Devon Hunter

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…