Devon Hunter

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.

I drive around a great deal. And there are times when the faint business voice in my head clamors a bit louder than normal, or when my well of patience finally runs dry, and I get fed up enough to remove a club from my itinerary. And Secrets has teetered on that razor edge since the very first booking I had there a few months ago. But there are many factors to consider before going that route.

First, I need the variety. I get bored quickly. I like to think this is symptomatic of rampant intelligence, but I’d not be surprised to find it simply betrays a short attention span. At any rate, it’s good to move around and remain as new as possible to as many people as possible. And yet, if a club isn’t properly primed, the patrons may not know how to show appreciation to entertainers. Cutting a club from the list is limiting in ways that can be helpful or hurtful.

Next, for me to really completely write a venue off (especially after having frequented it), I have to be pretty near irreconcilably pissed off about something that truly matters: There’s a difference between taking a break and saying “never again.” There’s a club in Macon, GA that has this status: When Scotty and I walked in they asked us, “Are you going to be sucking cock over here or over there? We need to know where to set the screens up.” Ahem. That booking was okay as far as money, and they didn’t wrangle over the fee, but they’re impossible to coordinate with (because both owners send emails separately without conferring first). So. Never again, Macon. I needed an extended break from PT1109 in Columbia, but I’m almost ready to go again. Swinging Richards is its own little vortex, but I do admit that I’ve missed not being there for the past several weeks.

Lastly (for now), I have to consider the connections I’ve made in various places. True, I find Secrets to be incredibly mismanaged on many levels. True, the money has never justified the travel required to get there. True, I find it to be ridiculously exploitative to be required to walk around naked with an erection and no guarantee of income. However…

I have made some wonderful friends in D.C. Hopefully they know who they are, and I think they know what I mean when I use the word “friend.” I would like to think I’ve made it clear to them how much I like and appreciate them. I really enjoy D.C. as a city (except for the damn “roads” and “drivers”), at least the Northwest quadrant, anyway. And I would like them to know that if it weren’t for the anchor of my dance company, I would probably move to D.C. this fall, since my lease ends in September. But there are connections in Charlotte that I’m not willing to sever just yet.

And so, despite the frustration I contend with at Secrets, I will continue (no matter what I say) to book myself there. These amazing people add something to my trip that is worth more than the cash which I do or do not make at the club. They are more valuable to me than mere money. They are treasures unto themselves. And so then: How could I not include Secrets? Cutting Secrets would mean walking away from far more than I’m willing to sacrifice.

(Tu sais bien, Monsieur SS, que tu me manques déjà, et que je ne peux guère attendre à te revoir.)

So, Secrets has a particularly annoying habit of projecting bareback porn on the walls (and sometimes they go so far as displaying fisting), which is replete with all sorts of philosophical and business model problems in my (not very) humble opinion. It’s made even more hypocritical by the fact that there is (finally) a FUK!T condom dispenser at the entrance (Thanks, Matt!!).

Sundays are “retro” night, and the DJ’s spin material from the 70’s, 80’s, and early 90’s (Lord, help me: “Escapade” by Janet Jackson is retro??? When the hell did that happen?). As a consequence, in “keeping with the theme,” the powers-that-be feel inclined to show pre-condom “classics.” As if the hair product and eyeliner aren’t bad enough, the videos are of poor quality and reinforce everything that is destructive about gay sexuality. It should be pointed out that there isn’t an RIP mention in the end credits for all the actors/models who have since died as a result of making the very videos that are being projected on the walls. Another question: Aside from the obvious problems with the video, and the fact that they distract from the dancers, does buying these videos include a license to use them in public spaces (regardless of whether D.C. law makes it illegal or not)?

But the “Oh, snap!” moment comes when Scott, the photographer for the FUK!T campaign, said something to a staff person about the porn not having condoms. “It’s retro night!” the individual gayly exclaimed. “Oh,” Scott quipped, “maybe you guys should hand out the retro meds from the 80’s that didn’t work against this retro virus.” PWNED.

Devon,

What was it like when you first danced naked?

- C

Hello  C!

Well, there are different firsts. When I first danced in any state of undress at all (back in those innocent beginning days - HA!), I was standing backstage in a thong on the verge of throwing up. I heard them call my name, and for about three seconds I just stood there (remember: at that time I was still struggling with anorexia), fearing that people would boo, hiss, laugh, etc. After another short breath, I stepped out onto the stage, and got dizzy for about half a moment. But then it passed as I started moving: I fell into performance mode. And then it was fine.

