Devon Hunter

I just got back from Secrets. I’m exhausted. The last month has been road trip after road trip, and I am going to try to take this coming weekend off completely. I have so much blogging to catch up on, and I want to thank everyone who emailed me questions/topics. I fully intend to catch up with all of this in the coming days as I rest and recover.

But there is something grave I need to address first.

I have spoken already about the potentially abusive relationship that can exist between patrons and entertainers, especially when patrons become obsessive. This is stalking. I am not going to address this again here. This weekend I witnessed an entertainer who is being abused by another entertainer. They are boyfriends. The problem with abusive boyfriends is that they can be so beguiling and charming at first…

Having survived abuse, I already know most of the excuses, apologies, and lies that abused people use to defend the people who hurt them. When you encounter someone who is being victimized by his/her partner, it is difficult to know how much to intrude. I personally wouldn’t want to accidentally escalate a situation (which as bad as it might be in front of others could become much worse in private); however, I also cannot turn a blind eye.

Adult entertainment attracts all types of people. Some of them are unsavory and/or dysfuntional. These people may be club owners, booking agents, film directors, patrons… or the entertainers themselves. Given the reputation lumped upon most entertainers in general, it goes without saying that there must be a reason for this: There are some horrible people who dance in clubs. Definitely not all, or even most, but entertainers need to pay attention to other entertainers.

I was very excited the last time I almost dated, because the person in question had worked as a go-go dancer, and didn’t judge me because of my work. It is common for adult entertainers to pair off with each other – we understand each other. And yet, that means that there is the potential for you as an entertainer to connect with one of those unsavory people I just mentioned, thinking that it will be a good match. But you must always pay attention.

I got pretty forceful with one of the dancers. I think I probably put him on the spot (in private) unexpectedly. He is, in my opinion, at the stage of the abusive relationship where he is not willing to accept that he is being abused. But when I consistently see his partner treat him like a servant, start physical brawls over nothing, insult him with names, degrade him by calling him female slurs, make forceful attempts to kick/punch/slap him, and discuss with other entertainers the best way to “be the man in the relationship” by limiting the person in question’s ability to function by cutting off access to the car, then my conscience forces me to act. If his abusive partner is going to make this public, where I have to see it, then it’s an invitation to become involved.

I told this beautiful, sweet-natured, warm, friendly man that when he was ready to accept that he needed to get away that he can call or email me. If he needs a few days to figure out how to get home to his family, and needs a safe place to get far away from the verbal and physical blows, he can use my home as a sanctuary. I cannot pretend to not know what is plain before my own eyes. Even though he is still at the point where he says, “Oh, he’s just aggressive. It’s the steroids. You can’t take him too seriously. He’s actually a really nice guy,” he will eventually (I hope) come to recognize the lie in this. How many times do you have to tell me someone isn’t a douche bag? Shouldn’t I be able to see that on my own?

If you are an entertainer, there are going to be times when you are very lonely. You will want to connect with someone. You might be tempted to look for love within the career. And that’s totally fine; however, make certain that you practice the same vetting process on the private side of the velvet rope as you do on the public side. Make certain that you pay attention, regardless of the career of the person you cling to. But, without trying to feed into a stereotype, recognize that the odds of picking a bad apple may be worse if you pick from this particular barrel.

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.

I’m in the midst of a crisis: I just realized that one of the singular events that not only helped me survive is also the single experience that inhibits me the most from growing. When a weight that helped build strength becomes a heavy burden, it is time to put it down and rest. That is easier said than done.

When I was about 10 years old I was still tiny. I was the same size all the way from 3rd grade until about 7th. I just didn’t have a growth spurt until 8th grade, which lasted me until about 11th. I didn’t change much from 12th grade through college and after graduation. Only very recently have I been able to gain muscle mass. In other words, I’ve always been small, especially compared to others my age. What is the point of all this, you ask?

My dad was fairly indiscriminate about using corporal punishment. It was random, sudden, violent, and terrifying. Generally he was extreme. After one incident, whereby I was bent forward in front of the jam of a door frame, I was struck so hard from behind that I fell forward and hit the back of my head against the edge of the frame. I was a tad disoriented, but instead of crying I got up and looked my dad in the face and said, “I will never be fat, and I will never have a mustache.” I walked away, his face stunned, feeling very powerful for standing up to him.

That act of defiance made me feel better able to deal with bullies throughout the rest of my life. Unfortunately, it also planted a seed that eventually sprouted into full-blown anorexia. It didn’t help that being a trained dancer comes with its additional weight-focused baggage, or that I had to look at myself in mirrors constantly for almost a decade. At any rate, whether I like it about myself or not, I have become, for lack of a better word, addicted to pursuing the almost unattainable standards of conventional beauty: Aspiring to it for myself, chasing after it in others, bowing before it despite the destructive personalities often attached to it…

So then, here it is: Most, if not nearly all, of my relationships have been with “hot” guys who are horrible both to me and for me. I was conversing with a friend last night. (No, I’m not abusing the term – he is a friend.) In the context of the conversation I had to look at a very ugly part of myself: I am willing to overlook all sorts of red flags, simply to have access to physical beauty and be accepted by those who have it. This has caused me no end of grief, my last relationship going so horribly awry that I’ve been single for two years as I try to regain my financial and emotional stability.

