by a long shot. LOL If he wants to flatter me right into bed, that’s totally fine with me.

Later, instead of getting food (like I intended), I ended up at Cobalt at 17th and R in D.C. I don’t know how the hell this happened, but I started dancing with this one girl who was playing with the light beams in the air. It was sweet. We had fun. I guess, somehow (in a totally heterosexual way… the way only straight men can play with lights in the air at a gay bar while singing along to Lady GaGa’s “Paparazzi?”) this totally hot woman thought it was her turn to dance with me. “I’m gay you know,” I said. She didn’t care. At first I was going to avoid her, but then I thought, “I want to do an experiment.”

I walked around the club, trying to make eye contact. I turned some heads, but nothing out of the ordinary. I went back to her, and asked, “Do you want to make these gay guys go crazy?” She said “Hell, yes!” so I let her do all sorts of sexual stuff to me (we were making out hard, she was pressing my hands into all her naughty places, and wrapped one leg around me while we were grinding - titties are soft!), and when she reached down my pants to grope my ass and dick I took my shirt off. I played the part: I was the straight dude getting nasty with the hottest chick in the club. And I got exactly the result I expected: Suddenly I was umpteen times hotter. Why? Because all those stupid gay assholes thought I was straight. What a bunch of turds. I then had to sneak away when she went to the bathroom, because she thought she was taking me home. She was stunning. So beautiful that I momentarily considered the possibility of maybe getting an erection (but the moment passed).

What did we learn from this? Beautiful straight women are even better babe magnets than sports cars, dogs, and money. I could have fucked any dude in the place. Ridiculous. No. Ri-DICK-ulous. NO! Ri-COCK-ulous. (Credit to Gunn for that lovely term.)

Anyway, something about feeling really sexual (because she did turn me on, in a hormone way, even if I wasn’t sporting wood) makes me go in slow motion. I completely go into a musical retardando… I move as though the video were being played back at only 75% normal speed, and I somehow swim/float/glide through space-time. And my gaze gets very heavy, very penetrating. I left the club feeling like a predator. And even though she was no longer with me… I could have fucked any dude on the way back to the hotel.

I got a mildly scolding email today from Brian. “You haven’t been forthcoming on your blog lately. Pity.” That may not sound terribly intense, but I think I’m a tad in the dog house.

So I wanted to give my thoughts about the dynamic of “calm vs panicked.” Escorting has not turned out to be difficult for me at all. I have met some really wonderful people thus far. Perhaps I’m lucky, but everyone I’ve met has been polite, intelligent, considerate, and engaging. I’ve had a few no-shows, and I’ve had to vet out a few people who were interested in something I cannot do (and there was one total asshole who got told where he could put his money); however, I am surprised only by how quickly I have totally adapted. The thought of dancing in clubs on a regular basis is suddenly almost revolting to me. Not because clubs are bad places, or that the people there aren’t good, but because I didn’t realize until now how much I’d been grinding myself into the dust!

So, calm vs panicked… There are some similarities between the two careers. The most nerve wracking is the unpredictability; however, I am doing so much better now that I can afford a bad night (whereas in the clubs I was always tip toeing on the edge of a chasm). When I place ads there is always the lag: The day or so that has to pass before the ad goes live and people have time to see it and reply. I generally forget that this lag is there and start worrying about what is wrong with me. WHY AREN’T THEY EMAILING?!!

Silly… How many times do I have to remind myself that everything is going to be okay? I have to say that I did exceptionally well in August and September. I am not in Atlanta this weekend (although my itinerary says I should be). I cancelled the trip. I didn’t get any replies. None. And that’s to be expected: I went two weekends in a row in August, and then I forgot to place my ad in advance this time. So, I’m taking the weekend off unexpectedly.

And you know what?

It’s okay. I’m no longer anywhere near as vulnerable as I was when I was in the clubs. And removing that stress makes everything so much better in the rest of my life. I don’t necessarily feel calm, because I’m still home so seldom that my apartment is a wreck (and that type of clutter IRRITATES me). But not being terrified of the randomness of Swinging Richards is definitely something I could get used to.

To say that I’m content with my transition into escorting is an understatement. I wish only that I’d done it sooner. However, I’m glad I didn’t do it sooner, because you should do only that with which you are comfortable. And I wasn’t comfortable with it until now. And I am very happy.

So, the dynamics are still there, but the rules remain the same (since the scale of the implications are even greater than before): Do nothing out of desparation. Avoid that which causes you pain, humiliation, fear, or guilt. Enjoy your work. The bad nights will come… but they will go.

I’m hungry… have a great weekend! I’m going to go eat something yummy.

Last night I danced at Club 621 in Greenville, SC, and I had a really good time. OMG!! They have the perfect poles to dance on there: They’re very small, so I can wrap my dainty fingers around them; they’re not slicked with oil or polished to a bright shine, so I could use tension/friction to maintain shapes with my upper body more easily; and they were totally anchored in place, so they felt nice and stable. I had a good time dancing there, I really did!

But there was one small “Uh, oh” moment. It’s one of those little tiny comments that you may or may not pick up on until it’s too late, and by then you’ve already undermined yourself. An enthusiastic patron who definitely meant it as a compliment said, “It’s about goddamned time they had a real man dance in here who doesn’t look like a nelly fucking faggot.” And my response? “Thank you!”

Wait a minute. Hold the phone. As soon as he said it I was offended, yet I smiled and “thank you” is what fell out of my mouth out of rote habit. And yet part of me was actually glad he thought I didn’t look like a nelly fucking faggot. But then immediately after that I felt pangs of “oh my god, am I a homophobic asshole or what?” Then I went back to the dressing room for a moment to sort it all out in my head. I AM A NELLY FUCKING FAGGOT, so why would I be (even momentarily) flattered that someone thinks I don’t look like exacty what I am?

All of this is so conflated and destructive. I’m ready for the day when LGBT people start acting more like a community again, and less like mean-spirited heterosexuals with queer tendencies. Now, where’s my tweezers? My eyebrows are looking ragged…