Devon Hunter

I absolutely LOVE Chicago! What a wonderful city - no wonder I have consistently heard such nice comments about it. The streets are clean, there is no litter to speak of, the lake is beautiful, the food is good, the shopping is excellent, the people are friendly, and I just went into the most tasteful art gallery I have ever seen. The artists there are just spectacular. If you get a chance, you really must visit Atlas Galleries at 535 N Michigan Avenue. (Click images to enlarge them.)

I was walking back from breakfast, and saw a gallery window above me on a bridge. Out of curiosity I went upstairs and landed smack dab in the middle of Magnificent Mile (and it is aptly named!). The sculptures and canvases on display were fantastic; however, between two columns my retinas were seared by the most intensely monocrhomatic red painting I’d ever seen. I was instantly enthralled and felt compelled to get a closer look.

The canvas was overwhelming in person. I started crying. I know: That’s gay… but I’m an artist, and I get very emotional when I am in the presence of brilliance. The paint had been applied very thickly in lush layers of comingling reds, crimsons, and burgundies, accented with razor thin lemony yellow crests on the frozen waves of sanguine oils. It looked to be slathered on like icing on a cake. And this is what is even more impressive: It was a still life. “Just” some flowers. How many fucking times can someone do flowers??? But this artist managed to breathe life and movement into her flowers - I looked around and she had done LOTS of landscapes and flowers, and ALL of them looked to be moving, breathing, and glowing in the light of whatever seasonal sun was captured.

JalinePol W creates masterworks. The textures and colors are vibrant, and it’s impressive that she can create so much depth with such gross swipes of a trowel… But this is where it gets even better: She has perfected a technique of blending colors on her knife so that they bleed into each other without completely mixing. This creates a gradient effect that lets one color exhale into the next. I can only guess that she uses different thicknesses of paints to allow some colors to rest on top of others in order to create the various transparent dissolves that make her flowers look (despite the heavy coats of thick paint) to seem light, airy, and translucent.

She is a genius! I would cover the walls of my home in her work. You really MUST find her pieces. They are mesmerizing in the way they convey tranquility and desparate “aliveness” at the same moment. You could bite into her succulent canvases, and they would erupt or spurt with creative juices. Just marvelous. Stunning. My iPhone cannot possibly do them justice.

Perhaps this isn’t the case where you live? But I’m working throughout Georgia, North Carolina, and South Carolina. I can speak only from my own experience…

I know several gorgeous dancers of color. Some are Latino, one is Asian, and the remaining are African American. Most of the Latinos do very well, and so does the Asian. I frequently hear complaints from those who are Black, or some mix thereof. I cannot speak for them or from their perspective, but what I can do is voice frustration for them. (If you are a Black dancer, or if you know one, please consider writing a blog entry for the site on this subject.)

Before I continue, let me say this: If you are one of my beautiful Black brothers in the art, you should consider very carefully the venues you choose. I know career dancers who are Black, and who do very well; however, until we as a culture mature enough to see beauty as it is, you are likely to run into a passive form of racism at predominantly White clubs (”I’m not racist. I’m just not attracted to Black guys.” Ergo, I won’t tip them.). It’s impossible to force people to budge on preference, so you’ll need a strategy in mind for placing yourself amongst people who will appreciate you. As a person of color I’m sure it is frustrating to be fetishized, but as a dancer/business man you have to perform where you can make the most money.

I’m trying to make an ugly truth known to a wider base of patrons. I go into this entry knowing that it is a minefield, especially since I’m from the South. But I am not trying to discourage anyone, and I am not trying to offend anyone (likely, that will happen whether I try or not). What I do want to do is bring attention to the fact that most Black dancers work hard. The sad truth is that it’s because they have to. I’ve seen it first hand far too much - the White dancers who just stand there like (poorly rendered and often arrogant) sculptures and get money literally thrown at them, while the Black dancers putting on a fucking show come off with a tiny fraction of the same… It’s not right.

I am not going to tell people whom they should fantasize about, nor am I going to lecture people about racism. Both tirades would be ridiculous at best. What I can do is remind patrons that everyone has bills to pay, and that everyone is hurt by rejection/invisibility/marginalization. Yes, you as a patron are there to exercise your right to dawdle over the dancers you like. But please consider the entertainment value of what you are seeing. Regardless of which dancers make you hot, are there any that simply command respect just because their skills are amazing? Would it kill you to tip a brotha for being off the chain?

One of the frustrations in this career is that what you make isn’t necessarily connected to how much you work out, whether or not you’re nice, and being a good performer. You are at the mercy of Whim. Whim is the god of moodswings. We aren’t rewarded or compensated on a regular, consistent basis for anything other than the benefiscence of Whim. Speaking as someone who has had bad nights and knows how frustrating they can be, please consider interacting not just with the dancers who make you think “Mmmm!,” but also with those who make you think “Ahhh!”

I went to a very large party today for the first time in I don’t know how long. There must have been almost 100 gay men there, nearly all of whom were upstanding professionals in their 40’s - 60’s. Essentially it looked like I was walking into a gay bar frequented by older gentlemen, and that the club just happened to be at someone’s house.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. As soon as I saw how busy it was I started to feel panicky. I’ve gotten so used to relating to people in a flirtatious or sexualized and nearly anonymous manner at the clubs where I work that I was nervous about seeing people in the daylight with all my clothes on. I don’t think I realized how much I’d disconnected from daytime living. The first place I went was to the kitchen for a glass of wine (which is odd, since I rarely drink).

