Hello
honeys, the Diva is on the air. (More than air if the truth be known.) Well, let
me tell ya it must be the Summertime Blues but I actually felt unglamorous the
other day. (Say what!?) It started out as a typical weekend of crossdressed
fun. First a visit to an evening of art gallery openings with two female friends
(three girls on the town), then a little dinner and on to some other galleries
where I found I was on display in a photographer's portfolio. The photo was a shot
from last year when I had had a few shots at the now infamous Swingers
parties in Olde City Philadelphia. My naughty Y.E.S. babydoll mini had a see thru
skirt and I was displaying a bad girl attitude, and a lot of flesh. (So what's
new?) I really didn't even remember having my photo taken since most Swingers
parties are only a blur to me now. The photographer was totally embarrassed that
she hadn't sent me a copy of the shot. I went along with it and told her how much
I had been pining for the picture and how I'd love to have a copy. She decided to
pull the photo from the show and gave it to me on the spot. Well, I don't know
whether to be relieved that no one is looking at me in this silly pose (Uh oh,
there it is now) or to be miffed that she took me out of the show. But, I
digress.
Back to the tale of How I Felt Unglamorous
The next day I
had Renaissance office work to take care of. (So dedicated, working on Saturday.)
I wore shorts since the weather was hot and steamy. My legs, which had been
freshly shaven for the previous day's adventures had sprouted an annoying
stubble...and were beginning to get on my nerves. I made it through the
day, and by covering the offending appendages with black stockings I was able to
go out that evening with my old friends Tina and Wilma (Oh, we could cut a rug
back in the '80s, dearie) for fun and frolic in New Hope, Pa. but I was having an
eye problem and couldn't wear my contacts. (Can't see a thing without 'em.) I had
to wear my glasses. I look a lot like the woman JoAnn Roberts uses in her
CDS ads when I wear my glasses. A trifle secretarial for clubbing. Sexy, but
secretarial. Sunday morning my friend Jayne called and said she was going
shopping. I can't pass up a bargain and a local department store was going out of
business. I hopped into the bathroom and quickly shaved the only part of my legs
that will tolerate a shave that soon without bleeding; my lower legs, and put
together a conservative, long skirted look. Not that conservative since I chose a
white silk broomstick skirt that definitely, uh oh, showed my panties. I quickly
added some bike pants underneath for decorum sake and raced off to meet Jayne.
THE CAR FROM HELL I have no air conditioning in the car so the
temperature inside must have been about a hundred and five. Oh sure, I got it
cooled down to livable temperatures (only some of the softer metals, like lead,
were still melting in the backseat) by opening both windows and driving seventy
miles an hour, but do you have any idea what that will do to your hair style? Of
course, I had forgotten my brush. At the department store, after frenzied fixing
of the hair with the fingers, Jayne and I wandered along, idly checking out the
seventy percent savings. Only your oldest and closest friend can tell you how you
really look and Jayne took advantage of that status to inform me that my hair
looked flat. And, my panties were visible. I told her they were bike pants but she
wisely pointed out, since I had rolled them up how were people to know that? Then,
just when all seemed darkest.... a saleswoman called me "sir." I ran screaming
from the store. Not really. I stayed the course. It was, after all, my own fault.
Along with not feeling feminine since I was having such a decidedly unglamorous
day, I had made the mistake of becoming preoccupied with the seventy percent off
rack and not noticing that the saleswoman was trying to get my attention to let me
know not all of the pantyhose were seventy percent off. She had called "miss"
about four times before it finally sunk in and I turned abruptly toward her with a
stupid expression on my face and said something feminine like "wa?" Well, when I
went to buy my bargains that's when the awful "sir" incident occurred. I really
took it well. The spots on my palms where my nails dug in stopped bleeding within
a few minutes and I really didn't bit all the way through my tongue. No, I handled
it with grace because I realized she had no intention of trying to hurt my
feelings. Like most of the non-transgendered world she just didn't know what to
call me. (Call me anything but never late for dinner.) I could have, and should
have, corrected her by saying "miss" was all right with me... but I just didn't
have the energy. We shopped a bit longer and then I (wisely) decided to go
home. I took my wig off and put it right in the sink for a good wash. I quickly
shed the remnants of my shattered femininity and took refuge in a large meal. It
was definitely one of those days. All was not lost, however. After recharging
the glamour battery I was out again within days. The Philadelphia Gay & Lesbian
Film Festival opened last week with the film Stonewall. Last month I
told you I had my fingers crossed that the footage I worked on would be included.
