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Authors: Josh Kilmer-Purcell

I Am Not Myself These Days (10 page)

BOOK: I Am Not Myself These Days
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T
his is how I become not me:

It is an exacting process—there's no room for error, and little for improvisation. It is ritual and sacred, and regardless of my physical or mental condition, it is unchanging.

It begins by monitoring my diet for the entire day before any show. My body must be relatively empty of food to fit into the corset, and relatively full of alcohol to dull the discomfort.

About four hours before I head out, I gather together the pieces of my predetermined outfit.

Two pairs of pantyhose. Up to three wigs—combined together and prestyled. Tucking panties. Decorative panties or thong. Matching elbow-length gloves. Bag. Shoes. Necklace. Earrings. Assorted accessories. Wig cap. Toys—laser guns, bubble makers, candy to toss out into the crowd. All is transferred, piece by piece, into the bathroom.

No one is allowed to witness the transformation. It occurs completely behind the closed bathroom door. It's a slow motion magic act where the male audience volunteer disappears into a box and a woman appears from inside hours later.

Before sequestering (quarantining?) myself, the final ingredient is procured from the kitchen. Two large glasses of ice and the bottomless liter bottle of Absolut that lives in the freezer. The glasses are carried in one hand, the bottle in the other, and I disappear into the bathroom completely naked.

Inside, I pour my first glass and lean into the mirror to inspect my face. Is my stubble long enough? If I didn't have a business meeting earlier in the day, I don't shave. The longer the whiskers, the cleaner the shave will be. Are there any particularly prominent zits that will need extra cover-up attention? My eyes are relatively deep set and heavy lidded, so I must keep my brows plucked as thin and high as they can be to create maximum real estate for the dramatic application of multiple shades of eye shadow.

After I've concocted my facial plan of attack, I sit on the toilet. Whatever I can get out of me will mean less pain in the corset later on. Also, while it's possible to wriggle myself out of an outfit just enough for an emergency piss, any other kind of bathroom maneuver would require a near complete dismantling.

By now I've finished one tall glass of vodka and am ready for the shower.

The water must be scalding hot and the air in the bathroom as humid as possible. I shave my entire body each night I have a show. A rigorous shaving schedule, religiously adhered to, reduces the outcropping of ingrown hairs. I start from the bottom up. I'm lucky enough not to be terribly hirsute, otherwise I would need to add another hour to my prep time.

Toes first. Then legs. Then genitals and ass. I move up to my navel, and then remove the few scattered chest hairs I'd prayed so ferverently for when I was entering puberty. A double shave under the arms. Then, when I reach my neck, I start over again at the toes and give my body a second smoothing. Nothing escapes my razor.

Blade change. Gulp from vodka resting on edge of tub.

On to the face. Knowing that I could be out anywhere from four to twenty-four hours requires the closest shave I can deliver. Two shaves with the grain, two shaves against. Complete removal of sideburns, and about half an inch from the perimeter of the entire hairline. Even a peek of brown hair poking out from under the edge of the wig will completely ruin the illusion.

A quick shampoo, all-over soaping, and I'm out.

The quickest but most vital part of the transformation is next. While my body's still steaming, and my twig 'n' berries are at their most relaxed, I pick up the pair of nude-colored, two-sizes-too-small, spandex panties off the floor. I slip both feet through the leg holes and pull them up to my knees. Then I spread my legs slightly, bend deeply at the waist, and reach around behind me with one hand. Twisting my hand between my legs from behind, it would look to some as if I were trying to sneak up on my own unsuspecting genitalia. Or practicing an obscure yoga pose. “Downward Facing Python Chase.” Grasping my surprised triumvirate in one hand, I pull the whole package backward as I yank up the tight panties with the other. Trapped. Straightening up from the bend, I can feel my lower abdomen stretch and flatten as my precious goods give up and settle into their new hideaway.

