Who Am I?

Have you ever played that game? Who am I? Where you write a name on a note then paste it to your playmate’s forehead? It’s their job to ask “yes or no” questions that will slowly reveal the identity taped right there between their eyes. It’s one of my favorite games.

You could ask what questions could be asked to reduce the choices down to you. You know, if it was in fact your own name placed on your forehead? That’s if someone happened to be playing a joke on you.

There is 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 on your poor victim’s forehead. Funny though, if this game was played in the 18th century, this would make anyone fair game. This is because Botticelli was long forgotten until the Pre-Raphaelites discovered him again, somewhere in the mid 1800’s. Botticelli for a few centuries after his death had a name that was basically unknown. But I bet you didn’t know many of us still don’t know his name. That’s because “Botticelli” is actually a nickname of his. Translated, it means “Little Barrel”. A name that compared him to his large chested older brother who was very popular with the girls in their neighborhood. His nickname? Botticello, Big Barrel. Despite Botticelli’s diminutive sentiment, it was the name he embraced. He was fine taking a backseat to the romantic prowess of his older brother. He instead stayed in and obsessively painted one woman over and over again. She was his love but in a way that many speculate, was more like a gay boy who loves his fabulous girlfriend. Yes, Botticelli revealed more than any Christian name would and I think it’s so sweet and a touch campy that that is what he chose to sign his paintings with.

In my work I often find people fixated on my name. Needing to find out my “real” one. You add a recent title shift (LaRoux to Moore), now some are real confused. Why would anyone throw away their professional name? Good question. I will get to answering that in a minute But first I’d like to assure my old fans, I am still your good old Bobbie. But what does that mean? “Who am I”?

Well one thing we could be sure of is that I am someone who has chosen the name Bobbie… and I think that means something. It is a part of me. A chosen part. I had one client who had the privilege of knowing all my names and he bounced between them in a playful way. He transitioned 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 but were also present in my daily motions of life. It wasn’t cheeky. The way he delivered Bobbie was never in a way to suggest it was a fake name. He used it as an affirmation of all the little parts of me that I chose. 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 a Bobbie. Maybe it’s my opportunity as a mostly heteronormative presenting person to practice what many of my queer friends do. Practice self-determination.

When I first came up with LaRoux, I liked how it added to my full name’s rhythm. “Bobbie LaRoux.” It was musical and a touch campy. It also referred to the red locks I had at that time. I overlooked what would soon follow which was a slew of clients asking me if I was Cajun. Not the worst association but quite a role to fill and I wasn’t up for faking that. I trekked on with the name, slowly losing connection to it. I held on to it 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 the questions about my potential Cajun lineage became tiresome. You don’t walk away from a name with a good reputation so easily.

Motherhood (a second time around) came and that had been a whole other force. It dramatically shifted my career and identity in many ways. I had been a “MILF” for years in real life but never before in my performance as a provider. Things that were always a part of my life became a part of my professional persona. 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 effect of motherhood, in a falling dominos kind of way, was me losing access to my main advertising platform. One which held dozens of reviews attached to my established name LaRoux. That platform being Private Delights.

One morning squeaky eyed and sleep deprived from nursing my new born baby all night, I received an inquiry for a date that ultimately led to me getting phished. My wits were dulled from the demands of a new baby so here I was a victim of a rookie mistake. My account was compromised.

The amount of hoops to jump through to recover my profile was so demanding 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 I felt better for it, surprisingly. It was a chance to shed my old name.

I landed on the name 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, writing all of this with a new name. Am I all that different though? Maybe a little… but not much. I could take a moment to see where those differences lie. Think of the questions that would help determine whether I was LaRoux or Moore. I guess you could ask if I was ever a red head… or do I have any reviews? Moore would have to say “no” to both. “FMTY?,” LaRoux never had the chance. How about, “got milk?” Well, we know who does. That would be Moore. “Are you a sweet and devious lover?” “Absolutely,” they’d both reply. Some things change, some don’t. All in all I’m going to sign out of here as Bobbie.