I'm happy to say it was and if you keep your eyes open for the hooker in the
leopard top you'll get to check out my moves. It was shot two years ago so it's a
glimpse back into my more glamourous younger years. Yes, there were none of those
dowdy days back then. Right. Stonewall is a very moving story of the
beginning of the gay rights movement and the drag queens act as a sort of Greek
chorus that lip syncs to girl group hits of the Sixties. They're great. It's
slated for a limited release later this month so check it out at an art house near
you. I think you'll see some parallels between the start of the gay rights
movement and the present transgender right movement. The film was introduced by
that grand olde pouf, Quentin Crisp.( The Naked Civil Servant, Resident
Alien, the Queen of England in Orlando.) He's a legend, not a bit crisp
and amazing at the age of 88. We chatted at the after party and Quentin told me
he's slated to work on a film in the Midwest called Homosexual Heights. We
partied. Quentin had a pint or two and I knocked back a Martini. Then my part time
drag queen buddies from the Philadelphia gay activist group, Grassroot
Queers showed up (They heard you could get in for free if you wore drag) and
the fun really began. (They wore the cutest mod attire.) All five of us stuffed
into my car and headed over to Bob & Barbara's Lounge for the regular
Thursday night drag show. (I'm still cleaning out the boa feathers and
sequins.) The queens at B&B's were hot and the crowd was cool but soon it was
time to head on home, safe in the knowledge that glamour was still an achievable
thing. Of course, my biological clock is ticking. POV and The
Transformation The Usenet newsgroups and email lists were abuzz last
month with messages about The Transformation. The basic message was, "Oh
there they go, exploiting the transgendered and presenting street queens with HIV
as representative of all of us." Well, hogwash. I watched the film when it ran
here in Philly on July 9th and I found it to be a moving film about people in
extraordinary circumstances making hard choices. Ricardo was a street queen
named Sara back in the 80's. Sara lived on the street and hooked for a living. In
some of the footage we see Sara putting on her makeup while she and her other
street friends huddle around a campfire in the middle of a rubble strewn lot. Her
life would be completely unbearable to people like us who have homes, computers,
vanity tables and productive lives. At one point when Ricardo is asked about why
he left his life as Sara on the streets of New York he says "I was lonely. I had
no help." Help was offered by a minister from Texas who prowls New York to
"rescue" TVs from the street. He told Sara she could move to Texas and live in her
own apartment if she would give up her transgender ways and start to live as a
man. Sara decided to do it and her new life in Texas brought her a home, a wife
and a new career as a successful "rescue" for the church to trot out at fund
raisers. That was the only exploitation I could find in this film. If the minister
truly cared about transgendered hookers there would be no condition of masculinity
on their "rescue." Other queens in the film are offered the choice and decide
to decline the offer. One girl had saved herself form the street and gotten off
drugs with the help of her sister and brother. She said that she could never make
the deal Sara had made. This is a film that support groups around the country
should show to their members and then discuss. I think the big question we all
have to answer is how come this minister is the one rescuing our sisters?
Shouldn't we have been there first? In the end as Ricardo's health fails he
says if he had to make the choice again or if he could make it happen right then
and there he would, "...choose to be a woman." It is a powerful statement about
the inborn nature of the thing we call transgenderism. You can get a copy of the
film from: Starfish Productions, Inc., 330 West 42nd Street, Suite 2410, New York,
NY 10036, Tel: (212) 564-5138, Fax: (212) 684-1208. That's it for this month
kids. The moral of the story, always help your transgendered sisters before some
slime ball minister gets his hooks in 'em and don't be stopped by the Summertime
Blues or a few misplaced "sirs." See ya on the scene, babies.