The online diary of a gay courtesan.

This week I’m in Washington, D.C. helping with various Pride activities to which I committed myself. Last night was an event I’d not originally planned on being part of, but I’m really excited I got to be here nonetheless. Last night Dr. Terry, the man behind the FUK!T campaign, hosted a fundraiser here at The Artists’ Inn Residence for an organization that is planning to open a permenant museum for LGBTQ history that will be opening in the capital soon. The guest of honor was Frank Kameny, one of the single most important figures in the Gay Rights movement of the United States.

Dr. Frank Kameny is one of those people about whom not enough is said, especially by younger LGBTQ people who (through little fault of their own) know almost nothing about their community’s history. Kameny is one of the first, if not THE first, full time Gay Liberation activists. He holds a doctorate in astronomy from Harvard, and was fired in the 1950′s from his federal job for being homosexual. Kameny immediately began writing letters and protested his dismissal to the Supreme Court. He began picketing and protesting in front of the White House and Pentagon years prior to the Stonewall Riots of 1969 in New York City. When you see 1960′s era black and white footage of people marching on the sidewalks in D.C. in support of LGBTQ rights, that is film of Kameny and his friends/allies.

And I got to meet him! IN PERSON! OMG! It’s the equivalent of meeting Rosa Parks or Martin Luther King, Jr. It’s like meeting Susan B. Anthony or César Chávez. This is a big deal! I can’t believe it… I was punch crazy all night – I’d not been drinking, but I was excited, giggly, energetic… And then I realized something: This is what Pride feels like. HAPPY PRIDE!

Hello everyone! It’s absolutely gorgeous today in Washington, D.C.!! I love Dupont Circle on a pretty day (yes, I love the Fruit Loop). I hope this finds you well. Below is the link I promised for the story I wrote for Matt Comer’s blog at www.InterstateQ.com. The essay I wrote is part 5 of 5, but when you go to Matt’s page you will find the links for the first four installments at the bottom of the page.

Happy Memorial Day weekend!

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.

Neither. I don’t care for the terms. If I use them at all, it’s only so that I don’t have to always explain myself. I also don’t care for masculine/feminine, active/passive, and man-in-the-relationship/woman-in-the-relationship. Although the terms are somewhat clinical, they are also accurate and devoid of implicit value judgements: I prefer the terms insertive and receptive.

Top/Bottom are highly problematic terms for me. The outright judgement contained within them make me a tad angry. Plus they’re completely inaccurate, at least in any instance where the people in question have enough creativity to move beyond the missionary position. Also, exactly how much does it flatten a person to one dimension when you ask “Are you a top or a bottom?” as if the response to this should carry all sorts of extended implications about relationship role, identity, mannerisms, and interests. (“I’m a bottom, but I play sports!” Mhm… fuck you for apologizing.) Because they are black/white terms, the gray areas have to be covered by the laughable term “versatile” (as in a tool? Is that what you mean?), so that further distinctions can be made (and I find it’s the “bottom” men who generally feel obligated to reaffirm their masculinity with this word “versatile,” in order to not be “demeaned” for being primarily “bottom” in the first place).

Masculine/Feminine is so frought with problems that I’m not even going to begin to dissect them as terms. Many scholars have already done this ad nauseum for the last 40 years or more. Go ask Judith Butler her thoughts on the construction of gender.

Active/Passive are just as annoying to me as top/bottom. Give me a damn break. The only people who could possibly think this is an accurate description of sexual roles are the people who’ve never experienced both. If you actually believe that the “bottom”/”woman-in-the-relationship” isn’t completely engaged by the sex act, then you’re either insensitive, ignorant, or stupid. Again, man/woman-in-the-relationship carries far too many ridiculous assumptions to be terms I can use.

The insertive partner, whether biologically male or female, is exactly that: The person who is inserting. The receptive partner, whether biologically male or female, is exactly that: The person who is receiving. (How much of a brain fuck does it become when I mention seeing a picture yesterday of two men fisting each other simultaneously? Who’s the “top/bottom” in THAT scenario? Hm? God I love gender theory!) Neither role is given more power with these terms. I don’t think I need to address in much detail the preference generally afforded to the insertive partner; however, I would like to take some time with the receptive role and its inherent power.

To receive, to hold, to welcome, to envelop, to surround, to cradle, to embrace, to squeeze… These are not passive actions. These are active actions. And I would argue that it takes far more strength of character, psyche, and even physical strength to endure being entered than inserting, entering, introducing, poking, stabbing, or pummeling do. Taking it out of the gay world for a minute: If a woman’s womb can bear a child, exactly WHAT does a man’s penis do that is anywhere in the same realm of strength, endurance, care, or investment? Men fall out from a kidney stone. Hell, men fall out from colds… I know I do. I’m a total wimp.

I must sound like an angry power bottom fairy guerilla homo commie pinko bastard. I’m not. Another reason I have difficulty with the top/bottom question is because it depends so much on my mood and where I am in my life. When I was a neonate, yes I was 100% receptive. My sexuality evolved and for several years I was split even 50-50. For a year or so I was 100% insertive. Right now I would have to say I’m somewhere between 75-25 and 67-33 leaning insertive. That will continue to change and evolve.

Ultimately I don’t see the point of being a gay man and not enjoying both roles. We are, sexually speaking, in a position (excuse the pun) to be the only people on the planet to truly know the joy of both. Women can be empowered by and enjoy various types of insertive activity, but they’ll never have a penis. Straight men who are afraid of their assholes will never enjoy fully what their bodies are capable of. It’s amazing for us homos to have that one advantage over everyone else. It makes me sad that so many people in our community cling so tenaciously to heteronormative sex roles. I personally think any gay man who is a total top or a total bottom is a total drag, because he isn’t open to experiencing the real joy that is a gay man’s sexuality, and he is often invested too much in a series of value systems that are incompatible with his sexuality (whether he realizes it or not).

Remember this: You may be penetrating me, but I am enveloping you. And I would want it to be a true vice versa. I do not in any way enjoy the idea of being the insertive partner, and feeling as if the person with me thinks himself bottom/passive… I don’t want to enter him unless he wants to welcome me. I want him there with me and engaged.

So… I guess ultimately what this means is that I don’t fuck. I meld.

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.