Devon Hunter

Someone, I believe it was Curt, asked me how honest I am on my blog: Pretty damn honest. I have friends worry that I tell too much. But how else am I to fulfill the mission of this blog? What would be the point of undermining one series of misconceptions by creating new ones?

I treat this writing space the same way I treat a dance studio and a theater stage: It is a space for me to share myself with people who are interested in what I have to say. I create performance art based on autobiographical material. Intimates in my audiences will shake their heads at the details I reveal in my work. But I am accustomed to being naked in front of audiences. I don’t have anything to lose or to hide. I’m not running for public office (I’ve been far too forthright about my life to ever be able to do that in the United States… a pity, since transparency would be a welcome change in our politicians).

So, to put this issue to rest: The only agenda I have on this website is to encourage patrons to see adult entertainers as people. I am faulted. I have talents. I am strong in some ways, but weak in others. I like people, even though many of them hurt me, and if I tell you what I’ve experienced, then you can bank on its being real. One of the observations I ran into at UCLA: The same professor who said I was “begrudgingly brilliant” also noted that my stories sound like fairy tales, not only because I’ve had an interesting life, but because I enjoy the telling as much as the living.

There comes a time in any career when you have to start considering how you will make your exit (Here are some ideas for careers that you can consider after leaving performance). I’m not talking about my own situation (although I’ll address that in a moment), but of a friend’s. He’s been doing adult entertainment for about two years now, and, honestly, that’s about as long as most people do it. I’d be willing to wager that if I did a survey, there would be a bell curve showing that the greatest number of people in the biz stay in it for two-three years. So, there’s nothing abnormal in having this conversation with someone.

What was interesting is that this person had forgotten about life’s options. He sat in silence for a moment when I said, “The career won’t change. Either you have to change your expectations, or you have to find new work.” I was a tad surprised when he responded with, “Wow. I mean… wow.”

He is the type of person who is happiest in a relationship, and has been dissatisfied since breaking up with his last partner. Relationships are more important to him than staying in his current work situation - he wasn’t able to connect with people, because of his career. People are willing to fuck strippers, but not willing to date us (which says more about them than us, to be frank).

And so, it is time for this person to transition out, so that he can find someone to date. That is his priority. He is going to save up his tips, go to school, start a new career, and look for a woman to bear him children. Such is the heterosexual’s world. It makes little sense to me, but it’s his life, not mine. We have to be happy in this world. That is paramount.

As for my own situation: My application to go back to school to become a Physical Therapy Assistant was rejected, because I “failed to meet minimum requirements.” Uh huh… Six months of jumping through flaming hoops for people who couldn’t read the lists of requirements in front of their faces, and it is I who fail to meet minimum requirements? I have to say I’m not all that put out - it was more rigmarole trying to get into this community college than getting into UCLA. I’d actually been figuring out how to get out of going back now, because I have a plan for getting out of debt that would have been completely undermined by being in classes.

So, it’s time for a different strategy. Both of my female roommates are moving in with their boyfriends when the current lease expires in September. I’ve not had my own place since 2003. I’ve lived with roommates for a long time now. I’m excited. Being in school would have complicated a move, so it’s another reason to be glad that this plan didn’t work. I’m happy that I’ll be free to do all of these life tasks without having to worry about missing a class session.

Also, I’ve decided to experiment with other modalities of adult entertainment. I’m exhausted of all the driving from club to club. I’m not interested in leaving the career, however. I am not done. I am still needed in the field, which probably sounds like an odd sentiment, but I have a carefully honed plan that I will share in about a year or so, when everything comes into fruition. It’s time to work smarter, not harder. I do not think I’m interested in becoming a sex worker. I wouldn’t want to do that unless I could successfully navigate being a gay courtesan of sorts. However, there are other options, and I will be flying to San Diego on May 6 in order to explore some opportunities there.

“The universe knows what it’s doing.”

“I have to trust that everything happens for a reason.”

“God gives us only what we can shoulder.”

“Everthing will turn out okay in the end.”

