Devon Hunter

This may at first come across as a vulgar and gratuitously sexual entry; however, if you will bear with me, I will tell you why I have chosen to write it…

Yesterday I was drowning in one of my pools of emotion. I have climbed out of it much quicker than I normally do when I am mired in whatever mud my rivers churn up within me. I am not apologizing, because my emotions are part of who I am.

I spoke for an hour with my friend Jen, and we realized that I’m getting better at reining in my stallions, but that I need to focus on matching the level of my response to that which is appropriate. That isn’t to say that I am wrong to unleash the cavalry, but that I need to be more careful about when and to what degree I rattle the sabers. Almost a year ago Allen taught me to avoid scorched earth, and now I’m realizing the value of a gradated scale of alert at the airport.

Be that as it may, I then went into the normal tailspin of shame afterward for not having better control over myself; however, this time I did something special to make me feel better. I have commented on the types of touch I perceive, and after a bad day, I realized that I needed some sexual healing. (continues below video)

I went to Matt’s house almost too drained to even want to go, despite the fact that if there were ever someone I have met who should be in porn but isn’t… it is this boy. He is a fuck machine. He has blonde hair and blue eyes, a super lean body with compact and defined muscles, a cute face, an exquisite ass, and a huge dick. This 23-year-old boy was made for fucking, and he can do it for for hours. He can’t get enough! Just what the doctor ordered.

I always enjoy watching our sex in the mirror, because he is so responsive to small flicks here and deep kisses there. He writhes and moans, and is generally exceedingly flattering to my ego. But I was still just a tad distracted…

Until I caught my own eyes in the mirror and saw that I had finally connected to the moment. Between trying to suck my cock right off my body (and then trying to rip it off with his butt) I had no choice but to take the plunge… My survival was at stake! LOL

After a very long time he finally exploded into the most beautiful orgasm. His fair skin blushed red and he simpered like a little puppy. He is precious. So it was my turn, and I requested that he sit on my face while I masturbated to finish.

And then, in that precise moment, it finally occurred to me. While the mean-spirited cellar gnomes who had upset me so badly were in their little huts, groveling away over their computer screens about my latest controversy, I had a beautiful boy’s asshole in my mouth while I was jetting cum everywhere. And suddenly… those horrible people didn’t matter. They don’t matter. At all. They. Don’t. Matter.

What matters is the connection you make with people who hold you dear, and that this connection is one that nurtures you. I do not regret defending my friend. I do not regret being upset for what is happening to him. But my friend is the one who matters, not the dickhead who is bothering him. That boy last night who thinks I’m the sexiest man he’s ever met: He matters. The clients who experience joy, because they have spent quality time with me: They matter. My family matters. My cat matters.

Assholes don’t matter (unless they’re attached to the beautiful boy sitting on your face).

I believe that over the last year or two I have made it clear that I am a person of shifting moods, someone who is as faulted as anyone else, but who at least struggles with the internal questions of how to grow and become a better man on various levels. I have also written about what a friend is to me, and how precious that is in my mind and heart. With that in mind I would like to talk for a moment about sabotage.

I have written about sabotage very little, because I feel giving vent to it reinforces the stereotype that adult entertainment is more cutthroat than other industries. This is a perverse hypocrisy. I spent years in standard jobs, and to imply that sex workers are more manipulative than divorce lawyers, priests/preachers, bank CEO’s, school administrators/principals, or tenure-track professors is to throw very large rocks in very fragile glass houses. Politics is a game I do not play, not because I’m too stupid, but because I have no tolerance for hypocrisy and treachery.

With that said, there is a situation where a particular escort seems to have targeted a friend of mine. He shifts his own travel itinerary in order to get to a city a week before my friend. He then sees many clients, so that their finances are depleted just before my friend arrives. This Judas also casts aspersions on my friend. I don’t know the cause, and, frankly, I don’t care. My friend helped this person extensively in the past, and now he has decided to specifically undermine my friend in various duplicitous ways. I have never done this on my blog, but I will do it now:

Daddy can control the content of his own site, but he cannot control the content of mine. My readership covers people in 38 states, 24 countries, and four continents. I can make my content concerning you searchable with tags, including your name, that will show up in search engines.

