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.

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

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

I just got back from seeing the midnight screening of Michael Jackson’s “This Is It.” You really must see it… He was such a funny person. I love his artistry. I love his humanity. It was a wonderful production, and that the performances never happened before audiences is really a shame.

Tonight I got a post on my Pimpology entry from Mom. She has interacted here on the site some, but not for a while, and I’d forgotten she reads what I post. At any rate, I wanted to take a moment to acknowledge how very lucky I am to have the family I have. They never discouraged me when I said I wanted to be a choreographer; they never doubted any of my ideas or plans; they never even implied that my being gay was remotely an issue (except at first there was a concern for my safety in the rural South, but it wasn’t an issue of being disowned); and they never judged me for making the career choices I made (since they know me, and know that I have very good reasons/intentions for going in various directions)…

My mother (and many people probably think this as well, but I know I’m right – HA!) is the single most amazing human being I’ve ever known. She is patient, generous, selfless, kind, and thoughtful. She is sensitive, intelligent, and creative. And I’m not the only person who thinks so. Mom is the kind of person that you want to love, and you want her to love you back, because she’s so talented at it. She doesn’t try to be all of this – she is simply good, and she’s adept at encouraging it in others. She is beautiful, on many levels… though I never appreciated her strange diet fads, until I was older and started experimenting with my own. She may never live down that bowl of cold apple juice with brown rice and bananas…

Perhaps it’s a gay stereotype to deify one’s mother, but Mom reminds me of The Mother. I don’t want to imply that I think my mother is perfect, because that would render her less human. My primary fear for my mother is that she is too kind for this world. There are so many people who do not deserve the pleasure of having known her. However,  I am glad she is here with us, and I definitely think that if more people built their houses around the pre-existing trees on their lots, took time to trim rose bushes on a daily basis, chose kindness before revenge, ate almost exclusively raw fruits and veggies, illustrated children’s books/sewed stuffed animals from scratch for their kids and grandkids, and used a large glass of water and/or tea tree oil as the first choice for almost any complaint that needs a remedy… well… the world would be a better place.