There is a particular grace required to truly be content, despite any particular dissapointments life throws at us. The question of issues surrounding race has come up, and I intend to address it; however, I was speaking with a friend last night, and it occurred to me that there was a topic I wanted to address first: The humility of acceptance.

The platitudes above are clichés. But a statement becomes cliché, because it is repeated. And it is repeated, hopefully, because it’s true. “Everything will turn out okay in the end” can be a very frustrating default response when you’re telling someone your worries or troubles. It can seem like a shallow response (and if there’s no thought behind it, then it is). However, that type of reassurance, when it’s invested with real faith, is actually a compliment to you and to Creation: The person who says it believes you are strong enough to get past the challenge, and that person also believes Life has a purpose that will include you.

I was supposed to be famous by the time I was 22. I was supposed to have my debt paid off by now. Of all the men I’ve cherished, at least one of them one supposed to be nice to me. I could go on and on. But to what end? Focusing on not getting what you think you wanted just encourages bitterness and disappointment. I’m trying to learn to accept that I really do believe that everything happens for a reason.

I’m bracing myself for the possibility that I won’t be accepted into the Physical Therapy program I applied for. I am hoping for the best, but preparing for the worst. Do I want to get accepted? Definitely! Will I be disappointed if I’m not? Probably. But won’t life go on regardless? Indubitably!

If I’m not accepted into that program, well… then I’ll keep on as I am (which ain’t so bad, mind you!), and keep looking for other options. I know I eventually need to make a life/career transition, so I’ll just come up with other options. In the meantime, I do have a workable plan to get my debt paid off, and THAT takes a huge load off my mind. It’s feasible, and I am excited to start it into motion. There are lots of people who run to me, male and female, who are nice to me, who respect me, and who treat me with care; so worrying about persons of the XY persuasion who do not make me feel good is not a reasonable option. The fame… well, looking at Michael Jackson, Britney Spears, and other victims of rampant “success,” I think that being known and respected at the level I am is compliment enough (for now).

Coming back into the light half of the year, I’m re-remembering that balance is a dynamic, active breath between polarities, often at the halfway point (but not always). When dancing, true balance is when you are weightless and effortless in your body, but it cannot be achieved without exerting and maintaining great energy. There’s something zen about that fact: Without the proper tone, extension in all directions, and a sense of expansion (all which require a great deal of exertion), the moment of float cannot be. And it is just a moment.

Anyway, somehow in all that what I’m trying to say is that you can’t be happy without actively creating it. If it seems like the world is denying you what you want, or if you feel blocked repeatedly, consider whether what you want is even feasible/possible/productive/heathful/positive and whether the way you’re going about trying to get it is even a means to that end. And if, despite all your rethinking and reordering, you still do not achieve something particular, then, so long as you aren’t compromising your safety or health (or that of others), consider being content without. Letting go of one desire frees your hands to grasp something even better.

William Forsythe, one of the most brilliant choreographers of the last 50 years, said to us repeatedly at UCLA: “No hope. No fear.” He meant that every moment can be beautiful, if you let it be exactly what it is, without trying to force your hopes (which can be dashed) upon anything. He is a master of improvisation, and he wouldn’t be able to do that if he were investing set expectations on everything. There is nothing you can’t do, so long as you keep all your options open at all times. If you go in “knowing” what you want, there is a much greater chance you will not get it. Having a more generalized sense of what would be nice, and being open to different paths of approaching it, means you have almost no chance for failing.

Do not say “Everything will be okay in the end,” unless you really mean it. Wasting the thought waters it down. Thou shalt not speak clichés in vain. Use this phrase as a mantra to encourage you, not as a bored statement of defeat. Let your surrender be the means to your advantage, and your defeat will become a victory.

Okay, this is a rarity: Two pieces of nonsense from me in one day. Just in case you didn’t get enough of my bullshit in one 24-hour span…

After 2.5 years, and that is a great deal longer than it sounds in some ways (and a great deal shorter in others), I have forgiven my ex. I heard from him randomly last night - ironic that I’d just included a mention of him in my blog yesterday, huh? Reading his note I realized that his brain injuries and 40-plus medication cocktail work together to wipe out a great deal of his memories. He asked me how long I was going to continue living in a past he barely remembers.

