The online diary of a gay courtesan.

It was brought to my attention that there are sites that do nothing but discuss the material that is generated at places like Sean Cody, Corbin Fisher, and Randy Blue. What’s more, it was brought to my attention that people can respond to those critiques/discussions. There are so many opinions out there… It’s pretty amazing how much they can differ from person to person or site to site. It’s also amazing the extent to which some people try to invade the privacy of others.

What I have read essentially brings me to balance: There are at least 15 sites I have found that have discussed and/or reviewed my solo at Sean Cody. This was not something I’d thought to consider before I did it. It never occurred to me that there were full-time movie critics and peanut galleries for Sean Cody; however, these not only exist, they proliferate in large numbers. And that is what is interesting: I am only one person, and yet some of the responses I elicited from people were as divergent as you could possibly imagine.

Some people were revolted at the thought of me being gay and 32 years old. Others liked me specifically because of it. There were as many comments that I was fugly as there were that I was gorgeous. All of the reviews themselves were glowing, but it was the conversations that followed that could be startling. And yet, after all that reading, what I have finally accepted is that I am who I am, and that’s going to just have to be good enough.

So, although some people have called me a pasty grub and others have called me a creamy boystud; and although some have called me a nelly gay-faced homo, while others refer to me as a hot gay jock; and whereas there are people who think me ancient and/or decrepit, there are others who applaud me for admitting my age (which makes me seem, to them, even more youthful); and since in the same conversation there are people who think I am nothing arguing along side of people who think I am everything… What all this essentially means is that all the negatives are cancelled out by positives, and I’m left right where I was before: Me.

And that’s not such a bad scenario.

Dear Devon,

I was wondering… Is there anyone who should absolutely not dance? I mean, other than looks wise, is there something about a person that should be a red flag to not get into it? My sister is interested in dancing, but I think she lives too dangerously to be good at it.

- Big Brother

Dear Big Brother,

I can definitely appreciate why you would have trepidation. Aside from the fact that there are negative temptations, potentials for danger, and sharks in the dark waters, this is also your little sister. Perhaps she isn’t all that innocent, but you can’t help but be protective of her, right? It’s natural.

I am not going to dismiss your concerns (because of all the many reasons that should alarm you); however, more than the external influences, the primary fear I have is the part where you say your sister “lives too dangerously.” What does that mean? She rides bicycles without a helmet? Or, if that is the least of your worries, does she have a history of making choices that have put her in with people or practices that are beyond wreckless/careless and bordering/converging on self-destructive?

I can tell you this right now: People who go into adult entertainment because of desperation are walking down a dangerous road. I have said this before, but it bears repeating. People who go into any form of adult entertainment (dancing, videos, sex work, etc.) because of drug habits, alcohol abuse, a sense of hopelessness, suicidal tendencies, or any other form of severe life disruptions are placed at greater risk of making choices that put them directly in the way of harm. If your sister has a preponderance for being drunk or high, she should not go into exotic dancing. There are too many people who will take advantage of that. But I’m altruistic in this detail, perhaps. I know lots of dancers who drink and get high, and who have never been accosted… but still… the risk is so much greater.

Aside from people who would be coming to the career out of desparation, people who have severe self-esteem issues should be careful. If you get affrimation, it may help you (temporarily), but if you get rejection, it may further damage you. It’s probably 50-50 there. Personally, I wish that people of the stripper mentality wouldn’t go into exotic dancing, just because it makes everything more difficult for me. But strippers gotta eat too, I suppose.

Finally, and this is something you have to be truthful to yourself about, if you have any problems with being touched intimately, you should definitely not become an exotic dancer (or any other type of adult entertainer). People with a history of sexual violence or abuse being perpetrated on them should consider carefully whether or not they are emotionally and psychologically able to tolerate sexual touches. There are different types of touch, and you need to be realistic about what you can tolerate, and to what degree.

Devon,

What was it like when you first danced naked?

- C

Hello  C!

Well, there are different firsts. When I first danced in any state of undress at all (back in those innocent beginning days – HA!), I was standing backstage in a thong on the verge of throwing up. I heard them call my name, and for about three seconds I just stood there (remember: at that time I was still struggling with anorexia), fearing that people would boo, hiss, laugh, etc. After another short breath, I stepped out onto the stage, and got dizzy for about half a moment. But then it passed as I started moving: I fell into performance mode. And then it was fine.

Fast forward to Swinging Richards: That was my first experience with total nudity. Again, I was scared. But not to be naked. It was because the other dancers were so intimidating, not to mention that the manager is gruff. But again, I went into performance mode, and the cold sweat on my palms stopped distracting me. It was liberating, actually.