At this point, I sit on the tub edge and sip more vodka while I wait for the steam to clear from the bathroom. I watch myself appearing slowly through the fog on the mirror. Without the body hair and visible genitalia an apparition of an androgynous mannequin sits staring back at me. Sometimes, if I'm particularly preoccupied with the prior day's events I'll switch the lights off at this point, trying to switch my mind from Josh to Aqua. It can happen in a moment when I'm not concentrating on it, or it can take the entire preparation time and not be completed until the wig settles into place. It's entirely unpredictable, and as many times as I've undergone the transformation, I have no concrete mental process to force the handover.

Then the shift from destruction to creation.

I slick my short wet hair back and snap on the nylon wig cap.

The boring parts get foundation first. Neck, ears, “décolletage.” I only use MAC products. Only. I'm not sure if it stems from my advertising background, but I'm completely brand-loyal.

In the summer, I roll or spray a very light layer of antiperspirant onto my face. Then with a slightly darker shade of foundation, I sponge contouring shadows on either side of my nose to make it appear thinner, and streaks on my temples and cheeks to give the illusion of delicate bone structure. By now I look like a splotchy paint-by-number portrait.

Next, the overall foundation application takes place. With a clean sponge, I smoothly stroke the thick fleshy putty over my face and neck, carefully blending the edges around my ears and neck. Then the powder. As I press it into the moist foundation, taking care to fill the creases around my nose and eyes, my skin takes on the completely even texture and color of a blow-up doll. It takes a delicate measuring hand—too much powder and cracks will develop when I laugh; too little and I'll look like a greasy circus clown.

On to the fun part. Eye shadow and lipstick. Depending on the outfit, I choose either a bold color palette or simple matching earth tones. I lay the brushes and sponges out on the counter like surgical tools. Often I need to mix pigments and bases to get the exact color I'm envisioning. Application can take up to an hour, as I experiment with various patterns and hues. Sometimes I need to scrub down with cold cream to bare flesh and begin all over. One shaky hand with a dark lip liner pencil and I have to start from scratch. The vodka helps here. By now I'm on my second glass of ice. When I'm satisfied with my face, I press together three pairs of dark fake eyelashes and gently glue them into place.

Jewelry next. As further proof that God may in fact hate homosexuals, he's cursed me with the absence of any real earlobes to speak of. I have a vast clip-on earring collection, and nothing to actually clip them on to. I get around this with generous dabs of spirit gum, which adheres them like cement to my earlobes, but removal becomes a battle frequently lost by several layers of my flesh.

My plastic breasts have been sitting on the counter since the beginning of the process, filled with water slowly coming to room temperature. I used to use a net to gather my fish from the aquarium resting between the two sinks, but my fish have long grown accustomed to my hand and now swim into my cupped palm to be transferred into the breast. When one needs to be replaced, I generally give the amateur a few weeks to grow accustomed to the rest of the troupe before calling on him for his debut appearance.

I struggle into whatever outfit I've chosen and slip the breasts, and mirrors, and tiny flashlights into the holes on my chest. My outfits are all my own designs, sketched with mechanical precision and then passed on to a girl I met in Atlanta when I first started doing drag. She's a genius tailor. She knows all my measurements and can work with any material I dream up, from stretch vinyl to faux leopard fur. It's better than Christmas when I come home and there's a package from her waiting for me.

A matching decorative corset comes last. I've mastered the elaborate contortions required to alternately loosen and tighten the laces behind my back until I've squeezed six inches of flesh off my waist and into various nether regions of my ass, thighs, and chest. Sitting is not an option for several hours. When I hail a cab to whatever venue I'm expected at, I have to enter sideways and lean across almost the entire length of the back seat.

The wig is always the finale. Until then I still feel like a boy playing with his mother's makeup. Granted, she'd have to be a pretty gaudy mother, like a single PTA mom trying to steal someone's husband.

I wrap toilet paper around my fingertip and wipe off the foundation in a clean line along the edge of my wig cap. Then I apply a thin streak of spirit gum along the hairline and quickly settle the thick, heavy wig into place before it dries, pressing the edge firmly into the glue. Into the back I press bobbie pins through the webbed cap of the wig, through the nylon wig cap, and try to lodge a few into my short-cropped natural hair. Anyone can wear a wig out for an evening, but keeping one in place through hours of dancing and twirling is a true aerodynamic engineering feat.

