The online diary of a gay courtesan.

I am fucking fabulous!

People can say whatever else they want about me, but one trait should outshine all of them: I am resilient. I don’t understand how or why I attract the type of Mongolian cluster fucks that are magnetized to my presence, but I have been given the gift of survival. I find a way. Therein lies the balance, I suppose.

Because of complications with money that began when I went to Biltmore a few weeks ago for a vacation, rather than do the third Sean Cody movie when it was offered to me, I am under some extreme financial strain. In retrospect I should not have taken that particular weekend off with that particular person. The trip has definitely not proven to be worth the loss of thousands of dollars. The views of nature were pretty, and I had a good time, but now I find myself wishing I’d just gone to San Diego when they asked me to. The positive: I have remembered why it’s important to look out for practical needs before fantasies. I’m not bitter. Sour perhaps, but not bitter. I’ll be sweet again in time. (Please remember honesty and communication in your interactions with others.)

Also, this weekend we’d booked 14 models for a project to have only three show up. Some fast proactive thinking on my part saved the photoshoots, but the stress wasn’t needed. But this too ends happily: We got pictures of eight models, and the diversity is very nice.

Oh, I have made a decision: I will never dance at Secrets again. I will keep going to D.C., but not to be at that club. I have peeps in the capital city, but Secrets will never exploit me again. So, there’s another happy conclusion.

However, one issue that has come up in addition to the rest: My car won’t start. I got back from an intensely overwhelming trip to D.C. to find that the battery in my car had died completely while I was gone for four days. When we pulled it out it was obvious that it was the original manufacturer’s part: My battery was eleven year old! Impressive, but going dead when I needed to get to Atlanta was extremely unhelpful. It was 8:45 on a Sunday night. I was lucky to find an Adanced Auto that was open until 11:00 pm. Replacing the battery caused an arc of electricity, and the fuses blew. They couldn’t be taken out without special tools. It was 10 o’clock at night, a thunderstorm was blowing in, we’re replacing parts to my car in the dark, and I need to get to Atlanta by 1:00 in the morning. Not happening… At least not with my car…

But this is where the deal gets sealed: I know I am fucking fabulous, because of the people who surround me. I know some total angels. If I weren’t amazing I wouldn’t be loved by amazing people. “Show me a man’s friends, and I’ll tell you his character.” Mhm. I must be pretty fucking fabulous, since the people I know are absolutely incredible.

My family and friends encourage me and help me. My roommate, her boyfriend, and my nextdoor neighbor are going to get my car running while I’m gone (or at least try to). My roommate took me to Amtrak at 1:00 am, so I could take a train to Atlanta. I’m travelling in Florida with two guys who are wonderful people. My collaborators at home and in D.C. inspire me with their generosity and faith in me. What else is there to say? How could I ever doubt that I am loved? The proof is in the pudding:

I. Am. Fucking. Fabulous.

Hi again, Devon – just read your post ‘…in the end’. What a testament to vulnerablility and strength! In fact, just from reading your thoughts in this short time that I’ve discovered them, I am struck with the idea that your vulnerability is your strength! As difficult as I think it must be, you are able to experience that one moment of float, of balanced well-being, long enough and often enough to experience the vulnerary effect that brings healing and a renewed sense of purpose. I hope to enjoy your insights for a long time to come and to learn to be willing to exert the effort that brings that moment of float into my experience, even if only once in awhile…always hoping to go from good to better. All the best to one of the best!

Dear Tom,

You have no idea how much I needed to be reminded of that post. The last few weeks have been pretty rough. Honestly, they’ve sucked ass. Badly. With sandpaper. But I couldn’t remember which post you were replying to, so I went back and reread “…in the end” – and I made myself cry a little. Being a sextuple Cancer ain’t easy.

Life is full of rhythms, and those cycles, by their definition, have high and low points. May and June I was definitely cresting. July… well… not so much. It feels like a nadir, if I’ve ever had one. However, I wanted to thank you for reminding me that I already knew that everything will be okay in the long run.