I went there with a delightful friend, Dave Haywards of Touching Up Our Roots, Inc.: Georgia’s LGBT History Project, who is interested in helping me with finding performance opportunities for my artistic projects. We both agreed we’d leave out the exotic dancer part, since the wealthy gay guys at this party would be likely to discount me as an artist if they knew about it. Yeah, well, we thought that would work.

It didn’t take a full 30 minutes to remember why I avoid these types of scenarios anymore. Someone came up and interrupted my conversation with a guest, making it known that he recognized me from Swinging Richards. I then watched him go around the room whispering this to everyone, and saw each individual pair of eyes cut across to me in scandalized glee.

Great.

Well, I’m not ashamed, so I didn’t avoid the conversations that followed. However, there was a distinct and sudden change in the way I was being treated. For the first few minutes I was simply mingling shyly and having light conversation. A few men had begun flirting with me (as gay men normally do with each other), and I was engaging in some intelligent discussions for a brief time.

Gradually, I was becoming the focus of everyone’s attention. I drank my second glass of wine too fast and had to sit down. Within a few moments I was blocked into a corner by a wall of crotches and people were feeling on my head, hair, shoulders, and arms. I started to get nervous actually. I was buzzed, didn’t know a single person there (except Dave, who was mingling elsewhere), didn’t know really where I even was (since I don’t live in Atlanta), and have a couple stories in my past that I’ve not shared yet concerning sexual assault. No one wanted to talk to me anymore, they wanted only to hurl their fantasies at me from every direction at once. A few proceded to tell me how far they could stick various objects inside themselves or other people. One went into great detail about how he knew how to fist someone deep enough to cradle a person’s heart in his hand and feel it beating. (It brings tears to my eyes and bit of a gag reflex in my thoat just thinking about the relish with which he describes this - it’s fine if you’re into fisting, but I’m very squeamish about some stuff).

I’m sorry, I don’t normally vent or curse here, but this is fucking ridiculous. I went there to talk about art, which was going just fine at first, but then I was suddenly transformed from a person into a rubber doll. I don’t tolerate this well at all, so I have to say that I’m proud of how diplomatically I diverted all this. I’m not sure anyone even knew I was offended, let alone a tad scared. As it became clear that I wasn’t going to perform any freakish circus acts on the spot, some lost interest and wandered away. From there I was able to manage and redirect the remaining conversations before excusing myself.

The kicker is that only at the end did I finally get to speak with the person whom I was brought there to meet. He was very excited about my projects. Just as I opened the door to leave he blurted out, “I’m so glad you’re a real dancer. Now I can have some respect for you.”

Well, fuck you too…

This party brought to roaring life all the many reasons I write this blog. When you interact with adult entertainers outside of where we work, please try to avoid reducing us to a pile of mechanized anatomical parts. I know it might be hard to believe, but we really do have feelings… Promise… Not making it up.

Dear Devon,

You are a genius.  Your life and you living it as reflected in your blog is ART.  Thank you so much for sharing this art with the world, even though I am not, perhaps, your target audience.

Sincerely,
Jennifer* 

*Explorer of the Farthest Reaches of The Internet, Lover of Men, Maleness, and Man-love in all its permutations.

Dear Jennifer,

I am sitting here stunned at your email. This is one of the kindest notes anyone has ever sent me from the blog. If you are not my “target audience,” it is only because you already recognize that everyone has a story, it isn’t because you’re female. All are welcome.

Go forward with love in your new year.

xo
Devon

 
It really isn’t enough for me to say this to Jennifer. It is (to me, anyway) my responsibility to more clearly identify my “target audience,” which is much wider than I’d originally thought: Women, who make up the greatest portion of adult entertainment, are definitely welcome here (and so are other women who aren’t in “the biz”).

Currently there is a tab at the top of this page that says “About.” I think that I will be updating that to “Mission” and using it as a space to more precisely define what it is I hope to accomplish through this blog. I invite you, my fabulous readers of all backgounds, to visit that page once the change has been made from “About” to “Mission.” I am also changing “Dancers” to “Directory.” If you would like to consider being featured on this site as a professional adult entertainer, or if you would like to submit posts, please visit the Directory.

I want to take a moment to make another distinction between entertainers and strippers. I know that dancers often have the reputation for using people. On the one hand I would say, “Yes, there are dancers who hustle a hard game.” However, it takes two to tango, so it could also be said that you get what you pay for.

My point is this: Whereas a gold diggin’ strippa will pump you for all you’re worth, leave you with nothing, and probably laugh at you, an entertainer doesn’t need or want to do this. An entertainer is gracious about accepting gifts, knowing that it feels good both to give and receive. I enjoy getting gifts, tips, and compliments, and I also know that people enjoy giving them. I don’t feed expectations, and I don’t lead people on. In fact, there are specific patrons I avoid, because I know they are too invested emotionally, and I don’t want to hurt them.

I don’t want this post to come across as condescending, or for it to sound superior. “Aw, how sweet… you wanna give me a gift. Well, I’ll take it, since you’re pathetic, and I’m wonderful.” That is exactly not how I intend this post to feel. What I want to clarify is the stereotype that all dancers are out for nothing but cash. Yes, we have a job to do, and yes we have bills to pay. Yes, we need to get tipped. Yes, we would probably not be as accessible if it weren’t for the job.

However, it is not true that all dancers are out to sap you like a maple tree. An exotic dancer who treats his career as an art knows there is no need for this. He is content knowing there is enough syrup in the forest to be content with a drop, rather than engorging himself on a geiser. Whereas a stripper is an aphid, meticulously sucking a plant dry, an entertainer is more like a butterfly, gently kissing the flower before moving on.