The next first was Secrets. Not only are you nude there, but you have to maintain an erection. I really had zero butterflies. By that point it was no longer a point of anxiety. Actually, I enjoy dancing at Secrets more than Swinging Richards. There’s something oddly satisfying about being able to play with yourself in front of people (which is absolutely not allowed on stage at Richards, at least not once your undies come off). By the end of the night I can’t stand touching my penis anymore. It’s numb.

Anyway, once you get past the initial trepidation, nudity is natural and has a healing effect (at least for me). Being completely “vulnerable” forces you to really know yourself (or to completely retreat behind walls… it’s a rather 50-50 chance you take). Beyond that, the only complaints I have about dancing nude at this point is when the damned clubs crank the A/C. It gets COLD!

I ate recently at a Greek restaurant in Atlanta called Taverna Plaka. It was an amazing experience, not only because of the food, but because of the process involved in eating it. I was reminded of how wonderful food can be, and the way it is celebrated at every meal in places like France and Italy. It really was wonderful. If you ever go, ask for Tatiana. She is sweet, and is very good at describing the food.

This was the first time I’d ever gotten to grind my own hummus. The chick peas, olive oil, lemon, herbs, and garlic were brought to me in a wooden mortar with a wooden pestel. The process of mashing it up and smelling the aromas comingling was so satisfying. And watching Tatiana set my flaming cheese on fire was fun. I’d forgotten how much I love interacting with food. Food is a treasure – it really is! As someone who has dealt with eating disorders, I cannot stress enough how important it is to not feel guilty about eating, to enjoy your food and appreciate it.

I had the lamb chops, and they were amazing. They were like marshmallows. They were soft and spongy, yet they had a good, meaty texture, and they wrapped around my teeth when I bit into them. And the dessert, Ek Mek, was just about the most decadent piece of heaven I’ve had in my mouth since Alan. (Whoops! That was dirty… but there you have it!)

So, why go on and on about a meal? Because it made me feel real joy. The tables were stable and sturdy, and there were signs posted all around that read “Dance At Your Own Risk.” People get drunk and dance on the table tops! This is what eating is supposed to be: Fun.

Too often in the United States were have a horrible relationship with our food. We either wolf it down while working (or thinking about anything other than the food), consume fake substitutions for food, eat it alone in our cars or some gray cubicle, and generally take it for granted. But food is the stuff of life, man! You are not only what you eat, you are how you eat!

Look at the Mediterranean peoples: They have low cancer rates, low obesity and obesity-related complications, long lives, and a tradition of forming life-long interpersonal relationships. They have a reputation for being friendly, loud, happy, passionate, and generous. How can you not be if you eat communally and dance on table tops to live music? These people live to eat, whereas in the United States we tend to eat to live.

I am feeling such a deep connection to my belly right now, and it is completely invigorating. So invigorating that I need to nap before I get ready to go to the club. I am not writing this blog as some kind of shameless plug for a restaurant that doesn’t even know I exist (although one of the waiters came to me and asked in broken English if I was Devon Hunter – how funny!). I’m writing this blog, because I was reminded that a passionate life is a beautiul one. I sincerely hope that you are doing what makes you happy in this life, and that you are sharing that wealth with as many people as possible. Life is a miracle - EAT!

The question has come up (not worded exactly this way, but pretty close), “How did you maintain a balance between staying small and getting bigger?” In other words, how do anorexia and Dysmorphia co-exist? Well, to be frank, they don’t balance, and they don’t co-exist. It’s like being pulled apart – I would actually feel that kind of shearing force in my brain. It was horrible, and looking back I don’t know why I held onto that turmoil so long.

Ups and Downs

Constant fretting was a part of my life because of these two situations both vying for my attention. I desparately wanted to put on lean muscle, but every time I inched up even two-tenths of a pound on my digital scale, I would figure out which meals I could skip “to make up for it.” It doesn’t make any sense. I knew it didn’t, even when I was in the middle of that terrible dichotomy. I wanted the look of muscle without the numerical “score” of my weight going up (I suppose it’s a game, like Hearts, where the fewer points you have, the better?). At any rate, it was a dizzying, confusing, and frustrating teetering act.

And it had other repercussions, other than my body composition. I am already prone to mood swings; however, when you do not eat properly your body systems get out of kilter. All of them. Including your hormones. One hormone in particular, serotonin, is in your gut. This hormone affects mood. If you do not eat properly this hormone gets out of balance, and then your moods get out of balance too. So, my eating disorder also escalated my emotional stress. I’ve been blessed to never have had any major injuries – I can presume only that taking vitamins protected me from difficiency disorders, because my teeth, bones, hair, skin, connective tissues, and all other systems seem fine to this day. If I’d not been at least taking vitamins, I could very well be falling apart already. That happened to my friend Cheryl. She was anorexic for 18 years, never took supplements, and now her teeth, bones, and joints are a wreck.

