Devon Hunter

I got a mildly scolding email today from Brian. “You haven’t been forthcoming on your blog lately. Pity.” That may not sound terribly intense, but I think I’m a tad in the dog house.

So I wanted to give my thoughts about the dynamic of “calm vs panicked.” Escorting has not turned out to be difficult for me at all. I have met some really wonderful people thus far. Perhaps I’m lucky, but everyone I’ve met has been polite, intelligent, considerate, and engaging. I’ve had a few no-shows, and I’ve had to vet out a few people who were interested in something I cannot do (and there was one total asshole who got told where he could put his money); however, I am surprised only by how quickly I have totally adapted. The thought of dancing in clubs on a regular basis is suddenly almost revolting to me. Not because clubs are bad places, or that the people there aren’t good, but because I didn’t realize until now how much I’d been grinding myself into the dust!

So, calm vs panicked… There are some similarities between the two careers. The most nerve wracking is the unpredictability; however, I am doing so much better now that I can afford a bad night (whereas in the clubs I was always tip toeing on the edge of a chasm). When I place ads there is always the lag: The day or so that has to pass before the ad goes live and people have time to see it and reply. I generally forget that this lag is there and start worrying about what is wrong with me. WHY AREN’T THEY EMAILING?!!

Silly… How many times do I have to remind myself that everything is going to be okay? I have to say that I did exceptionally well in August and September. I am not in Atlanta this weekend (although my itinerary says I should be). I cancelled the trip. I didn’t get any replies. None. And that’s to be expected: I went two weekends in a row in August, and then I forgot to place my ad in advance this time. So, I’m taking the weekend off unexpectedly.

And you know what?

It’s okay. I’m no longer anywhere near as vulnerable as I was when I was in the clubs. And removing that stress makes everything so much better in the rest of my life. I don’t necessarily feel calm, because I’m still home so seldom that my apartment is a wreck (and that type of clutter IRRITATES me). But not being terrified of the randomness of Swinging Richards is definitely something I could get used to.

To say that I’m content with my transition into escorting is an understatement. I wish only that I’d done it sooner. However, I’m glad I didn’t do it sooner, because you should do only that with which you are comfortable. And I wasn’t comfortable with it until now. And I am very happy.

So, the dynamics are still there, but the rules remain the same (since the scale of the implications are even greater than before): Do nothing out of desparation. Avoid that which causes you pain, humiliation, fear, or guilt. Enjoy your work. The bad nights will come… but they will go.

I’m hungry… have a great weekend! I’m going to go eat something yummy.

I went to a very large party today for the first time in I don’t know how long. There must have been almost 100 gay men there, nearly all of whom were upstanding professionals in their 40’s - 60’s. Essentially it looked like I was walking into a gay bar frequented by older gentlemen, and that the club just happened to be at someone’s house.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. As soon as I saw how busy it was I started to feel panicky. I’ve gotten so used to relating to people in a flirtatious or sexualized and nearly anonymous manner at the clubs where I work that I was nervous about seeing people in the daylight with all my clothes on. I don’t think I realized how much I’d disconnected from daytime living. The first place I went was to the kitchen for a glass of wine (which is odd, since I rarely drink).

I went there with a delightful friend, Dave Haywards of Touching Up Our Roots, Inc.: Georgia’s LGBT History Project, who is interested in helping me with finding performance opportunities for my artistic projects. We both agreed we’d leave out the exotic dancer part, since the wealthy gay guys at this party would be likely to discount me as an artist if they knew about it. Yeah, well, we thought that would work.

It didn’t take a full 30 minutes to remember why I avoid these types of scenarios anymore. Someone came up and interrupted my conversation with a guest, making it known that he recognized me from Swinging Richards. I then watched him go around the room whispering this to everyone, and saw each individual pair of eyes cut across to me in scandalized glee.

Great.

Well, I’m not ashamed, so I didn’t avoid the conversations that followed. However, there was a distinct and sudden change in the way I was being treated. For the first few minutes I was simply mingling shyly and having light conversation. A few men had begun flirting with me (as gay men normally do with each other), and I was engaging in some intelligent discussions for a brief time.

Gradually, I was becoming the focus of everyone’s attention. I drank my second glass of wine too fast and had to sit down. Within a few moments I was blocked into a corner by a wall of crotches and people were feeling on my head, hair, shoulders, and arms. I started to get nervous actually. I was buzzed, didn’t know a single person there (except Dave, who was mingling elsewhere), didn’t know really where I even was (since I don’t live in Atlanta), and have a couple stories in my past that I’ve not shared yet concerning sexual assault. No one wanted to talk to me anymore, they wanted only to hurl their fantasies at me from every direction at once. A few proceded to tell me how far they could stick various objects inside themselves or other people. One went into great detail about how he knew how to fist someone deep enough to cradle a person’s heart in his hand and feel it beating. (It brings tears to my eyes and bit of a gag reflex in my thoat just thinking about the relish with which he describes this - it’s fine if you’re into fisting, but I’m very squeamish about some stuff).

I’m sorry, I don’t normally vent or curse here, but this is fucking ridiculous. I went there to talk about art, which was going just fine at first, but then I was suddenly transformed from a person into a rubber doll. I don’t tolerate this well at all, so I have to say that I’m proud of how diplomatically I diverted all this. I’m not sure anyone even knew I was offended, let alone a tad scared. As it became clear that I wasn’t going to perform any freakish circus acts on the spot, some lost interest and wandered away. From there I was able to manage and redirect the remaining conversations before excusing myself.

The kicker is that only at the end did I finally get to speak with the person whom I was brought there to meet. He was very excited about my projects. Just as I opened the door to leave he blurted out, “I’m so glad you’re a real dancer. Now I can have some respect for you.”

Well, fuck you too…

This party brought to roaring life all the many reasons I write this blog. When you interact with adult entertainers outside of where we work, please try to avoid reducing us to a pile of mechanized anatomical parts. I know it might be hard to believe, but we really do have feelings… Promise… Not making it up.