Devon Hunter

“From ghosties and ghoulies and long-leggedy beasties and things that go bump in the night, Good Lord deliver us.”

We all have our demons. I am definitely not an exception. I still have a particular monster under my bed. (I would say I have a skeleton in my closet, but the door is wide open, and nearly all those have come clattering out onto the floor.) But to stretch this extended metaphor to its breaking point, I will say that I am still haunted.

I have been eating irregularly again.

I thought I’d completely contended with the anorexic tendencies, but they are back. And it helps to talk about it, to examine it, and to get it out of my head. It’s like clearing the cobwebs out of a spooky house. I am eating as I type this, in a bid to reverse the habit that has been coalescing since Sean Cody published my legal name. Over the last several weeks I found myself falling into a familiar thought process: “Oh, it’s too much trouble to eat. I’ll just put it off. What I’m doing at this moment is far more important (plus I’ll look better, too).” That last part is what betrays the underlying problem. The rest of that notion is fairly typical to American workers… but the last part… I have to break this cycle NOW. I have accidentally initiated a process of feast and famine, and it’s wrecking my mood and wellness.

Looking at what might have triggered this, I have to say it’s pretty obvious: My stress levels went up dramatically just before my birthday, and have never really diminished completely. At the exact same time that everything was happening with the gay porn blogosphere in June and July 2010, both Gramma and Dad went into the hospital on my birthday. Dad has recovered, but Gramma has not, and it’s wearing Mom out (who is getting almost no help from her brothers, which is pissing me off more and more). While I was trying to take a break and retreat from everything for a couple weeks, I ended up having to contend with various types of emotional traumas simultaneously, and my response was to stop eating properly (to say nothing of my drinking water and sleeping enough). All of it together has thrown me into a bit of a tailspin, and my sense of happiness and optimism have definitely taken a hard knock. In addition to these factors, the trolls guarding the G4P bridges on the intrawebzes got in some painful licks: It was extremely jarring to have so much homophobia lumped on me by my own people. I admit it: That hurt.

It’s an odd addiction, attention. When I was getting far too much of it, I just wanted it to go away; however, there’s some kind of reality-show-need to maintain it (despite the fact that I didn’t want it in the first place). I feel a little bit like a used car: I’ve been afraid of becoming an obsolete model after having been driven hard by too many reckless drivers. It isn’t that I care specifically about becoming a porn star, but I have been fretting over preventing the prediction of my detractors: I have been trying to stave off their desire for me to fail in my video endeavors. But it isn’t for these anonymous “people” to define my happiness or my success – I have given them a power that isn’t theirs.

And so, as you can see, doing porn is also contributing to this eating situation: I am constantly worrying that I look ridiculous next to my scene partners, that I look utterly disgusting next to their beauty. (But my agent told me that nearly everyone in porn suffers these same insecurities.) Part of the problem in maintaining a strenuous diet is trying to stay in tip top shape constantly, so that I can be ready at a moment’s notice if I get a call for a scene. I haven’t allowed myself enough down time to rest and enjoy food. It’s irritating, because they call when I’ve been enjoying desserts too much for two weeks, but when I am a good boy I don’t hear from them. I had a carb meltdown yesterday and ate half a box of Golden Grahams. Sigh. Watch them call me in three days once the puffiness sets in around my bellybutton…

It was my goal to do 10 scenes. I have already done 11 (nine of them this year, AFTER the bullshit with Sean Cody… so MNAH!), and I feel the need to dig my heels in and remind myself that I am an escort who has done some porn. I’m not a porn model who sometimes escorts. I did what I set out to do. There are now examples of me in a variety of scenarios. Worrying about whether or not I will get more scenes has become too much of a priority. I can check off the porn item on my Adult Entertainment To Do list.

I am going to put the focus back where it belongs: On being happy. And I was happy when I wasn’t worrying about proving something to a bunch of assholes I’ll never meet (thank the Goddess for small miracles). If I continue to do video work, great. And if not, okay. I will accept reasonable video offers for scenes that don’t diminish me as a person or cloud the clarity of my brand, so long as the dates don’t conflict with my travel plans; I will continue spending time with the people who enjoy my company; and I am going to calm this porn noise by reconnecting to a spiritual practice that I have recently neglected.

Besides, I have other concerns: A Greek Orthodox Monk is on his way over to my apartment to talk to me about the plot for a musical he wants to write. And he’s using my poetry to do it. I think that is far more interesting than whether or not I’m given the nod of approval from a group of rampant consumers who are impossible to please.

Speaking of rampant consumers: I’m hungry. I’m going to go eat some more. I’m making a conscious effort to exorcise this demon.

