Devon Hunter

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.

“How are you?” I asked.

“Fine.”

“Where are you from?”

“Ft. Lauderdale. There are other bystanders here for you to victimize. You can go now.”

“I’m glad this will be the only time I ever have to interact with you.”

Honestly, why would you go to a club that showcases dancers, and then act like we’re there to “victimize” you? I’ve had a variety of insults thrown at me, but that one is particularly hateful if you look at the terms this “person” used. The cover charge is only $5 at PT1109. Even if this “person” hadn’t known there’d be dancers, because he’s an out-of-towner, it wouldn’t have been a huge loss to turn around and walk back out (if dancers are offensive). Hell, they probably would’ve refunded the entry fee, if you stay that briefly.

There are at least two clubs in Ft. Lauderdale with male dancers. I don’t know what this patron’s interaction with them has possibly been, but when I encounter that level of toxicity I feel zero obligation to continue playing nice. These are the moments when I make patrons wake up and realize that I’m a human being, and not some kind of voodoo doll that can be abused in the place of whatever is causing them angst. I was so pissed with this person that I walked away with him yelling something indecipherable to my palm.

I was in a bad, bad mood already from sheer exhaustion. Of course, this patron didn’t know that, but I was not the stripper to sass that night. I then went and told the other dancers about his attitude problem. Dude got no play that night. If you think dancers don’t talk to each other, you better recognize. If he weren’t attracted to me, that’s fine. I definitely wasn’t attracted to him.

But that’s not the issue. How difficult is it to simply be polite?

One of the reasons I wanted to wait to respond to the question posed on March 17, 2009′s entry concerning race is because I wanted to view the situation in a club outside of the South. Before I continue, I would like to add that I welcome comments and constructive discussions here; however, if I do say something that is insensitive or irresponsible, I invite anyone to point it out.

To paraphrase a concept articulated by Obama during his campaign: We can’t talk about race until we talk about race.

In the the Carolinas and Georgia, where most of my experience in clubs has occurred, there is a residual tendency to treat Black men as un-/non-/anti-sexual Others who are tolerated for “diversity’s” sake. I do not notice this overtly generalized and dismissive treatment towards Latinos, nor towards Asians; however, it does seem that White dancers with red/orange hair and fair skin fill a niche as equally narrow as Blacks seem to do.

I am sensitive about race and other parameters for identity, but I am not afraid of discussing them in simple terms.

So, as an experiment, when the dancers at Secrets in Washington, D.C. asked me last night what it’s like at Swinging Richards in Atlanta, GA and PT1109 in Columbia, SC, I said candidly, “You can do well, depending on the night. I’ve noticed that Black dancers struggle there, even if they work three times harder. That’s not the case for Latinos and Asians. Although overt racism in the traditional Southern mode is mostly gone, Black men are still mostly invisible as sexual entities to gay white men where I live.”

I started this conversation specifically because there was a Black dancer in the room, and I wanted to see what his response would be, in terms of being in D.C. (which for some reason people presume isn’t connected culturally to the South just because there are some embassies there and a few people who can read and write in French).

This was his response: “He’s right. White dudes in the club normally look past me. I do well at private parties where I have been booked specifically.”

“Why is that?” one of the White dancers asked.

“Well,” the Black dancer said, “look at magazines. What do you see?”

“White faces,” I replied. “There still aren’t anywhere near enough non-White models representing beauty. We are taught what is beautiful by what is implied, not simply by what is said.”

“For a long time I made most of my money off women,” the Black dancer added.

“Women don’t tip,” another dancer immediately chimed in.

“Yeah, they do,” the Black dancer shot back. “That was my whole career for years. But it’s not just the South – Black dudes don’t usually do well in New York City either.”

“It seems to me,” I said, “that women are often more sexually adventurous in their tastes, and that men often define their preferences more rigidly. And,” I added, just so that the Black dancer wouldn’t think that Devon “White Boy” Hunter has it made in the shade, “it’s not enough to be White. I’m completely invisible next to Brad. He’s the default setting for gay white male desire.”

“Yeah,” one of the Latino dancers added thoughtfully. “He’s blond haired, blue eyed, fair skin, perfect complexion, and built like a Greek god.”

“Mhm,” I added. “I’ll never be tall. White isn’t good enough: I’m short. I’m not hating on Brad: He’s perfect. He really is exquisite. But next to him, I might as well be Black.” (To which the Black dancer nodded in agreement and understanding.)

This is such a complicated, convoluted conversation in American culture. On the one hand I felt as if my thoughts had mostly been confirmed by this dialogue; however, there was the nagging part about Black guys not doing well in New York City. If what he says is true, then racism isn’t a Southern tradition (as so many presumptuous Yankees like to assume), but an American tradition (which definitely doesn’t make it any less awful just because racism ain’t a Suthren thang).

So, to more pointedly address the question of what my experience has been, in terms of interpreting how race affects gay male entertainers: White is the default preference for the manufacturer’s setting; Latino, Asian, Indian, and Native American are all exotic enough to be sexually alluring, despite their ethnic features; and Black is invisible. What I have seen is that White and Latino entertainers make the most money, that Asian dancers are often watched with some degree of skepticism at first, and that Black dancers (when they aren’t discouraged) are forced to work far too hard. And yet all of this can change, depending on issues surrounding personal style, attitude, stature, body type, and exotic features (e.g. an Asian dancer with blue eyes). And yet those individual nuances are lost if a patron completely marks the Black body in his mind only enough to avoid walking into ”it” like any chair.