I am a very nice person, but do not fuck with my family or my friends. I do not seek out confrontation - I loathe it; however, when in Rome…

I have discovered a new fear (or at least a different incarnation of a familiar one): The fear of financial success. It’s odd… I find that I work very hard in various endeavors, hoping to attain some modicum of “success” in whatever it is I’m doing; however, as soon as I start to see those results, I (without realizing it, until after it has happened) back down/lose interest/get scared. Why would this be?

Is there worry that once I have achieved a particular “bench mark” there’ll be nothing left to do? Probably not. I don’t think in those terms. But what I have realized (and have said in various ways in different entries) is that I thrive on the process more than the outcome. I think there is also some small part of me that worries about maintenance/endurance/consistency… If I attain “success” how will I then avoid losing it?

An interesting part of me that I need to examine more closely… I think this misstep in logic has cost me a great deal, and I need to reflect on how I think it has tripped me up in the past. I think I purposefully sabatoge myself, and I need to think about the subtle ways this fear manifests itself. Any insight from y’all would be greatly appreciated.

I am on the verge of creating tangible security and stability for myself for the first time, and I’m scared I’m going to get scared and fuck it up.

It was brought to my attention that there are sites that do nothing but discuss the material that is generated at places like Sean Cody, Corbin Fisher, and Randy Blue. What’s more, it was brought to my attention that people can respond to those critiques/discussions. There are so many opinions out there… It’s pretty amazing how much they can differ from person to person or site to site. It’s also amazing the extent to which some people try to invade the privacy of others.

What I have read essentially brings me to balance: There are at least 15 sites I have found that have discussed and/or reviewed my solo at Sean Cody. This was not something I’d thought to consider before I did it. It never occurred to me that there were full-time movie critics and peanut galleries for Sean Cody; however, these not only exist, they proliferate in large numbers. And that is what is interesting: I am only one person, and yet some of the responses I elicited from people were as divergent as you could possibly imagine.

Some people were revolted at the thought of me being gay and 32 years old. Others liked me specifically because of it. There were as many comments that I was fugly as there were that I was gorgeous. All of the reviews themselves were glowing, but it was the conversations that followed that could be startling. And yet, after all that reading, what I have finally accepted is that I am who I am, and that’s going to just have to be good enough.

So, although some people have called me a pasty grub and others have called me a creamy boystud; and although some have called me a nelly gay-faced homo, while others refer to me as a hot gay jock; and whereas there are people who think me ancient and/or decrepit, there are others who applaud me for admitting my age (which makes me seem, to them, even more youthful); and since in the same conversation there are people who think I am nothing arguing along side of people who think I am everything… What all this essentially means is that all the negatives are cancelled out by positives, and I’m left right where I was before: Me.

And that’s not such a bad scenario.

Mary Renault is, along with Isabel Vandervelde, my favorite writer of historical fiction. Renault wrote her books based in Ancient/Classical Greece during the 1950’s, so although her work is already amazing enough for its literary value, it becomes even more impressive because of how she treated Pederasty and Pedagogy (the training of young men by older men to be honorable citizens). It was an important matter, and a father wanted a good friend (erastes) for his son (eromenos) as much as he wanted a good suitor for his daughter.

At any rate, I bring this up, because I reread “The Last of the Wine” every year or two. During my flight out to San Diego and back I had alot of time. I read the book again, getting ever more from it than I did before (but that is almost always the case with art: there are layers upon layers to sift). The nuances that I was too young or too inexperienced to understand before become clearer, and I fell in love with the characters all over again. The portion that I want to discuss focuses on the dialogue between Alexias (the main character and narrator) and Sokrates (yes, THE Sokrates): What is the price of finding and keeping a true and honourable lover?

I spoke in anger, for my heart was sore. The truth is that I was getting to an age when one wishes for love, and has one’s own ideas of what it ought to be; and I was ceasing to believe that what I sought was anywhere to be found.