Yesterday I said to Keith Bailey, the photographer with whom I’m collaborating on a new project, that I feel like I have never in my life been in the right place at the right time. What total nonsense. That statement leapt out of my head and mouth because of tension about money. Take money out of the equation and there is a very simple truth: I have always been exactly where I needed to be, exactly when I needed to be there. Over the last few weeks I’ve been wanting to throw my hands up in resignation about almost every single aspect of the various situations that blend together to make “my life.” But that’s not really a mature option, now is it?

Thanks again Tom – you brought me back to center. I feel a little better. I think. (Surrender is difficult – it is an act of humility, and humiliation is painful at times.)

My friend David, who often manages the door at Swinging Richards, made a comment this evening that made me pause for a moment. He’s attracted to one of the dancers on a romantic level, but said, “Rule #1: Don’t date strippers.”

“Why do you think I’ve been single so long? You say you shouldn’t date a stripper, but I don’t think strippers (in general) should date anyone. But why do you feel that?”

“Aside from the the obvious, I think dancers forget the value of a real relationship.”

“You think we don’t know how to accept anything from people anymore, not even compliments.”

“Exactly.”

And he has a valid point. I was at a birthday party last weekend, and I was being inundated with compliments from strangers. I wasn’t at work. I had literally just gotten off the plane from San Diego less than an hour prior. I was tired. I wasn’t thinking about being on my best behavior. And so I often just half-smiled and nodded as an overly-relaxed gesture of thanks.

One guy snapped me out of my stupor: “You’re an asshole.”

“What?!”

“I just paid you some major compliments, and all you can do is nod your head and look at me with pity?”

Wow. I’d not realized I was coming across that way. It definitely wasn’t intentional. Between that experience and David’s comments, I am realizing that there is a catch-22 going on here. Without compliments I have no external basis for feedback. But compliments individually are becoming more like white noise, especially the ones that seem like empty flattery. Sincere compliments I am still able to absorb some, but as awkward as it might sound, I’d really like it if people would talk TO me instead of AT me.

Some people, who will pointedly refuse to empathize with this “problem,” will say, “You get compliments at all. Stop complaining. There are people who get too few or none.” Yes. This is true, except I’m not complaining or bemoaning. I’m simply recognizing a side effect of this career (and I think all jobs jade us in ways particular to themselves): I have been suckled on compliments/flattery for so long that most of them fall flat. If a stranger forgoes introducing himself, jumps right to flirtation and flattery, and drops compliments overly easily… well… I’ve (without intending it) started giving them the priority I would give anyone at work who wants to talk but doesn’t commit to getting a dance/VIP: I smile, nod, and move quickly to other thoughts.

As much as I have enjoyed adult entertainment, it really can manifest some fucked up psychology.

Mary Renault is, along with Isabel Vandervelde, my favorite writer of historical fiction. Renault wrote her books based in Ancient/Classical Greece during the 1950′s, so although her work is already amazing enough for its literary value, it becomes even more impressive because of how she treated Pederasty and Pedagogy (the training of young men by older men to be honorable citizens). It was an important matter, and a father wanted a good friend (erastes) for his son (eromenos) as much as he wanted a good suitor for his daughter.

At any rate, I bring this up, because I reread “The Last of the Wine” every year or two. During my flight out to San Diego and back I had alot of time. I read the book again, getting ever more from it than I did before (but that is almost always the case with art: there are layers upon layers to sift). The nuances that I was too young or too inexperienced to understand before become clearer, and I fell in love with the characters all over again. The portion that I want to discuss focuses on the dialogue between Alexias (the main character and narrator) and Sokrates (yes, THE Sokrates): What is the price of finding and keeping a true and honourable lover?

I spoke in anger, for my heart was sore. The truth is that I was getting to an age when one wishes for love, and has one’s own ideas of what it ought to be; and I was ceasing to believe that what I sought was anywhere to be found.

“By the way,” Sokrates said, “what do you dislike so much about Polymedes? He looks undistinguished, of course, compared with a man like Charmides, and his father made his money in leather. Is it his vulgarity, or what?”

