Devon Hunter

When I was a college professor one of the only writing assignments I gave to my Dance Appreciation classes was the following: Write a two-page paper explaining how your major is connected to dance, and also why taking my class was not a waste of your time. Something that I wanted to drive home to my students was that everything in this life is connected. Everything. I can show you dance, but only you can show appreciation for how it benefits or enhances your world. That was my students’ task, and the life lesson I wanted them to take from me: There is no such reality as “useless information.”

With that in mind I want to look briefly at one of the ways in which gay men dismiss and abuse one another.

Before I begin, let me say that a short list of the people I love most and who most deeply inspire me or command my respect (in no particular order) includes my mother and grandmother, Janet Jackson, my dance partners and classmates, Jen, various queer performance artists and activists, and my cat. There are SO MANY others, of course, but I have a point to make here: Most, if not nearly all, of these beings I mentioned are women. I grew up, came of age, and became a trained dancer/choreographer in an almost exclusively female world. I love girls. I am very comfortable with them. I admire them very much. And so it is rather foreign to me that calling me names that feminize me should be insulting. The terms themselves aren’t nearly as infuriating as the intent behind them.

When gay men use she/her terms to each other in a friendly, joking, or coy manner, it is arch. It’s camp. It’s fun and funny. It illustrates the bond many gay men enjoy with their own fluid senses of gender and identity. When people use those same terms in a pejorative manner, however, something else comes into play. It is far too common a presumption that all that is not masculine must therefore be feminine, and (by extrapolation) unpleasant, dirty, stupid, or weak.

When gay men “diminish” me by calling me a queen, bitch, pussy, or diva (and when they use these terms in some kind of aggressive or dismissive tone), what they are doing is reinforcing the notion that since women are “obviously” less than men; and since gay men are “obviously” not masculine (and therefore feminine, and thus less than); and since gay men (who “must” be non-masculine) are thus “obviously” less than straight men, BECAUSE of a perceived “femininity;” then it is alright to treat other gay men with disdain (or conversely, to “reduce” gay men who have angered them by first making the target of their anger female), despite having the very attributes that are “repellent.”

What I want to say is this: Calling me names that turn me into a woman do not offend me. At all. Making comments that I am a “bitchy diva” or a “pussy, flaming queen” do not function. Although the people who use these terms against me (or any other man, gay or otherwise) may have scored some kind of point in their own minds, they haven’t really affected me. I love women. I don’t want to have sex with them, but turning me into one of them as a form of attack is a wasted effort.

Ultimately, the idea that “no one is free until everyone is free” is what is at stake here. And it’s true, since everything is affected by everything else. There is only one reality, and you can find (if you look closely enough) the degrees of non-separation between any departure and any destination. Issues of social equality are interconnected between women and the LGBT community. There are also many overlapping issues concerning race, age, health, and wealth. People who are marginalized can’t afford to invest in the idea that they will be empowered at the expense of another minority (or, in the case of women, disempowered majority). If you do not respect women, it is impossible to respect other gay men. Think on that.

And then consider why it is a false assertion to say “porn doesn’t matter.”

This we know to be true: The Earth does not belong to man, man belongs to the Earth. This we know: All things are connected, like the blood that unites one family. All things are connected.” - Chief Joseph

Today I’m turning 24 again. This is becoming a habit. But it’s made possible by avoiding the sun, not smoking, not using soap on my face, exercise, lots of water, a relatively clean diet, and using a moisturizer with SPF 15 or higher. Oh, and by laughing at least 10 times a day about something that makes me happy.

In my belief system today is the most important day of my year: The Naming Day. I’m going to go celebrate me. And the goddess couldn’t have given me a more perfect day. The sun is out, the sky is a dark blue, a breeze is whispering across my cheeks, the day creatures are singing/scampering/frolicking, and I have amazing people and dreams in my life.

I was very sad for a few days after the shocking news about MJ’s untimely death. And it still hurts. I just watched Janet Jackson speaking at the BET awards, which was followed by a very moving preformance of “I’ll Be There” by Jamie Foxx. It reminded me of a couple points of Thanksgiving: I was inspired throughout my life by a beautiful soul who will hopefully be at peace; I am beginning a personal cycle of renewal and rejuvenation (which is gracious aging comingled with deepening wisdom); and I am looking forward to making progress on several goals.

Happy new year to you all. I can be egocentric today: It’s my birthday. Thanks for all you do. XO

Michael Jackson died today, and I am completely bereft. I have spent the last several hours crying until my eyes are sore and raw, and I don’t care if anyone thinks it ridiculous or silly. He is one of my heroes, and it has not been easy watching him die slowly for the last 15 years. I expected him to die early, because that type of furious fire always burns itself out quickly… but 50? I thought he’d puff out at 60.

I don’t believe any of the slander. I never did. I know that he was a kind, fragile, and beautiful person who, despite what must have been incredible tenacity, was not strong enough to support the weight of his own talent, legend, fame, and wealth. I do believe that he survived (what in time will be revealed to be) incredible abuse at the hands of his father and early producers at Motown. I also believe that if there is any truth whatsoever to the slander against him, that it is a thorny seed planted in him as a child, which then grew into a terrible flower. But I don’t believe any of the slander.