“By the way,” Sokrates said, “what do you dislike so much about Polymedes? He looks undistinguished, of course, compared with a man like Charmides, and his father made his money in leather. Is it his vulgarity, or what?”

“No, Sokrates. That too I daresay; but in himself he is base. He tried first to buy me with gifts; not flowers or a hare, but the kind of thing we can’t afford at home. Then he sent word that he was dying, to make me take him out of pity; and now, what is surely as low as a man can go, he is willing I should do it simply to keep him quiet. If I were to lose my father and mother and all I have, if I were disgraced even before the City so that people turned from me in the street, he would be glad of it, if it put me within his reach. And this he calls love.” I had spoken too vehemently, but Sokrates still looked at me kindly; so coming at last to what had been behind the rest, I said, “I shall always think worse of myself for having been his choice.”

He shook his head. “You are wrong, my boy, if you think he is seeking a kindred spirit. He is looking for what he lacks, being limp of soul, and not wishing to know that the good must first be wrought with toil out of a man’s own self, like the statue from the block. So now I think you need the advice of someone who understands these questions.”

I was about to say, “Whose, Sokrates?” when a great noise of hammering reminded us that we were approaching the Street of the Armourers. Since the news from Sicily, they were busy again. We turned aside, to be heard without shouting. “I suppose,” Sokrates said, “you will be ordering armour for yourself before another year is up, so fast time flies. Where will you go for it?”

“To Pistias, if I can afford his price. He’s very dear; nine or ten minas for a horseman’s suit.”

“So much? I suppose you will get a gold device on the breastbone for that?”

“From Pistias? Not if you gave him twelve; he won’t touch them.”

“Kephalos would make you something to catch the eye.”

“Well, but Sokrates, I might need to fight in it.” He laughed, and paused.

“I see,” he said, “that you are a judge of value, though so young. Perhaps you can tell me, then, who am getting too old to know much of such matters, what price one ought to pay for a true and honourable lover?” I wondered what he could take me for, and answered at once that one ought to pay anything.

He looked at me searchingly, and nodded his head. “An answer worthy, Alexias, of your father’s son. Yet many things have their price which are not upon the market. Let us see if this is one of them. If we come into the company of such a lover, it seems to me that one of three things will happen. Either he will succeeed in making us his equal in honor; or, if he fails both to do this and to free himself from love, seeking to please us he will become less good than he was; or, if he is of stronger mind, remembering what is due to the gods and to his own soul, he will be master of himself, and go away. Or can you see some other conclusion than these?

“I don’t think, Sokrates,” I said, “that there can be another.”

“So, then, it now appears, does it not, that the price of an honourable lover is to be honourable ourselves, and that we shall neither get him nor keep him, if we offer anything less?”

“It seems so, certainly,” said I, thinking it kind of him to be at so much pains to keep my mind from my troubles.

“And thus,” he said, “we find that what we thought was to be had for love turns out the costliest of all. You are fortunate, Alexias; for I think it is still within your means. But see, we are walking past our destination.”

We had just passed the portico of the Archon King, and were outside Tuareas’ palaestra. Not wishing to trouble him with my company out of season, I asked if he was meeting a friend. “Yes, if I can find him. But don’t go, Alexias. I am only looking for him to put your case before him. He happens to be much better qualified than I to help you.”

I knew his modesty; but having resolved to deal with Polymedes at once, I did not feel eager to spend the rest of the morning being improved by Protagoras or some other venerable Sophist; so I assured Sokrates that he himself had done me as much good as anyone could, except a god. “Oh?” he said. “Yet I believe you don’t consider me infallible; I noticed just now that you thought more of Pistias’ opinion than mine.”

“Only about armour, Sokrates. Pistias is an armourer, after all.”

“Just so. Wait, then, while I fetch my friend. He is usually wrestling here about this time.”

“Wrestling?” I said staring; Protagoras was reckoned to be at least eighty years old. “Who is this friend, Sokrates? I thought…”

“Wait in the garden,” he said; and then just as he was turning to go, “We will try Lysis, son of Demokrates.”

I believe that I gasped aloud, as if he had emptied a water-jar over me…