Devon Hunter

I work in a service-based industry (ahem). And this means that I, as much as (if not more than) anyone else in customer service, have to contend with the maxim “The customer is always right;” however, I find that I need to express some thoughts about this, given the extremely personal nature of my business. Although all salesmen know “the customer is always right,” they also know that this is always true (except for when the customer is wrong).

I think that it is important to remember that adult entertainers are people (indeed, this has been my underlying mantra since the day I first started writing this blog). As such, it is a client’s responsibility to remember certain boundaries and to use good manners. If you make an appointment, you should keep it. Being flippant about this very important detail belies a complete lack of respect and is fairly intolerable (whether the escort is new and vulnerable or established and accommodating). Vacillating on the time, expressing new expectations/interests at the last minute, or asking for lots of extra discussion (once everything has already been clearly arranged) are obstacles to the escort enjoying his time with you. Also, escorts (with some exceptions) are not your significant others: Jealousy is very unbecoming.

This weekend I had to re-establish the boundaries with multiple clients who had been testing the limits of my large reserve of patience. I am fairly certain I will not hear from either of them again, and (as anyone in business will tell you) there are some clients who are better left to find other vendors. They cause more trouble, demand more time/attention/energy, drain more personal resources, and/or impose too much of their political/personal beliefs, and become more of a liability than an asset. Most clients are awesome: They are respectful, conscientious, and well-mannered people who mind boundaries, because they want theirs remembered in return. But sometimes you will meet a client who costs you more than he keeps you.

I do not like being stern and impatient, but once I have been generous of my time and energy for weeks or months and have seen no results (or multiple cancellations), I have to finally accept that someone is a time waster. Beware of potential clients for whom there are always complications and/or excuses. Treat them with respect, but do not allow them to fritter away your energy.

On the way home from D.C. today I had an extended conversation with a very friendly, intelligent, handsome, and curious patron who was interested in knowing more about “the biz.” He expressed the concern that he was often shy of tipping dancers, because doing so would mean he was a “troll” (because only “trolls” tip). He thus often refrained from tipping, even when he wanted to, for fear that others would think him desperate or disgusting. The following is a re-cap of what I then explained to him:

There are many types of people in clubs. Some are very well-mannered and kind, regardless of their appearance. Others are not. I think the reason the “trolls” stand out in people’s minds so much is because of the way these types of people carry themselves: They are people (often older men, but not always) who make no effort to mask their aggressive sexual energy. This being the case, they draw attention to themselves. They tend to hover and lasciviously rake a dancer over the coals for a dollar. This, however, is the very smallest minority of people who tip. They are the most visible, but the least common.

All sorts of people tip. Last night alone I was tipped by three young women, an Asian twink, several upper middle class White men in their mid- to late-thirties, a reserved but kindly White gentleman who has generously offered to let me use some of his frequent flier miles, many Black men of various dispositions ranging in age from about 25 to about 50, at least five or so Latinos (one of whom was a “troll”), and also by two affluent Lebanese college students. Those are just the ones I can think of at a moment’s notice. Now that I remember it more clearly, last night there were also several older gentlemen who tipped me repeatedly; however, they were so polite, well-groomed, and gracious that they could hardly be categorized as trolls. Of that entire list of people, only ONE was a troll.

This particular Latino of about 40 years of age was a sloppy drunk who tried to finger me several times. He followed me around the bar harrassing me for my phone number. He said, “I’ve given you so much money. Why won’t you just come home with me?” He’d tipped me a dollar about four times. THIS is a troll, and it has little to do with his age/race/appearance, and far more to do with his attitude/behavior. He was scaring me.

The point is this: Tipping doesn’t make you desparate. It doesn’t make you disgusting. Being an asshole makes you a troll. I asked this person on the phone if he’d noticed, out of the approximately 500 patrons last night, anyone he thought was normal, polite, and/or attractive. He said he definitely had. I then asked if he saw any of these people tipping dancers. He said yes. He went on to say that he didn’t think less of them for tipping. He answered his own questions.

Don’t be afraid to tip, but do approach it with some modicum of respect for the working boy who has fired up your fantasies.

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?

Youths seeking to make gentlemen of themselves should take care to avoid dissipations, wasteful expenditures of time and resources; frivolty, which leads only to a limpid spirit; and trivial pursuits, as they are the height of selfish preoccupation with matters of no consequence. – Unknown

Okay, I admit it: That isn’t a “real” quote by some hardnose from the 19th century. I just made it up. But it exemplifies the attitude of a particular prude with a forced British accent who came into Swinging Richards last night.

“Would you like a private dance?”

“I don’t like to spend money on just anything. I have several trips planned. I part with money with difficulty, but you’re very sexy,” he said as he groped my chest and arm.

“So, you just told me that you have alot of money, that you spend alot of it, but only on yourself, and that you are, therefore, here for the free show.”

“No, that’s not true! I gave that stripper a dollar a little while ago.”

“I hope it’ll cover his rent while you’re in Majorca.”