Michael invented and developed the vocabulary of pop music culture for the entire world from the 1970’s until now, with everything in pop music, dance, and video being either an imitation or variation of his invention, or a total rejection of it (which is still a response to it). His presence, even in a two dimensional reduction of the man himself, was captivating. He took all the influences of his youth, mixed them up with his own vision, and put out some of the most strikingly brilliant material the world has ever seen.

Michael was a philanthropist. He was a visionary. He was an artist.

And even though I never met him or knew him, I feel that I have lost one of my best friends. His soul was too big for one body. His genius was too intense for one mind. In building bridges across race, gender, and class, he destroyed the connection between himself and the external world. Like any number of other creative whirlwinds (en français on les appèlle”les monstres sacrés”), he spun out of control trying to find the calm at his own center. Michael Jackson, as a dancer and entertainer (along with Janet), is the reason I became an artist and scholar.

There is no one to replace him. I can’t believe that body is now still forever. I love you Michael. Good bye.

I am about to write this blog with the full knowledge that it could set off a series of conflicts later. I also want to preface what I’m about to say by admitting that I am in no way perfect in regards to safe sex. In fact, I’m not very good at being consistent with practicing it. I know the risks, I know the consequences, but (like a huge number of people) I have not completely embraced 100% safe sex (and I don’t believe other people when they say they have: I’ve hooked up with far too many people who claimed 100% and then fell short with me for me to buy into all their nonsense).

All of this stems from the following: 1) Most of the condoms I’ve tried have either desensitized me or hurt me (however, Pleasure Plus are almost awesome and Lifestyles SKYN are passable), 2) Condoms have been served to me (and the rest of the U.S.A.) with a hefty dose of guilt and fear, instead of eroticism and empathy, and 3) Gay + Artist + Middle Class + America = worthless (if I’m not rich, straight, and corporate then I don’t have any real value in this country anyway, right? Imagine the potential extra layers of burdensome self-loathing for people who are poor and/or non-White).

But I recognize that this is not good! I recognize that this needs an adjustment in behavior on my part. I own that I am making bad choices when I opt for natural, rather than safer, sex. I know I am valuable and deserve better, that I should be respecting my partners. I know this. It is one of the reasons I am so intent on helping with promoting the safer sex strategies Dr. Terry Gerace wants to implement on his website. It’s because I truly want to acclamate to taking better care of myself, my partners, and my community/world. I feel bad that I’m not there yet. But I definitely never advocate barebacking.

So, after acknowledging that I need to practice safe sex with better than 50% regularity, I am going to go out on a limb here and call Mason Wyler out as the single most irresponsible person I can think of in adult entertainment. I saw that he was wanting writers for his site/blog, and I submitted my name before I read his content. All I knew of him was that he is a bottom with a reputation for being a gutter slut. However, I’d not actually read his own words before…

Utterly irresponsible… It is bad enough that gay porn is reinforcing the notion for gay men that bareback sex is “better,” but the outright smut from Mason’s own pen breaks my heart a little for him. In his entry “I want Brock Armstrong” Mason Wyler writes that Armstrong is hot specifically because he does bareback sex videos. He then defends this outrageous statement by saying, “That’s right, I said it!” beaming with pride, as if he has liberated himself and his readers from the cold, dark abyss that is safe sex. BULLSHIT!

I’m sorry, but at what point do we start holding people accountable for the net they cast? Yes, everyone is free to make choices in their lives, but at what point does your personal life start affecting everyone else too? Thomas Jefferson said that one man’s rights end where the next man’s begin… okay… so… The porn industry works with people who, in their personal lives, make the choice to practice bareback sex. Fine. However, once the industry becomes saturated with this imagery/attitude, and once the public begins responding by imitating this behavior more and more (and then STD infections explode again), isn’t the industry responsible on some level? Yes, there is still a freedom of choice innate to the consumer, but underneath it all, wasn’t that free choice heavily weighted towards the self-destructive?

Tobacco companies are being held responsible for addicting people to their product and for the health consequences of the general public. Don’t be surprised when the same becomes true for restaurants that offer fat/salt/sugar-laden food. These foods are addictive. Don’t fool yourself - these chains train their customers to want only bad food, to the exclusion of more healthful options. There’s a push to hold these purveyors of toxic food responsible for the product they make. So then, why not adult entertainment too?

I offer this question for debate: Is a person who takes Mason’s opinion into himself, practices the same behavior as his dysfunctional role model (with Mason’s example specifically in his mind), and is consequently infected with a disease, not in a position to hold (himself and) Mason Wyler responsible?

If we as a culture could be gobsmacked by 0.03 seconds of Janet’s titty (which is so completely ridiculous on so many levels that I’m not even going to entertain addressing them), then why aren’t we outraged by Mason Wyler’s wholly chaotic attitude towards safe sex in the midst of a resurgence of HIV infections? I believe that people imitate what they see, and I don’t think it’s fair that gay men seem to see only bad examples. Where are the portrayals of healthy, compassionate, generous same-sex interactions?

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.