The online diary of a gay courtesan.

Dear Devon,

I know you don’t date, but I’d still like to hear your thoughts on something. I went out last night with a guy that I thought was gonna be awesome. He made it clear that he thought I was a prostitute, because I’m a dancer. He said, “You’re not dating material, even if you think you are.” He also said when he goes to strip clubs he doesn’t pay. He’s a landscape designer, so it’s not like he’s some important person. Why does he get to be so judgmental?

Also, when we first started talking he was right there whenever I’d text or call, but now nothing. During dinner he was texting his friends, telling them my name, just for bragging rights. But now I feel like I have to chase him. He’s beautiful, and I can tell he’s used to getting his way and treating people however he wants. What do you think of all this?

- Tyler

Dear Tyler,

I think he’s an asshole. That’s what I think of all this. Without knowing all the details, let me offer responses to what all I’m sensing in this:

1. If he doesn’t respect you or your privacy, simply because of your profession, then you shouldn’t feel bad when you do what’s necessary: Cut. Him. Out. Do it now. He’s using you as a trophy to prop up his own ego.
2. He doesn’t like strippers but he goes to strip clubs? I smell hypocrisy.
3. He doesn’t pay? And it sounds like he doesn’t pay out of a sense of superiority (something particularly irksome that many “hot” patrons do). Whether you ask him this in person or not, ponder the following question: If I were running late to a job interview, and I decided to cut through the flowerbed to save a moment or two, would you think it disrespectful? They’re “just” petunias (never mind that you selected the color, placement, and assemblage; that you had to use your time and energy to plan the bed and get the materials; that you had to invest in planting and nurturing them). If I’m running late for this interview, isn’t it okay for me to trample your silly flowers?
4. Whether or not you’re ready to consider yourself dating material is your own question to answer. You know yourself better than he does. Ignore this bit of ignorance, if possible. I know it’s a hurtful comment, but try to not absorb it.
5. In the book “Chasing Adonis: Gay Men and the Persuit of Perfection” by Tim Bergling, there is a phenomenon described that I’ve referred to before on this blog. The desire/rejection cycle is a real part of everyone’s world, but particularly burdensome for gay men (whose identities are wrapped up in sexuality, and thus whose identities are greatly invested in getting laid… no sex = no existence?). Why are you giving this man power? Because he’s hot? Stop it. Just stop it. He’s a prat, and he doesn’t respect you. I don’t care if he’s a cover model for a workout magazine, you should let this one go. His arrogance and inflated sense of entitlement alone make him ridiculous. If he is accustomed to treating people any which way, then why would he change for you? You rejecting him may be the very experience he needs to help him recognize that his opinions are about as important as anyone else’s.

I know it’s “natural” for people (men especially, and gay men in particular) to jump at touching Adonis (whether in becoming Adonis, obtaining one, or both); however, if you find you are chasing (or that you are being chased), then you aren’t in stride with your partner. A relationship is about relating to someone, not just spending time around him. If I have to chase after you, you are running away from me. If you have to chase after me, I am trying (on some level) to get away from you. How would that ever be happy, fulfilling, or healthy? Find someone who will walk by your side, not in front of or behind you.

In closing, I think that people should be responsible for their own feelings, but not at the expense of the feelings of others. It seems to me that beautiful people should consider owning their looks without becoming mean. The roulette wheel could have stopped one space to the left or right. Your looks are not, hopefully, all you have to offer. And they shouldn’t be used as a weapon. Pride tempered with some humility is very sexy.

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.

This past weekend I was supposed to see Janet Jackson in concert; however, she was sick, so after driving to Greensboro, NC I immediately had to turn around and drive back to Charlotte. That sucked. Really bad. We’re having a gas shortage, so I’m out the gas, I’m out the concert, and I’m out the night of work. To make it worse my new roommate’s dog attacked me when I got home, and when I decided to leave and go dancing just for fun for the first time in a year I found that my car had been egged so hard that the paint on my car is completely chipped off in some places. SUCK!