“Well, I didn’t mean to sound greedy, but money is valuable! I don’t like to be frivolous.”

“I think you just dug a hole that you have zero hope of getting yourself out of. I wrote a blog once entitled ‘Your dollar is worth about 88 cents to me.’ You should read it.”

Stupid.

This weekend I was at PT1109, and I guess it was time for my annual Spring nuclear meltdown. It’s my way of doing a thorough emotional Spring cleaning. I’m not proud of it, and I generally feel deep shame for about three-five days after it happens. I have had one every year in either April or May ever since I can remember. I’m normally very even-keeled (for a gay guy), but (over the course of a year) various tiny shreds of stress will pile up in a dry heap, and then someone will do or say something that causes a spark. And then… well…

I was going around the bartop, and I looked down to see three guys at the end of the circuit. I am familiar with the third person, having chatted with him numerous times. The other two (unbeknownst to me) were a couple. I thought one of these two was about to pull his penis out, since it looked like his button was unsnapped, looked like his hand was down the front of his pants, and it appeared he was pulling up, as if about to pull it right on out. This, of course, is against the rules. If I’d known then that this fairly innocuous situation was going to nosebomb out of control, I would have been curt in interrupting what I genuinely thought was about to be a “no no” moment and would have moved along.

However, in trying to keep from offending people, I made a game of it. “Oh! You’re tired of looking at mine, so now I finally get to see yours?” The guy with his hand in his pants just smiled, took his hand out, and made light of it. The man next to him, however, got his feathers ruffled up. I thought it’d be a nice gesture to flirt with him too, so as not to seem like a kill-joy.

“Hello, what’s your name?”

“I’m S____, and he’s my boyfriend.”

“I didn’t ask who he is, I asked who you are,” I said with a teasing tone. ”What’s your name again?”

“S____.”

“Nice to meet you, S____.” (Insert hand shake) “And what’s your name?”

“M____.”

“Nice to meet you M____.” (Insert hand shake)

This is the moment where everything spiraled out of control. It has been made known to me (48 hours later) that “M” has evidently voiced a flattering appraisal of my appearance in the past, and that “S” is upset at me because of this. It should also be mentioned that the other three dancers that night not only flirted with “S” and “M,” but that they also hugged and squeezed on the couple as well (in addition to the third person who was sitting next to them). I do not know “S,” and I’d seen “M” only in passing for about a year. I’d never seen the two together that I can recall, didn’t know that they were a couple, and didn’t know that I was the only dancer not allowed to “flirt” with “S”‘s man. After I shook “M”‘s hand I stood up to leave when “S” made a disgusted face and gave me a “you’re dismissed” flick of the wrist. His utter disdain was the spark that lit me up.

“Do not dismiss me. Ever.”

“I just did.”

“You’re not in a position to dismiss me.”

From there it descended into a shouting match in front of the entire crowd. We exchanged angry threats and abusive names. I was going to walk away, but then “S” started yelling at the bartender about me. So I went back over. “No! We can have this conversation with me right here, bitch!”

“You were hitting on my boyfriend!”

“YOU’RE IN A FUCKING STRIP CLUB!” I roared so loudly that I could be heard clearly over the music. I was shaking with rage, and it was all I could do to pull my finger out of ”S”‘s face. At that I stormed away.

It turns out that “S” is a friend of the owner of the bar. I really am completely non-plussed by this fact. There are other issues here that are more important: Aside from the various dysfunctions that have been accumulating in the background in this club, the couple in question were possibly already drunk when they came in, the bartenders gave them more alcohol (perhaps because they were scared to “cut off” friends of the owner?), and I got involved with them only because I thought ”M” was about to commit a major faux pas. I am not going to apologize to anyone for anything. The only mistake I feel I made was allowing the dismissal from someone I don’t even know to burn me so badly.

It seems that “S” is a person of some importance in the local gay community. That, too, is irrelevant in my mind. I don’t recall ever seeing him before in the two years that I’ve danced at PT1109, didn’t know he had a problem with me, didn’t know I wasn’t allowed to interact with the person who happens to be his boyfriend, and didn’t know that ”S” had any special privileges because of his connection to the owner. If people expect me to know this fucking bullshit, then they should let me in on these facts.

The bottom line is this: I don’t give a good goddamn if you’re Barack Obama himself. In the dark with a drink in your hand, if you’re crunk and hollaring in a bar, you’re just another inebriated asshole to me. I don’t care who you think you are - I am not the one to dismiss because you have the mistaken notion that I want anything but a dollar from your boyfriend.

In the meantime my pride is healing slowly. These yearly explosions embarrass me completely. They make me feel like I’m out of control of myself. And they make me feel stupid. I’m not sorry that I yelled at “S,” I’m sorry that someone of so little importance to me became far too important in such a short time. Although I am ashamed of the outburst, I don’t feel obliged to apologize for it. Maybe that seems complicated or ridiculous, but if anyone owes anyone anything, “S” owes me a dollar for shaking his hand without vomiting on him.