He’s right. I’m wrong. If I was expecting a confession, or an act of sincere contrition after deep periods of meditation on his sins against me… Well… That just ain’t gonna happen. I have to accept that I will never get the honest, heart-felt “I’m sorry” that I’ve been wanting from him. He isn’t capable of giving it to me. That doesn’t excuse him in any way, but what it does do is force me to recognize something: I have been making the choice to be miserably afraid of people.

Putting down the weight of “The Scott” isn’t a relief. Without him as a scapegoat I now have to be responsible for all my faults. Everything I don’t like about me I can no longer put on “The Scott.” I’m not sure yet that any of this makes life easier, but it does make all my shortcomings that much more stinging. Especially since I know what all my faults are.

Wait. Isn’t that a bit presumptuous? Can we ever know all of our own faults? Could we ever live long enough to consciously scourge them away? Is it enough to know that we have them (so many of them), without having to quantify or identify each one? Wouldn’t we then forget to be thankful for our many strengths and gifts? Do we not have failure, so that we can appreciate success?

Perhaps I’m self-flagellating too much. But this is part of my process: I have to flay the skin down to the bone. At UCLA one of my professors told me that I was begrudgingly brilliant in my own time. He meant that although I resist journeys that I don’t like (offering all sorts of alternatives and detours along the way), and that although I may take longer to arrive at what others discover quickly, that I get more out of the pilgrimage as a result.

Come what may in the upcoming days, at least I know that I am now living with the conscious choice to no longer live in fear of repeating “The Scott.” I learn. I grow. I get stretchmarks. I use aloe. I’m thinking that it will be very nice to once again expect the best from people, rather than looking out constantly for the worst. People give you what you want, after all.

I told Joe yesterday that the Golden Rule states, “Do unto others, as you would have others do unto you,” but that the Platinum Rule might sound more like, “Do unto yourself, as you would have others do unto you.”

The question has come up (not worded exactly this way, but pretty close), “How did you maintain a balance between staying small and getting bigger?” In other words, how do anorexia and Dysmorphia co-exist? Well, to be frank, they don’t balance, and they don’t co-exist. It’s like being pulled apart - I would actually feel that kind of shearing force in my brain. It was horrible, and looking back I don’t know why I held onto that turmoil so long.

Ups and Downs

Constant fretting was a part of my life because of these two situations both vying for my attention. I desparately wanted to put on lean muscle, but every time I inched up even two-tenths of a pound on my digital scale, I would figure out which meals I could skip “to make up for it.” It doesn’t make any sense. I knew it didn’t, even when I was in the middle of that terrible dichotomy. I wanted the look of muscle without the numerical “score” of my weight going up (I suppose it’s a game, like Hearts, where the fewer points you have, the better?). At any rate, it was a dizzying, confusing, and frustrating teetering act.

And it had other repercussions, other than my body composition. I am already prone to mood swings; however, when you do not eat properly your body systems get out of kilter. All of them. Including your hormones. One hormone in particular, serotonin, is in your gut. This hormone affects mood. If you do not eat properly this hormone gets out of balance, and then your moods get out of balance too. So, my eating disorder also escalated my emotional stress. I’ve been blessed to never have had any major injuries - I can presume only that taking vitamins protected me from difficiency disorders, because my teeth, bones, hair, skin, connective tissues, and all other systems seem fine to this day. If I’d not been at least taking vitamins, I could very well be falling apart already. That happened to my friend Cheryl. She was anorexic for 18 years, never took supplements, and now her teeth, bones, and joints are a wreck.