“No, Sokrates. That too I daresay; but in himself he is base. He tried first to buy me with gifts; not flowers or a hare, but the kind of thing we can’t afford at home. Then he sent word that he was dying, to make me take him out of pity; and now, what is surely as low as a man can go, he is willing I should do it simply to keep him quiet. If I were to lose my father and mother and all I have, if I were disgraced even before the City so that people turned from me in the street, he would be glad of it, if it put me within his reach. And this he calls love.” I had spoken too vehemently, but Sokrates still looked at me kindly; so coming at last to what had been behind the rest, I said, “I shall always think worse of myself for having been his choice.”

He shook his head. “You are wrong, my boy, if you think he is seeking a kindred spirit. He is looking for what he lacks, being limp of soul, and not wishing to know that the good must first be wrought with toil out of a man’s own self, like the statue from the block. So now I think you need the advice of someone who understands these questions.”

I was about to say, “Whose, Sokrates?” when a great noise of hammering reminded us that we were approaching the Street of the Armourers. Since the news from Sicily, they were busy again. We turned aside, to be heard without shouting. “I suppose,” Sokrates said, “you will be ordering armour for yourself before another year is up, so fast time flies. Where will you go for it?”

“To Pistias, if I can afford his price. He’s very dear; nine or ten minas for a horseman’s suit.”

“So much? I suppose you will get a gold device on the breastbone for that?”

“From Pistias? Not if you gave him twelve; he won’t touch them.”

“Kephalos would make you something to catch the eye.”

“Well, but Sokrates, I might need to fight in it.” He laughed, and paused.

“I see,” he said, “that you are a judge of value, though so young. Perhaps you can tell me, then, who am getting too old to know much of such matters, what price one ought to pay for a true and honourable lover?” I wondered what he could take me for, and answered at once that one ought to pay anything.

He looked at me searchingly, and nodded his head. “An answer worthy, Alexias, of your father’s son. Yet many things have their price which are not upon the market. Let us see if this is one of them. If we come into the company of such a lover, it seems to me that one of three things will happen. Either he will succeeed in making us his equal in honor; or, if he fails both to do this and to free himself from love, seeking to please us he will become less good than he was; or, if he is of stronger mind, remembering what is due to the gods and to his own soul, he will be master of himself, and go away. Or can you see some other conclusion than these?

“I don’t think, Sokrates,” I said, “that there can be another.”

“So, then, it now appears, does it not, that the price of an honourable lover is to be honourable ourselves, and that we shall neither get him nor keep him, if we offer anything less?”

“It seems so, certainly,” said I, thinking it kind of him to be at so much pains to keep my mind from my troubles.

“And thus,” he said, “we find that what we thought was to be had for love turns out the costliest of all. You are fortunate, Alexias; for I think it is still within your means. But see, we are walking past our destination.”

We had just passed the portico of the Archon King, and were outside Tuareas’ palaestra. Not wishing to trouble him with my company out of season, I asked if he was meeting a friend. “Yes, if I can find him. But don’t go, Alexias. I am only looking for him to put your case before him. He happens to be much better qualified than I to help you.”

I knew his modesty; but having resolved to deal with Polymedes at once, I did not feel eager to spend the rest of the morning being improved by Protagoras or some other venerable Sophist; so I assured Sokrates that he himself had done me as much good as anyone could, except a god. “Oh?” he said. “Yet I believe you don’t consider me infallible; I noticed just now that you thought more of Pistias’ opinion than mine.”

“Only about armour, Sokrates. Pistias is an armourer, after all.”

“Just so. Wait, then, while I fetch my friend. He is usually wrestling here about this time.”

“Wrestling?” I said staring; Protagoras was reckoned to be at least eighty years old. “Who is this friend, Sokrates? I thought…”

“Wait in the garden,” he said; and then just as he was turning to go, “We will try Lysis, son of Demokrates.”

I believe that I gasped aloud, as if he had emptied a water-jar over me…

This weekend I was at PT1109, and I guess it was time for my annual Spring nuclear meltdown. It’s my way of doing a thorough emotional Spring cleaning. I’m not proud of it, and I generally feel deep shame for about three-five days after it happens. I have had one every year in either April or May ever since I can remember. I’m normally very even-keeled (for a gay guy), but (over the course of a year) various tiny shreds of stress will pile up in a dry heap, and then someone will do or say something that causes a spark. And then… well…

I was going around the bartop, and I looked down to see three guys at the end of the circuit. I am familiar with the third person, having chatted with him numerous times. The other two (unbeknownst to me) were a couple. I thought one of these two was about to pull his penis out, since it looked like his button was unsnapped, looked like his hand was down the front of his pants, and it appeared he was pulling up, as if about to pull it right on out. This, of course, is against the rules. If I’d known then that this fairly innocuous situation was going to nosebomb out of control, I would have been curt in interrupting what I genuinely thought was about to be a “no no” moment and would have moved along.