What does this say about me? I do not like this part of myself at all. It feeds a destructive cycle, whereby I give myself and others too much or too little value simply because of appearance. Am I not mature enought in mind, generous enough in spirit, and kind enough in heart to recognize how horrible that must make other people (and myself) feel?

I’m finally beginning to achieve my fitness goals, and rather than being content or pleased I feel confused and shallow. On the one hand my friend said to me that he is saddened by this attribute in me, that I focus so much on someone’s looks that I ignore his personality (or lack thereof). He didn’t mean for this to happen, but that only added to my embarrassment and revulsion at my own superficiality. On the other hand, an online acquaintance who is also an adult entertainer told me, “Let your fitness goals assist your spirit. Treat the looks as a happy side effect of nourishing the god in you.” I have to learn this, it’s not something I know how to do.

Stature has been so important to me. I had none and was the focus of life-threatening bullying. The people who had it seemed omnipotent. They were “beautiful,” god-like. I wanted that trength – it made the world safer, and made the bullies attractive, despite their meanness. My size made me invisible to the gay men who were “beautiful.” I was targeted by straights but invisible to gays. Not a good feeling.

Now I’m neither bullied nor invisible, but I feel no better. To be respected and desired because of the heavy objects I lift, rather than for the thoughts I think or smiles I share, has become a very empty reward. All that work and effort to achieve what exactly?

I put on a thong the first time just to see if I was as repulsive as I thought. In retrospect that was a catch-22: Failure would simply reinforce a negative self-imge, success would feed a destructive self-value system.

How many times have I hurt myself or others, consciously or unconsciously, because of this? How much of a hypocrite am I that I say I don’t like people being judged for how they look when that is exactly what has helped form my entire identity and is the means by which I make money? I do not regret or despise what I do for a living, because I love performing and I know that I do bring people who appreciate me some form of happiness; however, I have to also begin to understand how I can form a healthier relationship with appearances.

Everyone is precious (including me, dammit!). Everyone is a treasure to somebody. The time has come to collect more diamonds (which are beautifully faceted on the outside, but also luminous and brilliantly scintillating on the inside), rather than so many coins (which may or may not be shiny, but are flat and two-faced - one side of which is always hidden). Or does that analogy in and of itself still anchor me too much to surfaces?

This past weekend I was supposed to see Janet Jackson in concert; however, she was sick, so after driving to Greensboro, NC I immediately had to turn around and drive back to Charlotte. That sucked. Really bad. We’re having a gas shortage, so I’m out the gas, I’m out the concert, and I’m out the night of work. To make it worse my new roommate’s dog attacked me when I got home, and when I decided to leave and go dancing just for fun for the first time in a year I found that my car had been egged so hard that the paint on my car is completely chipped off in some places. SUCK!

Anyway, I decide that October 4, 2008 is the best candidate for a “I’m gonna get drunk” night that I’ve had in a very long time. I go to clubs for fun so rarely that I almost want to use the word never; however, that’s not true, but you get the point. I’d not had a night off at home and been in the mood to go to a club in a year or more. So, away I went to Charlotte’s newest gay dance club: The Garden and Gun Club. It’s actually very posh, and I loved the environment; however, I had some situations come up that reminded me why I avoid going to clubs when I’m not working…

1. Within 10 minutes of getting there I was recognized by people who used to see me dance at Chasers, waaaaaaay back in the day. I was then, after much coddling (and 3 buttery nipples – yet another indulgence that happens rarely) wrangled into giving 3 lap dances to some chics who were there for a bachelorette party.
2. I was approached by an ecstasy queen whom I’d blocked on Manhunt, because he kept harrassing me to date him, even when I’d told him in person at a club that I wasn’t interested.
3. Some other people came up to me and started groping me (the #1 reason why I do not go to clubs when I’m not working: Other people don’t understand the difference between me being there as an entertainer and me being there as a patron). They then told me that I’d lost all my muscle mass (a ridiculous comment to make, given the fact that I’ve gained 30 pounds of lean mass in the year or more since they’d seen me last), and started making comments about my build and assessing me as if I were a horse up for sale. It was like I wasn’t even standing there. I was being completely objectified. I understand very well that this is part and parcel with what I do for a living, but it still seemed completely insensitive and beyond inappropriate for them to talk about me like I couldn’t speak English. Now I’m curious:

Would these people have felt it was okay to speak about me in such completely dehumanizing terms if they saw me as a person and not a personality or a sexual commodity?