Janet Jackson + Chris Evans = hot mess

One day I was looking in the mirror for the 497th time that day, and a flash of insight caught me off guard: I was trying to blend two people, whom I looked nothing like, together into one body. Although it hurts my feelings a little when people remind me of this, I am not, in fact, a beautiful Black woman. Also, although I am a White man, I do not look anything like Chris Evans. I don’t understand exactly what amalgamation I was trying for, but recreating myself as a collage of these two was definitely not working well. I look back on this moment, and I realize that it was the instance where I almost pulled myself out of this vortex by myself. But something happened immediately afterwards that distracted me from this little thunder bolt of logic…

Stupid boy

I was with the only guy I had a long term relationship with during college. He was a pudgy little dude with crazy brown hair, and I thought he was absolutely marvelous. When he poked my belly and said, “Getting a little soft around the center, huh?” I took him seriously. It didn’t occur to me that he was being facetious. Over the next few weeks I dropped from 120 pounds to 110. I started passing out in dance class. It was scary. The pic of me that I just posted where I weighed 125 pounds is bad enough - at my worst I weighed 15 pounds less than in that picture. You could see my spine and hip bones. And I thought I was staggeringly beautiful (for a few moments each day between long bouts of self-loathing).

Whether it’s his “fault” for upsetting me, or my “fault” for being so sensitive, or no one’s “fault” at all, that “soft around the center” comment was the driving force behind my eating habits for the next eight years. The effect of the comment lasted years longer than the relationship with Shane.

Emotional instability and therapy

One of the long-term side effects of this “balance” between being small and getting big is that my moods shift very easily and quickly. I feed off the moods of others without realizing it, until after the change has already happened. Also, if I get hungry, I get mean. If I’m ever randomly rude to you just say, “Bitch, do you need a doughnut?” I probably do need to eat something, but a doughnut won’t be my first choice (although the humor will make me smile). My rages would get out of control particularly when I felt people were being mean to me without provocation.

I finally went to a therapist while I was at UCLA. I went because of an incident during my African drumming class. One of the other students (who never attended class, and didn’t know the rhythms) told me I was defiling the drums with my “White hands,” and proceded to push me away from the instrument while grabbing for the mallet in my hand. Well, I was already feeling angry about something else. She tipped me over the edge, and I vented all over her in front of about 100 drummers and dancers. It didn’t help that she was Black, and that everyone knew I was from South Carolina. It immediately became a race issue to them without me ever intending it. They didn’t know what I was already contending with, so on the outside, without any insight into me, I understand why they would assume that. It hurt my feelings they would jump to that conclusion, but it does make sense. I was forced to enter “anger management” classes.

I’m glad. It gave me the opportunity to finally address some of my demons. From that point forward I started improving. But it still took a few years after I completed that therapy to finally let go of my desire to have Janet’s waist and Chris’s chest.

“Better” days

Everything started improving consistently and quickly after I left my last boyfriend in October, 2006. You want to know what finally forced me to let go of alot of my obsessive compulsions? Exhaustion. Pure and simple. I’d been working seven part time jobs to support myself and Scott. When I found out he’d cheated on me with about 30 people while I was out working day and night, and that he was opening credit cards in my name (as well as hiding the bills, maxing them out, and then not making payments), I finally had to work so much that there simply wasn’t time to worry about what I looked like. It didn’t matter if I made the bed or washed the dishes. It didn’t matter if my books were alphabetized by subject/author/title. Suddenly avoiding bankruptcy mattered a whole lot more.

During the months after I left Scott I simply got out of the habit of worrying about my appearance so much. I had a whole new catastrophe to work on (and on a dark level the martyr in me loved the torture). Nearing two-and-a-half years later, I’ve become completely financially independent again, with my credit score being even better than before Scott’s interference. And ironically my eating disorder gave way to fiscal survival. It seems that all I needed was a crisis severe enough to completely distract me from calories.

So, the eating disorder is gone. Done. Good riddance. There are still some traces of the Dysmorphia, in that I can’t see how I’m shaped when I look at myself in a mirror. I see only a flat shape with muddled undulations on the surface. Only in pictures, which are removed from the same space-time as my viewing of myself, can I see me. I need the removal of “now.” By looking back a few moments into the past at how I looked then, I see my curves and proporations. But even then I still don’t trust that 10 seconds later the same holds true. This is getting better as I (slowly) mature.

I look forward to the day, not when my see-saw is balanced, but when I decide I’m no longer interested in the ride.