I personally feel that there is a specific gap in the training of gay desire. There are simply not enough Afro-centric (or other minorities’) faces in the “All-American” homoerotic publications. People want what they see: So long as Black men aren’t held up as objects of beauty unto themselves on par with men of other races, Black entertainers will be relegated to Blacksploitative sexual imagery. I have met very few Black male adult entertainers who did not actively seek to align themselves with the clichés perpetrated by MTV and BET. What’s worse, the few Black dancers I’ve known who weren’t “ghetto” made even less money than their “hard” counterparts.

Is there not a space or two in one of Abercrombie’s group-shots of 13 nubile honkies for a little more realistic portrayal of our cultural landscape? What’s even more problematic is that I often sense that Black men who aren’t thugs are even more displaced outside of gay desire than their bruiser counterparts. Where do Black men in general (and non-Gangsta Black men specifically) fit within the framework of gay masturbation material?

Hear, hear for equal opportunity exploitation!

Yesterday was absolutely amazing…

I know that I am the type of person who has to experience and explore all the minutiae in a situation, even the really, really, really unpleasant ones. I have to run my fingers mentally along every sharp edge, and I have to get cut every way possible in order to grasp whatever stone it is I’m holding at the time. And I don’t just grasp it, I squeeze it hard, holding it deep inside myself and using the intensity of my emotions to superheat it. I take the lumps of coal in my life, and in my own slow, painstaking process, I turn them into diamonds. It cannot be rushed. It cannot be abbreviated. The process is as important as, if not more precious than, the product. It can take years.

About a month ago I began an excrutiating journey, looking at the way I form bonds with people and the ways in which I process interactions with them. I was given a tiny piece of information Saturday night at PT1109 by someone who didn’t even know how valuable his gift to me was: Based on how I now know he jumps from person to person in a desparate bid to find someone who can get him to feel something, I now know and totally embrace the fact that I didn’t do anything wrong with/to Allen. I was right to say good-bye and walk away.

With that one little keystone in place, my arches were suddenly completely solid and sure. They will stand for thousands of years. All the doubt that was making my walls unsteady is gone: I know that my instinct is a true foundation, and now I am completely comfortable building on the truth that I am responsible only for my own actions and feelings. And if that means that I judge someone or some situation to be incompatible with me for whatever reason, I do not have to justify it or apologize for it. I cannot doubt it. It is enough to realize that my instinct has spoken. Of course it’s easy for anyone to simply say these altruisms, but how intimately do people in general resonate with the truth of them? I no longer simply feel the truth in it, I know it. I have faith in it. This truth is as much a part of me now as my identity is.

With this diamond coming out of the mine, others began coming forth as well: If Allen’s emotional situation isn’t my fault, then it isn’t my fault that Scott or Michael abused me. I now don’t even feel as I need to offer the weak apology, “It takes two to tango – I tolerated it.” Fuck that. They intimidated, manipulated, and abused me, and the reason I “tolerated” it is because I didn’t have the time and space I needed to process it quicker. It’s hard enough to be responsible for me, so I refuse to do it for them. So, now that also means that Randy isn’t my fault either. Neither is my Dad. Neither are the homophobes who tried to grind me into dust. These people have to carry the responsibility for their own actions, I cannot do it for them anymore.

With that truth then comes this one: I love people, but I do not have to sacrifice everything in myself for them. If I give until my wings are tattered, that’s my choice, but I can choose more carefully to whom I give. Also, I will give because it feels good to me to do so, not because I am trying to fix the recipient. I feel the need to reiterate Devon’s Platinum Rule: Do unto yourself as you would have others do unto you.

I have been happiest in my life when I have been on my own. If you are in a relationship, and if you are happy, that’s great. BUT PLEASE DON’T PUSH YOUR RELATIONSHIP STATUS ON OTHERS. “Aw, but you’re so great – why are you alone?” Because… I FUCKING LIKE IT! I cannot say it enough: Being alone and being lonely are not necessarily the same. Not everyone is wired for long term situations: I do not need a man, I want a man. There is a huge gulf of difference between the two. I am so freaking pleased with being totally and utterly me, without having to make silly compromises about how I fold my socks or whether I load the dishwasher “properly.” I can lay a huge portion of my past challenges in this life at the feet of my relationships (e.g. anorexia, dysmorphia, inability to accept compliments, fear of vulnerability, etc.).

Whoever I meet as a perspective partner from this point forward had better be strong enough to be my man. He’d better have a fetish for big fellas too: My body might be only 5’7″ and 150 pounds, but my soul is at least 6′ and 180 pounds. He’d better be mature enough to mean it when he says, “I want you to tell me what you’re thinking and feeling.”

I would encourage anyone who has (or wants to develop) the emotional fortitude to stand it, to not push the grains of sand away immediately. When appropriate for you personally (actually, that is a misnomer, since irritation generally doesn’t feel appropriate), take those tiny spurs and embrace them. Lacquer them with your meditation, and turn them into pearls. I do not mean to say that you should look for agony, but there can be an exquisite type of beauty born of suffering. Do you think the earth felt nothing in forming its many staggering landscapes? Without becoming a martyr or masochistic about it, find the strength to surround your pain with wisdom.

Sorry, couldn’t resist the New Kids on the Block reference… Anyway, there’s a new LGBTQ magazine coming out soon, and I am the first cover man for it (click to enlarge). The magazine is called Night OUT Carolinas, and it will be placed in all the bars in North and South Carolina. It will also have some placement in the border areas of Tennesse, Virginia, and Georgia. If you see a copy, pick one up and check out the resources inside. From what I understand it will be a full color, glossy, 8.5 x 5.5, saddle stiched booklet. Advertisers can place ads, and it should become a pretty helpful way to stay in touch with what’s happening across the region. Hope you are all having a good week!