Devon Hunter

It is time to look for a day job to supplement my dance income. I’m tired of depending these last six months on the whim of patrons. This week has been the single worst I’ve had in nearly a year… It’s so bad that I’ve considered some options that, for me, aren’t options. And, to top it off, there’s a long-standing issue that is coming more to the fore as the economy goes from bad to poor…

There is a particular fetish that has been built up to the point that it is endemic amongst gay men, and, to be frank, it’s completely pissing me off. It’s particularly bad in Atlanta. And I’m going to rant about it. And if you don’t want to read it, then you better come back another day. Because I’m just about to the point, after several years of brushing it off with “Well, everyone has their preferences,” of telling gay men to go fuck themselves.

People want what they can’t have.

Bullshit! They want what they’ve been told they want.

Gay men have been programmed by a homophobic society to believe that straight men are the pennacle of sexuality/sexual desire/atractiveness (which fits, given that this affords preference to the heterosexual men who create and reinforce this ludicrous supposition). Gay men have been damaged by this homophobic society to the point that they can’t even be nice to each other, because we haven’t been given the opportunity to learn how to conceptualize anything beyond the stereotypical hook ups that straight men corner us into accepting as our lot as the dysfunctional perverts they think we are (and which we’ve too often become). Also, because there are no institutions that empower same-sex desire/love/relationships that balance out the institutions that disempower same-sex desire/love/relationships, there is no wide-scale acceptance amongst most gay men that it’s even a true possibility. No, it’s not enough that a few states in New England have finally legalized gay marriage in the last year or two. So don’t even put that up as an argument, or I will have to slap the taste out of your mouth.

And so, here we are. Left with the self-loathing homophobia that powers gay libidos. All these gay slots and tabs looking for straight counterparts. Well, excuse me, but fuck you. BrokeStraightGuys.com? Fuck you! FirstGaySex.com? Fuck you too!

I was told to my face last night that if I “were to just be a straight guy” I’d be “perfect” and then this patron “could finally get a lap dance” from me. Go get therapy, asshole. That says a whole lot more about you than it does me.

And since I’m being completely honest here:

1. Straight men ARE obtainable. Look around, you stupid fags! Seventy-five to ninety percent of the men in gay porn are STRAIGHT. The same proportion are straight in gay clubs with male dancers. Don’t delude yourself anymore. For being unobtainable, they sure look pretty obtainable to me with their legs up in the air. “I’d have to get alot of money to do anything gay.” Oh? What does this mean, breeder? That you think it contemptable, nasty, dirty, perverted? And so then, stupid fags, HOW IS IT DESIREABLE TO SEE A STRAIGHT GUY DO THAT WHICH HE HATES? How does this build up your gay identity to demean a straight man who is only tolerating your loathsome self because of money? And you think that’s hot? You think it’s hot to see a straight dude cringe with pain and disgust as he’s getting ram-fucked for $x??? You’re worse than the straight guy. Get out of my sight.
2. If all the straight men in gay adult entertainment were removed from it, the industry would be bereft of talent, because there wouldn’t be hardly anyone left doing it. And do you want to know why? Because YOU keep buying into the utterly fucked up notion that straight men are better than gay men.
3. Here’s a wake up call: Most of the breeders you give all your money to walk away from you, removing their smiling faces from your presence, and then go talk shit about you once you’re out of earshot. Period. End of discussion. I have held my tongue for a very long time, but I’m about to the point of calling them out when they talk shit in front of me about YOU. And if that doesn’t work I’m going to go to the patrons and tell them what is being said about them. I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to put up with this anymore. I think it’s fair to level the playing field: I’m just an undesireable homo? Okay. Fine. Well the straight guys are dickheads who generally despise you, even though they’re the ones “lowering themselves” in the first place. Now who’s more desireable? Oh? It’s still the straight guy? You know what, I don’t want your money after all. Use it to get some Zyprexa. You need it.
4. To deny you are oppressed is to aid in your oppression, but to pay for your oppression with your own effort and resources renders you a slave. A fully neurotic slave. Get therapy. (Get that Zyprexa I just mentioned.) Get a life. Get out of my face.
5. “But I like men who act like men.” You’re going to say that to me?? Right into my motherfucking face?! Fuck you! How about I punch you in your goddamned mouth for saying that to me? Would that make me butch enough to get a lap dance out of your pansy ass? Nevermind, I don’t give lap dances to fags. Only straight guys. There, how’s that? How stupid does that sound? Now try hearing it from the other direction, and think about why I’m so pissed.
6. The straight entertainers will NEVER be yours. Not even sexually. It doesn’t matter how many times you pay to touch them. It doesn’t matter how many times you pay to suck their cocks. It doesn’t matter how many times you pay to have sex with them. It doesn’t matter how many times you pay for anything. You are paying for their tricked-out rides, for their girlfriend’s boob job, for their steroids, for their babies, and for their contempt. You are wasting your time, money, and hope when you give them to straight men. I’ve been saying this throughout my entire blog, even going back to almost the very beginning with “Gay men fawning over straight dancers.”
7. You are far, far, far, far, far more likely to get your cock in a straight guy’s ass at Swinging Richards than a gay one’s. If you hear of someone getting bareback fucked in VIP, who is it? One of the gay dancers? No. Never. Not once in two years have I seen a gay dancer get fired/suspended from that club for having sex in VIP. So then, here’s where the logic loses its legs: If straight guys are so fucking unobtainable, why are they the only ones putting out? You think you can go to Blake’s and pick me up for free on a Wednesday night? Fuck you, you’d better save up your money to buy one of the unobtainable straight guys you like so much, because you’ll NEVER get this proudly flaming fag to do in VIP what those nasty straight tricks do as their default setting. Who’s unobtainable now, asshole?