Anyway, I decide that October 4, 2008 is the best candidate for a “I’m gonna get drunk” night that I’ve had in a very long time. I go to clubs for fun so rarely that I almost want to use the word never; however, that’s not true, but you get the point. I’d not had a night off at home and been in the mood to go to a club in a year or more. So, away I went to Charlotte’s newest gay dance club: The Garden and Gun Club. It’s actually very posh, and I loved the environment; however, I had some situations come up that reminded me why I avoid going to clubs when I’m not working…

1. Within 10 minutes of getting there I was recognized by people who used to see me dance at Chasers, waaaaaaay back in the day. I was then, after much coddling (and 3 buttery nipples – yet another indulgence that happens rarely) wrangled into giving 3 lap dances to some chics who were there for a bachelorette party.
2. I was approached by an ecstasy queen whom I’d blocked on Manhunt, because he kept harrassing me to date him, even when I’d told him in person at a club that I wasn’t interested.
3. Some other people came up to me and started groping me (the #1 reason why I do not go to clubs when I’m not working: Other people don’t understand the difference between me being there as an entertainer and me being there as a patron). They then told me that I’d lost all my muscle mass (a ridiculous comment to make, given the fact that I’ve gained 30 pounds of lean mass in the year or more since they’d seen me last), and started making comments about my build and assessing me as if I were a horse up for sale. It was like I wasn’t even standing there. I was being completely objectified. I understand very well that this is part and parcel with what I do for a living, but it still seemed completely insensitive and beyond inappropriate for them to talk about me like I couldn’t speak English. Now I’m curious:

Would these people have felt it was okay to speak about me in such completely dehumanizing terms if they saw me as a person and not a personality or a sexual commodity?

I worked this weekend at a really beautiful club, which was more like a gay entertainment complex than a club. It had at least four sections, not to mention an outdoor patio area more akin to an enclosed football field. It was huge! The people were friendly, the place was well-designed and clean, and they even had a shower area for the dancers behind plate glass. Very cool.

I was, however, accused this weekend of being a player (excuse me, “playa”) by someone whom I can only think of as what is referred to as a wigger/wigga/whigga. This patron took it upon himself to “fall in love with me,” making it a huge point to repeat incessantly that he liked me because of my smile, eyes, and mind (and that my body is simply icing on the cake). Interesting, since it was too dark for him to see my smile or eyes all that well and I hadn’t said more than five words (I do admit, however, that they were multisyllabic words nonetheless). He then asked how he might get to know me better (so of course, being the self-promoting gangsta that I am, I referred him to an earlier posting on this blog: see Gay-sek-shul, Bi-sek-shul, Buy-sek-shul, and Pay-sek-shul below). (Oh, sorry for all the parentheses in this blog: Parentheticals iz gangsta)

He said that since I am a stripper (see blog entry entitled Exotic Dancers vs Strippers) I must therefore also be a player (as in someone who plays with other people’s feelings), and he would thus not be able to trust me with anything other than his penis. (insert pregnant pause) It was difficult, but I maintained decorum. Oh, the absurdity I tolerate whilst on my quest to rock out with my cock out…

How’s this for a little verbal exchange I had this weekend: “I don’t tip dancers.” “That’s why we don’t talk to you.” “Why do you degrade yourself this way?”

Wow. Let’s look at that scenario again… who do you think is feeling degraded by being in that club? It’s rather funny to me that so many people assume that being an entertainer is degrading. Hell, my mother even told me I should do it, so what’s a total stranger’s disapproval worth by comparison? How do you know I don’t derive satisfaction (and dare I say it?) pleasure or even pride from what I do?

Before you presume that all dancers must be pitiful, drug-addicted, broke, homeless miscreants, consider the following: I make in a night what many people make in one-three weeks; I drive a sweet convertible; I pay all my bills; I eat organic food; I have a personal trainer; I donate time/money to my community; I love my work; I have underwear that costs more than your outfit; and everyone in my family, all my friends, and my day-time job boss know what I do, and none of them have a problem with it. Sounds like I’m in a downward spiral. My life really sucks.

Hahahahahahahaha - I wish everyone loved their life as much as I love mine. If you think I’m degrading myself, maybe you should re-examine what it is you think you want from your own job and stop worrying about mine.