Inspo—
“I’ll give you anything you need, just let me be a greased up freak” —Macy Rodman, Greased Up Freak Part 1
“As a continuation of the celebrity-worshipping ethos of The Fame, The Fame Monster explored the darker side of that mentality, examining complex questions about the unfortunate aftermath of becoming famous. Gaga had gone from being “Beautiful, Dirty, Rich” to a “Monster,” now unable to pull herself away from the allure she had spent so much of her life chasing. Fame had come fast — she had gone from performing in sweaty dive bars on New York City’s Lower East Side to selling out arenas and stadiums — but at what cost?” —Michael Cuby, Looking Back at a Decade of The Fame Monster, the Album That Made Me Gay
“Thank you for listening.” —Kaneisha, Slave Play
Of course I was a Colby Keller fan. Nothing all that obsessive. I was in college and seemed to be reading a few of the same books he loved to reference. I didn’t watch many of his scenes, but in those halcyon tumblr days, I appreciated what he was trying to do— break the mold of a disposable gay whore and potentially even break into mainstream media.
This was a peculiar cultural moment for male sex work, when RentBoy operated in flagrante and Queerty gossiped about Austin Wilde and HBO’s Looking depicted a calm, cool, and autonomous male escort. Gay representation was pluralizing enough for it to feel like sex work might not foreclose any hope of mattering to the world, even just the gay world. It might even guarantee it. Eventually, Keller positioned himself as an accelerationist Trump voter, a provocation that either caused or coincided with his fade-out from the industry. Not long after, I began to send out model applications.
I didn’t usually have a favorite porn star, but occasionally certain performers would stand out. Marcus Mojo was compelling to me at one point. Igor from Machofucker could still own this hole. Long before all that, I used to light up when I’d come across either Brent. Yes, Corrigan and Everett. Their film together was one of the few I would go back to and still get off on re-watching. But beyond the sex scenes, I was mesmerized by the excess of personality that distinguished characters from types, even if those personalities weren’t altogether good ones. From the vantage of a mid-2000s early adolescence, I was piecing together an obscure star system of gay names and faces like it was a hanky code between me and my web browser, or better yet, like it was a history. Once I was older I taught myself about earlier, grander star systems of gay porn, and around the same time ran into Brent Corrigan at a party. I admitted to being a fan, and through nervous giggles asked for a photo together.
I’ve never been all that interested in meeting celebrities. We’d be meeting on extremely inequitable grounds, indulging in an exchange that I’ll remember for a long time and they won’t, that means a lot to me and mathematically means little to them, even the humble ones. I want to work with somebody I admire instead of just make introductions, or even party together. I hate feeling like a plebe— or worse, a climber! I don’t pretend to have any healthier relationship to fame and celebrity than anyone else. Wanting to work or collaborate with these people on equitable terms might be even more delusional than hoping they’ll remember me for giving them a bump at a gay bar. Does Emma Stone remember me? I’m doubtful, but it sure feels good to drop that name.
But fangirling over a porn star leaves a chalkier taste than the encounters between mainstream celebrities and their fans. For one thing, we’re on the X-List, worlds beneath the singers, actors, and even the reality stars of the pop culture pantheon. We live closer to the celebrity exhibitionists, social media influencers, in not only how our obscurity ranks but also how smoothly we can make a living off of a personal brand (not all that smoothly). For another, we have the ability to herd the raucous demands for more and more exposure into a simple, subscription-based transaction. There’s fans, and there’s Fans.
Even still, our stardom lives behind the padlocks of private accounts and incognito tabs. We are not meant to be recognized in public, because to do so betrays an embarrassing elephant, a dramatic irony— you’ve had sex with me, without me. One cannot escape the uncanny paranoia that I have seen you through the screen, that just because you have given your time and fantasies and cum to me, that I have received them.
Sometimes this compels people to send me their nudes, as if my publicized hole pics are a personal sext awaiting reply, or as if there’s a cosmic imperative to restore some kind of balance between us. Sometimes this compels people to confess to me about the moment I appeared in their feed, and that they did not breach the platonic boundary of getting off to my videos. But congratulations, you’re everywhere!
I’ve picked up a lot of cues about sex work from women, whether they’re friends, writers, or advocates I’ve encountered over the years. Because of this influence I was once very weary of maintaining a secret identity and of the threat of being stalked or harassed. But audiences to gay sex differ a bit from those who consume women’s sexual performances, especially online. Male sex workers get harmed and harassed, especially black men, but our reply guys tend to be a bit easier to handle than women’s. Perhaps men just treat other men better, or perhaps the male hustler is imagined as a more violent and intimidating figure. Perhaps gay culture’s sex objects emerge through a confluence of desire and admiration, of wanting to have and wanting to be, and this produces a subtler, more embittered kind of denigration than the vitriol men lob at women. A full comparison is beyond my scope here, but suffice to say I am less imperiled by my gay fans than I’d initially feared. A lot of them are quite similar to me.
I get a lot of guys who compliment my writing, or my “brain.” Sometimes this feels underhanded, the subtext that this suitor sees something special that the others don’t, or worse, that I’m not like those other dumb whores. I might just be defensive. But more and more, these encounters don’t feel like that, and I meet people with genuine and tremendously affirming things to say about my work as a well-integrated whole. I’ve met people for whom my work opens up conversations, and maybe even possibilities for how we can encounter the people we admire. People I hardly know have shown up for me.
I don’t really want fans, and I’m not sure anybody really does. I want exceptionality without isolation, and I want good faith without free rides. I want patrons and I want readers and I want to belong to a community of people passionate about what they do. Take this as a toast then: to the X-List, to local heroes, to making it, to faking it. I’m grateful to be heard.
XO
TY