I went for lunch and a walk in the park today, because for the third day in a row it would be spiritually negligent to not. It is so pretty here lately – it’s hard to believe there was snow on the ground a week ago. The trees and flowers are putting out buds; the clover is bright green, with little purple pin-striped blooms; and I even saw my first massive bee of the season. The bees look so plump and lazy, the way they bumble around in the air like zeppelins - I think they’re marvelous. Bumble bees make me smile. They’re so clumsy and endearing.

I went to lunch with a new acquaintance, and we talked about all the light stuff: Religion, career, school, and family. You know, the easy stuff. HA! We went for a walk while our bellies were still full, and he asked me more questions about work. He finally came around to the question that I knew he was wanting to ask: “You said the line is different for each dancer. Where is your line?”

I have never been an escort. I’ve never had penetrative sex for money. I’m just not interested in it. I have allowed some men to go down on me during a private showing, but it’s not my modus operandi. I regularly touch the clients as they are touching me. I’ve even given a handjob here and there – but all that is fairly tame by comparison to what others enjoy/tolerate.

Sex is special to me: If I hook up, I want it to be because the guy is hot and/or intriguing. If I meld, I want it to be genuinely invested. If I make love, that can’t be bought from me. Groping and infrequent receptive oral sex don’t offend me, because I perceive them as fairly impersonal. Perhaps I’ve been touched superficially enough that it just doesn’t mean anything to me anymore? Kissing and sex, however, are much deeper forms of touch, and they are still reserved for my personal time.

In my past blogs I’ve strongly cautioned against doing anything against local laws. I am aware of the hypocrisy in what I have just admitted. But the limited sexuality I sometimes permit doesn’t leave a blot on my conscience. Also, consider how irresponsible it would be for me to say to a neonate, ”Yes, go out and suck as much dick as you can! Let them all fuck your ass too, for good measure.” Um, no. That is nowhere near the level where I operate – it’s fine for the people that are okay with it (if they’re willing to take the risks involved), but that isn’t for me.

What I’ve described today is reality, not legal advice. No, I don’t advocate that people do what is done, but that doesn’t change the fact that it happens. For the most part with me, a dance is a dance, but occasionally they are a little bit more. The line is different for each dancer, and mine is drawn pretty far down on the scandal ladder.

Ultimately, you have to know who you are and what you can tolerate. In addition to this, there is also the law. No, you shouldn’t allow anything that is illegal to happen during a dance. People also shouldn’t smoke marijuana (according to the law). They also shouldn’t speed when they drive (according to the law). And of course, people shouldn’t loiter, download music from the Internet, or jaywalk (according to the law). I will continue to say that people shouldn’t be sexual in their dances, because I don’t want to be responsible for leading someone into risk. However, there is the perfect world, and then there’s the real world. I figured it was time to speak more transparently about where my line is – I’ll not be turning myself into a saint, thank you very much.

So, with all that said: Wanna private dance?

Devon,

Over time I’ve developed social relationships with several dancers at a certain gay nightclub, and I want these relationships to continue. This includes special recognition from the dancers when I come in. In exchange, they expect me to return the favor. However, I might not be into the same person every night. I like to rotate between several favorites. Sometimes this gets competitive as they ”fight” over me. How do I keep everyone happy? They make me feel like I’m cheating on them but, hey, aren’t they with someone else too? I have some money, but I can’t blow out the budget either.

Seeking advice
R

Hello R,

In all honesty, you’re talking about people’s money. They’re going to get defensive, and that isn’t surprising; however, you make the very good point that you have different preferences each night, and that the dancers themselves interact with patrons other than yourself. If you are dealing with reasonable people, then I should think that the best way to approach this situation is to say, “(insert name), you are one of my favorites. But so is (insert name). I am not trying to offend you, I am simply trying to spread the patronage I can afford amongst the dancers that I like. There will be nights when I choose you over him. For tonight, I am choosing him, and that doesn’t mean anything bad about you.”

To reassure him you might let him give you a simple chair dance, as opposed to a full-on V.I.P., and/or a $5 tip on stage, as opposed to a $1. However, you should not say “I’ll get you next time,” because if you don’t you will look like a liar. Don’t make promises you can’t keep. Not being picked can be a smack against a dancer’s ego, so if you want to soften the blow, that is how I would do it.

I am certain that I’m one of the Goddess’s most aggravating children. But I also think that She rolls her eyes affectionately as She huffs about me. I’m taking the night off. I can’t work right now. I did okay last night (a very bizarre night), and my costs are covered. I’ll go to Columbia this weekend with a respectable little “bonus” to go on top of whatever I make Friday and Saturday.

