So much for Southern hospitality.
A gay stripper who sometimes dances at Swinging Richards complains that during a recent party in Atlanta, some of the gay male attendees turned into a pack of horned-up ass grabbers once they realized a dancer for pay was in the house. Not surprising, but still a little troubling.
What’s sort of interesting about the incident though is the point the stripper, Devon Hunter, makes about how the mood of the room changed once the party-goers learned he dances.
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).
Ah, such nice cocktail conversation.
Hunter, who writes that he attended the party with a friend to network for his artistic projects, says he finally met the person he wanted to touch base with, only to be dismissed as a stripper.
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…
Check out his blog for the full post and some other interesting, sometimes funny, takes on the life of a gay stripper. There’s a recent post about his trip to the bank to exchange all of his small bills he gets as tips (the bank teller agrees that the money smells like “cigarettes and ass”) and his advice for those who want to date a stripper, including this: If you find your partner saying bizarre stuff to certain people, roll with it.
(Hat tip to my friend Matt at InterstateQ for his post about Hunter.)