Janet Jackson + Chris Evans = hot mess

One day I was looking in the mirror for the 497th time that day, and a flash of insight caught me off guard: I was trying to blend two people, whom I looked nothing like, together into one body. Although it hurts my feelings a little when people remind me of this, I am not, in fact, a beautiful Black woman. Also, although I am a White man, I do not look anything like Chris Evans. I don’t understand exactly what amalgamation I was trying for, but recreating myself as a collage of these two was definitely not working well. I look back on this moment, and I realize that it was the instance where I almost pulled myself out of this vortex by myself. But something happened immediately afterwards that distracted me from this little thunder bolt of logic…

Stupid boy

I was with the only guy I had a long term relationship with during college. He was a pudgy little dude with crazy brown hair, and I thought he was absolutely marvelous. When he poked my belly and said, “Getting a little soft around the center, huh?” I took him seriously. It didn’t occur to me that he was being facetious. Over the next few weeks I dropped from 120 pounds to 110. I started passing out in dance class. It was scary. The pic of me that I just posted where I weighed 125 pounds is bad enough – at my worst I weighed 15 pounds less than in that picture. You could see my spine and hip bones. And I thought I was staggeringly beautiful (for a few moments each day between long bouts of self-loathing).

Whether it’s his “fault” for upsetting me, or my “fault” for being so sensitive, or no one’s “fault” at all, that “soft around the center” comment was the driving force behind my eating habits for the next eight years. The effect of the comment lasted years longer than the relationship with Shane.

Emotional instability and therapy

One of the long-term side effects of this “balance” between being small and getting big is that my moods shift very easily and quickly. I feed off the moods of others without realizing it, until after the change has already happened. Also, if I get hungry, I get mean. If I’m ever randomly rude to you just say, “Bitch, do you need a doughnut?” I probably do need to eat something, but a doughnut won’t be my first choice (although the humor will make me smile). My rages would get out of control particularly when I felt people were being mean to me without provocation.

I finally went to a therapist while I was at UCLA. I went because of an incident during my African drumming class. One of the other students (who never attended class, and didn’t know the rhythms) told me I was defiling the drums with my “White hands,” and proceded to push me away from the instrument while grabbing for the mallet in my hand. Well, I was already feeling angry about something else. She tipped me over the edge, and I vented all over her in front of about 100 drummers and dancers. It didn’t help that she was Black, and that everyone knew I was from South Carolina. It immediately became a race issue to them without me ever intending it. They didn’t know what I was already contending with, so on the outside, without any insight into me, I understand why they would assume that. It hurt my feelings they would jump to that conclusion, but it does make sense. I was forced to enter “anger management” classes.

I’m glad. It gave me the opportunity to finally address some of my demons. From that point forward I started improving. But it still took a few years after I completed that therapy to finally let go of my desire to have Janet’s waist and Chris’s chest.

“Better” days

Everything started improving consistently and quickly after I left my last boyfriend in October, 2006. You want to know what finally forced me to let go of alot of my obsessive compulsions? Exhaustion. Pure and simple. I’d been working seven part time jobs to support myself and Scott. When I found out he’d cheated on me with about 30 people while I was out working day and night, and that he was opening credit cards in my name (as well as hiding the bills, maxing them out, and then not making payments), I finally had to work so much that there simply wasn’t time to worry about what I looked like. It didn’t matter if I made the bed or washed the dishes. It didn’t matter if my books were alphabetized by subject/author/title. Suddenly avoiding bankruptcy mattered a whole lot more.

During the months after I left Scott I simply got out of the habit of worrying about my appearance so much. I had a whole new catastrophe to work on (and on a dark level the martyr in me loved the torture). Nearing two-and-a-half years later, I’ve become completely financially independent again, with my credit score being even better than before Scott’s interference. And ironically my eating disorder gave way to fiscal survival. It seems that all I needed was a crisis severe enough to completely distract me from calories.

So, the eating disorder is gone. Done. Good riddance. There are still some traces of the Dysmorphia, in that I can’t see how I’m shaped when I look at myself in a mirror. I see only a flat shape with muddled undulations on the surface. Only in pictures, which are removed from the same space-time as my viewing of myself, can I see me. I need the removal of “now.” By looking back a few moments into the past at how I looked then, I see my curves and proporations. But even then I still don’t trust that 10 seconds later the same holds true. This is getting better as I (slowly) mature.

I look forward to the day, not when my see-saw is balanced, but when I decide I’m no longer interested in the ride.