However, in trying to keep from offending people, I made a game of it. “Oh! You’re tired of looking at mine, so now I finally get to see yours?” The guy with his hand in his pants just smiled, took his hand out, and made light of it. The man next to him, however, got his feathers ruffled up. I thought it’d be a nice gesture to flirt with him too, so as not to seem like a kill-joy.

“Hello, what’s your name?”

“I’m S____, and he’s my boyfriend.”

“I didn’t ask who he is, I asked who you are,” I said with a teasing tone. ”What’s your name again?”

“S____.”

“Nice to meet you, S____.” (Insert hand shake) “And what’s your name?”

“M____.”

“Nice to meet you M____.” (Insert hand shake)

This is the moment where everything spiraled out of control. It has been made known to me (48 hours later) that “M” has evidently voiced a flattering appraisal of my appearance in the past, and that “S” is upset at me because of this. It should also be mentioned that the other three dancers that night not only flirted with “S” and “M,” but that they also hugged and squeezed on the couple as well (in addition to the third person who was sitting next to them). I do not know “S,” and I’d seen “M” only in passing for about a year. I’d never seen the two together that I can recall, didn’t know that they were a couple, and didn’t know that I was the only dancer not allowed to “flirt” with “S”‘s man. After I shook “M”‘s hand I stood up to leave when “S” made a disgusted face and gave me a “you’re dismissed” flick of the wrist. His utter disdain was the spark that lit me up.

“Do not dismiss me. Ever.”

“I just did.”

“You’re not in a position to dismiss me.”

From there it descended into a shouting match in front of the entire crowd. We exchanged angry threats and abusive names. I was going to walk away, but then “S” started yelling at the bartender about me. So I went back over. “No! We can have this conversation with me right here, bitch!”

“You were hitting on my boyfriend!”

“YOU’RE IN A FUCKING STRIP CLUB!” I roared so loudly that I could be heard clearly over the music. I was shaking with rage, and it was all I could do to pull my finger out of ”S”‘s face. At that I stormed away.

It turns out that “S” is a friend of the owner of the bar. I really am completely non-plussed by this fact. There are other issues here that are more important: Aside from the various dysfunctions that have been accumulating in the background in this club, the couple in question were possibly already drunk when they came in, the bartenders gave them more alcohol (perhaps because they were scared to “cut off” friends of the owner?), and I got involved with them only because I thought ”M” was about to commit a major faux pas. I am not going to apologize to anyone for anything. The only mistake I feel I made was allowing the dismissal from someone I don’t even know to burn me so badly.

It seems that “S” is a person of some importance in the local gay community. That, too, is irrelevant in my mind. I don’t recall ever seeing him before in the two years that I’ve danced at PT1109, didn’t know he had a problem with me, didn’t know I wasn’t allowed to interact with the person who happens to be his boyfriend, and didn’t know that ”S” had any special privileges because of his connection to the owner. If people expect me to know this fucking bullshit, then they should let me in on these facts.

The bottom line is this: I don’t give a good goddamn if you’re Barack Obama himself. In the dark with a drink in your hand, if you’re crunk and hollaring in a bar, you’re just another inebriated asshole to me. I don’t care who you think you are - I am not the one to dismiss because you have the mistaken notion that I want anything but a dollar from your boyfriend.

In the meantime my pride is healing slowly. These yearly explosions embarrass me completely. They make me feel like I’m out of control of myself. And they make me feel stupid. I’m not sorry that I yelled at “S,” I’m sorry that someone of so little importance to me became far too important in such a short time. Although I am ashamed of the outburst, I don’t feel obliged to apologize for it. Maybe that seems complicated or ridiculous, but if anyone owes anyone anything, “S” owes me a dollar for shaking his hand without vomiting on him.