Devon Hunter

It’s funny how certain conversations seem to happen in batches. This weekend I am visiting friends and seeing clients in DC. Last weekend I was dancing in Greenville, SC and Asheville, NC. I was booked for the latter first, which was a fundraiser, and since it interrupted my weekend I decided to book the former to have something to do. My good friend Roxy C. Morecox is a widely celebrated female illusionist, and we talk pretty candidly about the escorting. She asked me which I preferred, escorting or exotic dancing. Oddly enough, I have had three clients ask me that question recently too.

I have to say it: Unequivocally, I prefer escorting. The bookings at the clubs this weekend drew everything into sharp focus. I don’t do the clubs hardly ever anymore, so when I do I keep having the same reaction: I used to put up with this abject bullshit? Really?? For TWELVE YEARS???

First, my clients are ALWAYS sober, clean, polite, and respectful. The place where I meet them is comfortable, and I am very relaxed and happy with the time I spend with my clients. I walked into the doors at the clubs and already felt out of place. My asshole even puckered tightly shut when I first walked into one of the clubs. Really? I mean really?? Why does this place have to be so gross?

Let me start by comparing the two. Whether I escort or perform I have to be conscious of my body, appearance, hygiene, and manners. Regardless of which I am doing I also have to be very sensitive to others. Also, whether I dance or date I have to be on top of my business.

However…

When I escort my clients are ALWAYS gentlemen. When I dance, gentlemen are almost nowhere to be found. When I escort my clients compliment my appearance. When I dance I get told any number of insulting comments about whatever feature is most offensive in that particular moment. When I escort the men are interested in talking to me and knowing something about me. When I dance they are far more likely to do or say anthing possible to embarrass or humiliate me. When I escort I can pay my bills. When I dance I am commanded to do any number of ridiculously inappropriate sexual circus tricks for a dollar. When I escort I stay in comfortable hotels. When I dance, the club owners stick me in places that I would be ashamed for clients to see. When I escort there are never requests for barebacking. When I dance I have this thrown at me in the dressing room: “Can I fuck you raw? I am into felching. I like to wipe it on my face - it’s good for the skin.”

Are you kidding me with this? I even had one loathsome individual try to tip me with my own money. He was so high that he thought the tips I’d handed to a friend to count was the cash he’d brought in to tip me with. Ummmmmmm… no. Not so much.

I had a very good time laughing and dancing with Roxy, and I would love to travel with her some more; however, I made in an entire weekend what I can make in two hours without the sleepless nights, smoke, drug addicts, alcohol, wanton groping, and strained muscles/sore back.

I definitely prefer escorting.

I am fucking fabulous!

People can say whatever else they want about me, but one trait should outshine all of them: I am resilient. I don’t understand how or why I attract the type of Mongolian cluster fucks that are magnetized to my presence, but I have been given the gift of survival. I find a way. Therein lies the balance, I suppose.

Because of complications with money that began when I went to Biltmore a few weeks ago for a vacation, rather than do the third Sean Cody movie when it was offered to me, I am under some extreme financial strain. In retrospect I should not have taken that particular weekend off with that particular person. The trip has definitely not proven to be worth the loss of thousands of dollars. The views of nature were pretty, and I had a good time, but now I find myself wishing I’d just gone to San Diego when they asked me to. The positive: I have remembered why it’s important to look out for practical needs before fantasies. I’m not bitter. Sour perhaps, but not bitter. I’ll be sweet again in time. (Please remember honesty and communication in your interactions with others.)

Also, this weekend we’d booked 14 models for a project to have only three show up. Some fast proactive thinking on my part saved the photoshoots, but the stress wasn’t needed. But this too ends happily: We got pictures of eight models, and the diversity is very nice.

Oh, I have made a decision: I will never dance at Secrets again. I will keep going to D.C., but not to be at that club. I have peeps in the capital city, but Secrets will never exploit me again. So, there’s another happy conclusion.

However, one issue that has come up in addition to the rest: My car won’t start. I got back from an intensely overwhelming trip to D.C. to find that the battery in my car had died completely while I was gone for four days. When we pulled it out it was obvious that it was the original manufacturer’s part: My battery was eleven year old! Impressive, but going dead when I needed to get to Atlanta was extremely unhelpful. It was 8:45 on a Sunday night. I was lucky to find an Adanced Auto that was open until 11:00 pm. Replacing the battery caused an arc of electricity, and the fuses blew. They couldn’t be taken out without special tools. It was 10 o’clock at night, a thunderstorm was blowing in, we’re replacing parts to my car in the dark, and I need to get to Atlanta by 1:00 in the morning. Not happening… At least not with my car…

But this is where the deal gets sealed: I know I am fucking fabulous, because of the people who surround me. I know some total angels. If I weren’t amazing I wouldn’t be loved by amazing people. “Show me a man’s friends, and I’ll tell you his character.” Mhm. I must be pretty fucking fabulous, since the people I know are absolutely incredible.

My family and friends encourage me and help me. My roommate, her boyfriend, and my nextdoor neighbor are going to get my car running while I’m gone (or at least try to). My roommate took me to Amtrak at 1:00 am, so I could take a train to Atlanta. I’m travelling in Florida with two guys who are wonderful people. My collaborators at home and in D.C. inspire me with their generosity and faith in me. What else is there to say? How could I ever doubt that I am loved? The proof is in the pudding:

I. Am. Fucking. Fabulous.

One of the questions I received boils down to this: Are dancers who travel or work together truly friends, or does competition prevent that?

That depends on a great number of issues. Scotty and I are definitely truly friends, regardless of the money we do or don’t make around each other. We help each other in many ways, other than splitting the cost of travel. We collaborate in various ways, talk to each other about problems or concerns, and look out for each other in general. Two other guys who travel together are Will and Johnny, two beautiful Latino dancers from Miami. They really are friends.

Is it always like that? No. Probably not. I’m sure that there are people who travel together out of convenience or to lower indiviudal costs. I know of two dancers from Charlotte who no longer travel together, because one was always creating problems and not covering his share of the gas/hotel. They had no other connection, so the other dancer now refuses to travel with the mooch. It’s the same as any other working scenario: There are people you bond with, and people you tolerate (and people you avoid as well).

As for behind the scenes, I have already blogged about the competition that exists there. But that entry deals with dancers in general, not travel companions. I would say that people who consistently go place to place together over a long term will develop some kind of tolerance for each other (at a minimum), and that others get quite close. But relationships are always evolving. A perceived or actual insult, attack, theft, or any other number of bad experiences can sour a travelling duo’s connection just as quickly as anyone else’s.

My suggestion is to know the person you travel with. This person, if you share a room, will have access to your belongings. You wouldn’t want to get hijacked in your own car. You also need to know that the cash you’ll be keeping on you until you can take it to the bank will be vulnerable. I didn’t invite Scotty to travel with me until we’d danced together consistently for several months. After staying with him several times, eating with him, getting to know more about him as a person, and sharing info about myself with him (to see how he would treat it), I finally knew I could take him on the road with me. I have never had even a moment’s cause to regret that (note: Remind me, please someone, to one day tell you about the first trip we took together down to Macon, GA… HAHAHAHAHA!). But I got to know him first. We became friends first.

So, simple answer: No, not all who travel together are friends, but it’d be a good idea for them to at least respect each other.