Do you ever play that game? Who am I? Where you write a famous person’s name on a note then paste it to your playmate’s forehead? It’s their job to ask questions that will slowly reveal the identity plastered to where they can’t see. You take turns one at a time or play it together simultaneously. Have you ever wondered what questions would be asked to reduce the choices down to you? You know, if it was in fact your own name placed on your forehead?
Of course that would likely not be the case unless someone was playing a joke on you. One variation of the game is called Botticelli. Basically marking the rule in its title. No one less notable than Botticelli is to be written in. Funny though, if this game was played in the 19th century Botticelli would not make the cut. He was long forgotten until the Pre-Raphaelites discovered him again, centuries after his death. Botticelli in the 18th and 19th century had a name that was unknown. I bet you didn’t know you still don’t know it. Botticelli is actually a nickname of his. Translated, it’s Little Barrel. A comparison to his large chested older brother nicknamed Botticello, Big Barrel. Despite its diminutive sentiment, it was the name he embraced. A name that revealed more than any given one would. I think it’s so sweet that that was the name he decided to sign his paintings with.
In my work I often find people fixated on my name. Needing to find out my “real” one, that is. You add a recent title shift, now some are real confused. As if the first one was real to begin with. Yes, I have been known as LaRoux for awhile now and some of you are just being introduced to me as Moore. One thing that can be counted on is that you all know me as Bobbie. But “who am I”?
Well someone who has chosen the name Bobbie… That’s something. This being the case so much so that the only client who has had the opportunity to find out my given name, bounced between using my civilian name and my working one. Transitioning between the two to signify different sentiments. Bobbie could be used when he was hyper sexualizing me or when he wanted to recognize the bits of myself I magnified as Bobbie. He didn’t say it in cheeky way as if it was my fake name. He used it as an affirmation of all the parts of myself that I project or even hide. He said it like, “I love you.”
He got it.
Bobbie is a name I love. Lacks any pretension, a little sweet, kind of bouncy, also a touch androgynous. I think I’ll always be her. Maybe it’s my opportunity as a mostly heteronormative presenting person to practice what many queer people do on a daily basis. The practice of self-determination.
When I first came up with LaRoux, I liked how it added to Bobbie’s bounciness. It was musical and campy. It also referred to the red locks I had at the time. What followed was a slew of clients asking me if I was Cajun. Not the worst association but quite a role to fill. Nonetheless I trekked on with the name, slowly losing connection to it. I held on for its reputation. A provider who had nothing less than 5 star reviews. I couldn’t peel away so easily even if my hair color changed and my campy presentation started to shed.
Motherhood (a second time around) came and that had been a whole other force. It dramatically shifted my career and identity in so many ways. I was a MILF the whole time in real life but not as a provider. Things that were always there became much more obvious. Whether it be from clear analysis of what it took to provide through pregnancy or the projections one puts on mothers, now I was suddenly perceived as a nurturing provider who was down for some very naughty roleplaying. All of which was true… always true.
Another funny side effect of this transition came in the form of sabotaging the one platform that made me so beholden to my chosen surname, LaRoux. That platform being Private Delights. One morning squeaky eyed and sleep deprived I received an inquiry for a date linking their screening in the email. I clicked it and that was it. I got phished. It was something I was so well versed in avoiding but after 2 months of interrupted sleep I was a vulnerable target. My page was compromised. The amount of hoops to jump through to recover my profile were so vast and my pre-existing frustration with PD so established, that in my exhausted state I decided to retire that account. It would be an opportunity to start a new name for myself. I was 25 five-star reviews lighter and felt better for it, surprisingly.
I decided on Bobbie Moore. It had a more stealth kind of campiness that fit my new MILF identity. It held an air of class which reflected the new places and clients I was becoming more acquainted with. It was more mature and I appreciated how Bobbie would still keep me grounded.
So here I am now, starting over with a new name. Am I all that different? Maybe a little, but not much. Where would those differences lie? Like what questions would need to be asked to dwindle down the choice between Bobbie LaRoux and Bobbie Moore? I guess you could ask if I was ever a red head… or do you have reviews? Moore would say no to both. FMTY? LaRoux never had the chance. How about, got milk? Well, we know who does. Some things change, some don’t. All in all I am still Bobbie. I guess it’s all just the magic of marketing.
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