So, although there were only nine dancers at Swinging Richards last night (the lowest I’ve personally ever seen), there were also about that many patrons. I was offered a drink, something I normally don’t accept; however, after the last two weeks I was very annoyed that I’d driven all the way from Charlotte to Atlanta for such a lousy showing. Somehow I still generated a respectable piece of change. The problem is that I can’t account for half of it.

I know I did one chair dance that lasted two songs. A man tipped me a $20 on stage. I had one man get half a lap dance, but pay for three, and therefore the balance is whatever else I made on stage. It seems like an impossibly high number of $1 bills for so few tippers. I drank waaaay more than I normally do, and it really didn’t do anything except make me skip around an empty bar, singing to the Pussy Cat Dolls, Chingy, and T-Pain. Not pretty. I also told the manager (yes, The Matt) that I was tired of waiting for him to make love to me by a roaring fire, and then demanded a napkin and a lighter to simulate the effect during a quick boink. God! Stupid.

The reason I need the night off is the half-lapdance that paid for three. This has never, in all my time doing this, happened to me: He started crying. Real tears. They were rolling down his face. One fell off his cheek and splattered lightly on my navel. I thought I’d hurt him in some unknown way.

He was weeping and sobbing. I was drunk, but not completely out of my wits. He told me how it hurt him that the only way he could touch a beautiful man was to pay for it. That took me completely aback. I’ve run into this conversation before, but not with tears hitting my bellybutton, and not while I was drunk and still feeling raw about my own situation.

I made the only choice I could think of: I gave him his $20 back, and I gave him a hug. I told him something along the lines that if someone doesn’t want him for who he is, then he doesn’t need them. Something trite that sounds completely insincere today. I definitely didn’t intend to hurt his feelings. In my inebriation, this was all I could think to do. I don’t understand why, but he insisted on paying me for a dance I hadn’t even done, and then tipped me heavily. I just took it. I’m not in the mindset right now to debate these things.

Anyway, something about that entire interaction has piled on top of everything else, and I just don’t feel like being touched today. I want to be left alone, so that I can watch TV, or read, or fall asleep, or anything but entertain someone else right now.

I’m sorry that my postings have been so dark this week. I will return to form soon. I can already feel the light trying to break through the clouds. Give me a day or so, and I’ll be back to me. I may take a few days off from blogging, but when I come back my mood will be better. Promise.

I’ve given thousands of lap dances, spreading joy and wonder throughout the world. HA! At any rate, there’s no way I can remember every dance I’ve done, but there are dances that stand out in my memory as amongst those I’ve enjoyed. It’s completely and utterly inaccurate to think that only unattractive men pay for lap dances. One of the perks of this job is that on a fairly regular basis I get paid to rub on hot guys. Let me also say that my enjoying a dance doesn’t necessarily imply that I was sexually aroused or attracted to the person I was dancing for (although that happens quite a bit).

Last night I gave another dance to one of the most charming men-of-a-certain-age I’ve ever met. Dale: He embodies Lap Dance Etiquette. It’s just amazing. If he isn’t a poet, he should be. He is completely enamoured of sensuality (not sex itself, but the whisper of its potential), and he genuinely enjoys every nuance of touch, sight, sound, smell (and dare I say taste?). With him I find myself moving in slow motion, not because he intoxicates me but because his intoxication is beguiling. He falls into a dream-like haze, and his utter joy is registered all over his face and body. I was wearing a spicey fragrance last night, and I honestly worried for a moment that he might pass out when I enveloped my arms tightly around his head and neck. I feed off the energy of others, and his transparent ecstacy isn’t simply flattering, it’s also infectious.

There are many, many occasions when I give a dance to someone who is so attractive that I almost feel obliged to tip them. Something else that is common is for me to get an erection while giving a dance. What is not as common is for a dance to turn me on so much that I forget I’m working and fall into the fantasy that they have created for me (quite a nice change of pace). That has happened three times, but I’m only going to tell you about two of them…

James came in for a birthday dance, but I have to say I didn’t do very much. He picked me up off the chair, holding me such that we were face to face with my arms and legs wrapped around his neck and torso. He pressed my back against the wall and proceded to show me a thing or three. LOL I mean… WOW. He. Werk’d. Me. Out. For about four songs. That dance fueled some fantasies for almost six months, so when I bumped into him randomly at a park nine months after his birthday I made it clear that I wanted a naked repeat. Whew!

One dance I did recently involved an acquaintance from a site where I chat with athletic gay guys. He lives in Atlanta and is easily one of the sexiest men I’ve ever seen (click to, ahem… enlarge). He said he was going to come see me at Swinging Richards on Thanksgiving. Not only did he actually show up, he had a beautiful friend with him, and they wanted a dance… OMGOMGOMG… LOL I want to say that this ended up being the hottest dance I’ve done so far. So erotic, in fact, that everyone in VIP stopped and watched. Nothing like a Devon sandwich to fill you up. No, we never had sex, but my knees still buckle at the memory.