A quick stage check of whatever flashing lights or mechanical aspects my particular outfit requires is next, followed by the packing of my bag. Emergency touch-up makeup, a small roll of duct tape, cab money, gum, and I.D.

By now I'm usually up to an hour late, but there's always time for a quick swig from the bottle in the freezer before heading out. I pace for a bit, maybe dance a little, trying to work out any stiffness in the costume, or predict any potential dislodgement disasters. Fluid movement is the final piece of the illusion. Many men have experimented with dressing up in women's clothing, but no matter how successful with their look, a swaggering gait will shatter their efforts.

After hundreds of nights of lengthy and painful preparation, I've reached one solid conclusion. I would never, ever, ever want to be a woman. Aqua, on the other hand, has been sneaking up on me since childhood, demanding to be set loose.

 

The Tunnel used to be a garage for subway trains on the west side, but now its cavernous, labyrinthian rooms serve as a final destination for thousands of clubgoers each weekend. No one save the cleaning crew must really have a true grasp of its immense layout. With multiple entrances and exits, dozens of huge rooms open onto other large spaces, which in turn open onto yet others. Upstairs, downstairs, basement chambers, it's almost impossible to even gauge how many stories are in the building.

Being inside is similar to being inside the mind of a drunk or drug-addled partyer. It's a mirror facing a mirror, the space reflecting the flowing, amorphous, infinity-pushing thoughts of its patrons. One room thundering with dance music inhales and exhales its inhabitants into the next room, with a different DJ and décor and vibe. The Kenny Scharf Lounge, named after its designer, is covered floor to ceiling to walls with fake fur and glowing orbs. Sometimes it's used as one of the VIP rooms, although there are three or four more that can be pressed into service if needed. The main dance floor remains industrial, looking much as it probably did when lines of train cars were parked there, except with racks of stage lighting and audio equipment lining the ceiling and walls. Off this room are four other small spaces with bars and DJs, and the same goes for upstairs and downstairs as well.

The frontal lobe of the operation is up a small set of stairs just inside the Twenty-seventh Street entrance. At the top of the stairs is an unmarked door that opens onto a suite of offices that look like any offices one would find in the wholesale district. Plain gray metal desks and filing cabinets line the walls with slightly hipper than average office workers sitting around adding things, handing out pay envelopes, and filing papers. This is where I head at the end of the night to pick up my couple hundred dollars cash.

But that's a long way off. Four and a half hours, to be exact. Four and a half hours, twelve vodkas, three makeup reapplications, and two quarter-sized blisters on my feet away from home. Some nights fly by like Christmas morning, and others drag on like a family reunion. Tonight is the latter.

Jack, Ryan, and Grey have come with me to work tonight. It had been a long week at the ad agency, having just won a piece of the ABC News account, so Jack and I hadn't seen much of each other all week. Hence this rare trip out together. He doesn't go out much at night anymore, except for his calls, having had his fill of it when he moved to New York six years earlier. While attending grad school, he hung around with a group of performance artists who held their shows at dingy little East Village clubs. One of his favorite performances involved him lying down nude on a table while audience members were invited up to lick and attach postage stamps to him anywhere they wished. One of his artist friends was the person who initially steered him toward the escort business as a way of making extra cash.

 

Much of my busy work week had been spent at the ABC
World News Tonight
studios and offices. It had been Laura's and my ingenious insight that ratings might be improved by giving the viewing public a glimpse at the exciting behind-the-scenes workings of Peter Jennings et al. So the two of us tried to be as inconspicuous as possible lurking around the area the journalists called “The Rim,” filming the reporters and editors with a handheld video camera.

Peter sits at a round table with his editors and previews stories as they come in from reporters around the globe, occasionally rewriting sections himself, typing away with two fingers at the computer stationed behind him. What was initially pretty fascinating quickly grew mundane, and we soon found ourselves trying to get shots of Peter Jennings picking his nose or topless as he changed shirts before going on air. I can safely say if we were trying to remedy viewers' perception of a dry and boring newscast, they weren't going to be that much more titillated by the lack of shenanigans going on behind the scenes.

BOOK: I Am Not Myself These Days
13.21Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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