My life story: How I became Shawn Mayotte: A porn icon
A preface to a book about myself can mean only one thing. I have another shot at talking about my favorite subject; me. I am still learning the world does not revolve around me, and never did. It’s been a rather rude awakening, and I’m not sure why I have needed to learn so many lessons. One lesson I have learned from my years being an egotist, addict, stage performer, and chief narcissist have taught me is: Asking why is futile. Sometimes the solution is not found through asking why. It’s not Alcoholics Analysis, its Alcoholics Anonymous. Sometimes there simply is no solution to a problem created through these behaviors. There are only consequences; sometimes very painful ones. Analyzing me is not my intent, nor would it change anything. This is my life story, plain and simple. Every time I asked, “Why did this happen to me? Or – “Why did I do that?” – The search for answers never solved the primary problem: usually ME. Most of the time I never found answers, so searching was a waste of valuable time. Ironically, in this book I still analyze myself without intending to. Go figure.
So why write a Preface to a book about myself? Although there are those who contend that “We are all at the center of our own universe.” – I do not believe we all create as much drama as others – in my case my mantra from birth has been: “You give me 22 minutes, and I’ll be thinking about me the whole time anyway”. I come from a long line of social deviants and self appointed intellectuals. Later I expanded on this family trait, and narcissistically created my own unique brand of grandiosity; instead of whining about it, why not write about it and share it with you?
At first, my sole intention in writing this book was to tell my life story. It is still my primary intention; telling my story; telling my truth. They are one and the same. But I am also discovering other reasons to write my life’s story. I have heard it said many times that understanding one’s journey and purpose in life is a process.
These voices are correct in my opinion. At least as this pertains to me; who is the person I am writing about, and about whom only I can speak for. I realize I have a lot in common with everyone else, and yet I am very different and unique. I have seen life from many perspectives; I have been rich and I have been homeless. I have searched for food through feces in Downtown Dumpsters, and I have enjoyed waving at the poor people from a Private Helicopter. I have committed acts that I consider crimes, and I have bitched about the “rise in crime” because I did not relate to anyone who chose to be in jail. I found out later there were many other reasons why someone might be in jail other than through their choice. I have been raped as a child and I have been a fiercely protective father. My own father was a physically brutal, cold, scary man.
I never realized how much sex dominated my life; until I did. I thought I was in competition with everyone else to get as much sex with as many women as possible. Although this is not a pornographic novel, I will be talking about sex and I will not shield you (the reader) from the reality of my sexual escapades; my traumas, being sexually abused as a child, my impulsive and reckless behaviors that led to very dark places.
I am also a Professional Musician; it is more than a hobby for me. I will talk about that too. It’s all me.
My teenage and early adult years were also distinguished by a disturbing, frightening reality that landed in my world just as I was released from my last Boys’ Home to the streets at 17 in 1982. Actually, I landed in the middle of it: AIDS and the deaths of almost everyone I knew. On the streets in 1982, death was everywhere; walking among us, palpable to all of us who were ostracized from society. Can you imagine losing over 30 of your close friends at 17, to a disease that had no name yet? You were probably enjoying your senior year of High School, looking forward to graduating. I was surviving but terrified while caring for the sick and dying; nursing kids who were castigated not only for who they were, but then had to suffer the indignity of dying alone while their families self righteously ignored them. One young man who died young in my arms, told me to warn everyone that something horrible was happening “out there” and he did not want it to happen to them. He said this to me while dying. At the end he was love and light. His father was a Minister who had kicked him out of the house for being Gay, and then refused to attend his own son’s funeral because he died of that “gay disease.” Watching the world (especially supposed Christians) not only burn houses down but brutalizing my friends – true victims – with such voracious hate seared anger and frustration into my soul. Instead of extending compassion to dying human beings, the Christians condemned them. Instead of leading with love, they led with judgment. They hated, so I hated them back. I resented Christians for years, but I have since learned that holding onto resentment is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die. I will never forget, but I have forgiven them.
My journey and identity has been what I like to refer to as a “changeling”; in constant motion and flux. In my childhood years, I was convinced I knew who I was and what I was here for. That would change. I have transformed or have been transformed over and over; sometimes for the better, many times for the worse. No matter what I have done, or has been done to me, one thing has remained constant: I am human. I still have regrets, doubts, fears and dreams. Writing my story has not been a “cathartic experience” for me. That is a ubiquitous cliché to me. Throughout the course of writing this story, life still showed up, got in the way and presented new challenges and problems I have had to face. It is a journey though. In the end, in my opinion, it simply “is what it is”. It’s the same with me, like Popeye, I yam what I yam.
I’d like to end this preface to me with a thought: Narcissism is playing God, which we all do to one degree or another. But playing God has its consequences. In my life there have been reality checks; a theme to my life; evidence of a concept that emerges every day I get drunk on the insanity of my own omnipotence; this is when I am made painfully aware of a remarkably intriguing likelihood: All the time I was playing God, God was playing me.