Okay, a little background about what’s going on lately. I’ve been pretty open about being an escort with just about everyone. I tend to treat it the way Madonna did when pictures of her came out in Penthouse way back in 1985. Her response was something on the order of, “Yeah. And?” It kinda killed that particular controversy.

I didn’t become an escort to shock people. In fact that has nothing to do with it at all. I embraced it knowing it would be controversial, but I didn’t make the choice for controversy’s sake. And it’s a good thing, too: No one I’ve met thus far has been particularly shocked. Not that I’m disappointed, but it’s rather surprising. Family, potential partners, friends, and readers all have the same response: “Okay, just be careful. I’m not gonna judge you.”

This is fabulous on the one hand, but it raises a question on the other: Have we, on some level at least, moved into the post-controversy era? Have so many people been exposed as adult video models and exotic dancers on American Idol that no one cares anymore? Did reality TV finally drive the first nail into the coffin of prudence/prurience? I certainly hope so.

As far as family goes: Mom knows. So does Gramma. My sister knows. I told Dad, and he took it as a compliment to himself that his son is a “stud” (even though I’m adopted, and it’s not his genes at work per se). I’ve not told Dad’s mother, because although she is probably a teensy bit more liberal than she pretends, she does still send me conservative political emails about what Rush Limbaugh “thinks,” so I just don’t wanna go there right now. I’ve not told my uncles, but I’m not close enough to most of them for it to matter, and Uncle Greg would probably just laugh and give me his rendition of the Celtic Warriors’ greeting (which is using the heel of the palm to rub quick circles in the center of the friend’s chest while grunting “AAAAAARGH!”).

My friends haven’t judged me negatively at all. Zero. Zilch. Nada. Not a single one is anything but supportive.

In terms of personal relationships with other men: I didn’t escort until after breaking it off with Steve last summer, so there was no one to tell until Matt back in December. He didn’t care about that. He has other issues, but my escorting isn’t one of them. “J” (someone I’ve talked to on and off for nearly four years, but never dated) decided to finally pursue me right in the middle of this Matt situation, and he isn’t offended (in fact, he asked if I thought he could use escorting to pay off his house). “A” is another guy who has shown interest, both in me and in escorting. Shawn, a model in D.C., is definitely not put off by it. In short, while I’m trying to heal from Matt there are people pursuing me who aren’t allowing my being a courtesan to dissuade them in the least. How fucking irritating! OMG!

To put all this into context, a reader in Canada named Doug shows my blog to his mother. Doug is about Mom’s age, if not a few years older. His mother is thus older than Gramma. She said to Doug that I am “possessed of the refined sensibilities that demand a well-appointed house.” Aside from being utterly charming in an Old World Colonial manner, her comment shows that even Canadians of a certain age don’t care about all this (but they have a vastly different sexual culture north of the U.S. border). She went on to say that I “should marry a doctor.” Doug is going to ask her advice for me on finding a well-appointed man. She is concerned about my safety in escorting, to which I replied, “I meet worse men dating than I ever have escorting.” Doug’s father has said, “When men say they love you, remember that they also love Ketchup.” Mhm. Perhaps I should stop threatening to move to Canada and just do it?

So, all in all, I’ve been expecting a big hullabaloo, but society at large has given me the Madonna treatment: Yeah. And?

I think I’m completed elated by this.

PS

Don’t forget to place your vote for Best Escort Blog for the 2010 Hookies by visiting my ad on Rentboy! The check boxes are at the bottom of the righthand sidebar.

I so wish my iPhone would allow me to transfer this voicemail onto my computer, so that I could share it with you… I have said many times in the past that my family knows what I do, but I’ve always mentioned it in reference to Mom and Gramma…

Well… lol hahahaha

When Dad calls me, it’s almost always a sing-song voicemail that he leaves for me. Today I woke up and got the following sung into my in-box:

“Oooo!  Oo, oo… yeah! Baby!

Shake that booty! We be callin’ you from Beautiful Booties, Inc.!

Is you shakin’ yo’ booty? It’s betta to shake than be shook! So… shake yo’ booty!

Is you makin’ yo’ money? Shake, shake… Shake yo’ booty!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOO-TAAAAAAAY!

This has been a Beautiful Booties, Inc. production…”

I thought I was going to throw up, I was laughing so hard. I am keeping this voicemail, on the chance that I can ever figure out how to put it here on the blog. Honestly, if Dad could sing it would have ruined the whole effect. But the fact that he exaggerrates his tone-deafness just makes it that much more priceless. I hope you had a good weekend… and remember it’s better to shake than be shook. LOL