Fast forward to Swinging Richards: That was my first experience with total nudity. Again, I was scared. But not to be naked. It was because the other dancers were so intimidating, not to mention that the manager is gruff. But again, I went into performance mode, and the cold sweat on my palms stopped distracting me. It was liberating, actually.

The next first was Secrets. Not only are you nude there, but you have to maintain an erection. I really had zero butterflies. By that point it was no longer a point of anxiety. Actually, I enjoy dancing at Secrets more than Swinging Richards. There’s something oddly satisfying about being able to play with yourself in front of people (which is absolutely not allowed on stage at Richards, at least not once your undies come off). By the end of the night I can’t stand touching my penis anymore. It’s numb.

Anyway, once you get past the initial trepidation, nudity is natural and has a healing effect (at least for me). Being completely “vulnerable” forces you to really know yourself (or to completely retreat behind walls… it’s a rather 50-50 chance you take). Beyond that, the only complaints I have about dancing nude at this point is when the damned clubs crank the A/C. It gets COLD!

I just got back from Secrets. I’m exhausted. The last month has been road trip after road trip, and I am going to try to take this coming weekend off completely. I have so much blogging to catch up on, and I want to thank everyone who emailed me questions/topics. I fully intend to catch up with all of this in the coming days as I rest and recover.

But there is something grave I need to address first.

I have spoken already about the potentially abusive relationship that can exist between patrons and entertainers, especially when patrons become obsessive. This is stalking. I am not going to address this again here. This weekend I witnessed an entertainer who is being abused by another entertainer. They are boyfriends. The problem with abusive boyfriends is that they can be so beguiling and charming at first…

Having survived abuse, I already know most of the excuses, apologies, and lies that abused people use to defend the people who hurt them. When you encounter someone who is being victimized by his/her partner, it is difficult to know how much to intrude. I personally wouldn’t want to accidentally escalate a situation (which as bad as it might be in front of others could become much worse in private); however, I also cannot turn a blind eye.

Adult entertainment attracts all types of people. Some of them are unsavory and/or dysfuntional. These people may be club owners, booking agents, film directors, patrons… or the entertainers themselves. Given the reputation lumped upon most entertainers in general, it goes without saying that there must be a reason for this: There are some horrible people who dance in clubs. Definitely not all, or even most, but entertainers need to pay attention to other entertainers.

I was very excited the last time I almost dated, because the person in question had worked as a go-go dancer, and didn’t judge me because of my work. It is common for adult entertainers to pair off with each other - we understand each other. And yet, that means that there is the potential for you as an entertainer to connect with one of those unsavory people I just mentioned, thinking that it will be a good match. But you must always pay attention.

I got pretty forceful with one of the dancers. I think I probably put him on the spot (in private) unexpectedly. He is, in my opinion, at the stage of the abusive relationship where he is not willing to accept that he is being abused. But when I consistently see his partner treat him like a servant, start physical brawls over nothing, insult him with names, degrade him by calling him female slurs, make forceful attempts to kick/punch/slap him, and discuss with other entertainers the best way to “be the man in the relationship” by limiting the person in question’s ability to function by cutting off access to the car, then my conscience forces me to act. If his abusive partner is going to make this public, where I have to see it, then it’s an invitation to become involved.

I told this beautiful, sweet-natured, warm, friendly man that when he was ready to accept that he needed to get away that he can call or email me. If he needs a few days to figure out how to get home to his family, and needs a safe place to get far away from the verbal and physical blows, he can use my home as a sanctuary. I cannot pretend to not know what is plain before my own eyes. Even though he is still at the point where he says, “Oh, he’s just aggressive. It’s the steroids. You can’t take him too seriously. He’s actually a really nice guy,” he will eventually (I hope) come to recognize the lie in this. How many times do you have to tell me someone isn’t a douche bag? Shouldn’t I be able to see that on my own?

If you are an entertainer, there are going to be times when you are very lonely. You will want to connect with someone. You might be tempted to look for love within the career. And that’s totally fine; however, make certain that you practice the same vetting process on the private side of the velvet rope as you do on the public side. Make certain that you pay attention, regardless of the career of the person you cling to. But, without trying to feed into a stereotype, recognize that the odds of picking a bad apple may be worse if you pick from this particular barrel.