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Vice Blog

TYRANT FRIDAY - WOODSTOCK IS A DRAG

Besides the occasional early morning application/smear of black eyeliner as I'm headed out of my apartment, to walk around midtown Manhattan coked to the gills, alone, looking for a bar, I've never had the reason, or the opportunity, to wear make-up. Besides those Quadrophenic moments at dawn, I've kept a pretty clean visage for my entire life. Most people don't believe me when I tell them I'm gay (not even me when I'm telling them), and I mostly think that they will never truly believe me until they see me with one in my mouth (that's when I really believe it as well). After a while it starts to not matter. It hasn't mattered for so long. I can't pin down what that part has to do with this, but it does have to do with this. To the makeup part: I got girl'd by a guy yesterday.

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I am in Woodstock, NY, with my man (who is an occasional drag queen) and who knows the arts of the stage. He brought up with him some make-up. "Just in case," he said. "Just to see." We'd been talking about doing a photo shoot with me in drag for the cover of this weird magazine, but I have always been scared about putting on make-up and women's clothes. Just the other afternoon, for God knows why, I said, "Fuck it. Let's do it. I feel like I need to go somewhere in my head." He looked at me like I had just finally figured out why he sometimes does what he does, why he dresses up in wild women's clothes and giant exuberant costumes. "I'll let you have that one," I thought, condescendingly.

He had a few supplies he'd brought up from the city, and we picked up a few more at the drugstore (plus a bottle of $9 Italian to shake the pussy off with). We looked everywhere for lashes but there were no lashes anywhere. I was already a lady enraged on my first beauty-product shopping spree, but I guess it made sense. The au naturel hippies up here probably aren't too into make-up, you know? Anyhow, this was going to be a very basic transformation. A stage look that was big and messy but would give me the feeling of what I will look a little like when a make-up artist does it proper.

In the kitchen, the room of the house with the best, yet least flattering, light, I sat down backwards in a folding chair and faced my smiling man. We were both excited about this. Once he began, I immediately noticed that the sensation of having your face dabbed is a pleasant one. I was reminded of of my mother's hand going at something, probably chocolate, on my face. The applications of the different layers of make-up were kind enough, but they were not without their purpose. The eye stuff hurt. But then, acting almost as a calming agent, the little powder brush brushing my face reminded me of going down on someone with silky thin pubes (though without me doing the work).

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It was a 15-minute job.

I had a white t-shirt on under a blue sportcoat (sounds dickish), so I lost the shirt and put my sportcoat back over my bare back and chest. (I'm currently donning a faggoty necklace, so it adds to the faggoty look. The larger necklace piece is an antique Italian stamp to send my body back to Italy with when I die. There is also a medallion of St. Christopher hanging just beside. Last night, I began striking strike-anywhere matches on the rough bas relief-ish side of the St. Christopher medallion. I saw a boy do that in a movie one time and it looked tough. My man agreed, "That looks tough." The only possible downside to striking strike-anywhere matches on the medallion you wear around your neck, is that there constantly hangs around your head the strong scent of sulfur. "It's so demonic. I love it." I said.) I felt good, shirtless in a sportcoat. I felt like I'd been shirtless in a sportcoat before. I just cannot for the life of me imagine why or when it'd've been.

I had not yet looked in the mirror. I wanted to look alone in the mirror. My man tried to follow me into the bathroom but I slammed the door on him. There was no lock on the knob so I had to hold the base of the door with my foot. My man was still pushing at the door so I opened it a bit on him, then closed it shut quickly. His head took enough of a thud for him to surrender. I steadied in front of the mirror, my foot still on the door, and flipped on the light.

If you ever have had anything bad to say about the Rolling Stones album Some Girls, then nobody wants you hanging around here anymore. Excellent music aside, do you remember the cover? I felt like I was looking at that, or a mixture of some of that cover's images. I had no wig (we'd sprayed my hair back) but I lifted my chin at the mirror like I was a Jagger-woman. Gianca Jagger. I reached between my legs and I touched myself and I squealed. I thought of a buddy in D.C. I didn't think of him that way, but that squealing line, that's his line, and it's a good line for a time like this. It felt like the gesture of a woman, but I could be wrong. I don't know if I've ever watched a woman put her hands between her legs and squeal. My cheeks and lips began to pucker on their very own accord. Then my mouth would hang slack. Then I'd pucker again. I leaned forward and tried to make it look like I had tits.

I turned around and looked at myself over my shoulder. I have always hated my profile. I liked it when it was in make-up like this this. I finally looked beautiful from my worst side. I grabbed the lapels of my sportcoat and pulled them in. I pulled them up tight around my throat, gripped them in close and tight and high up around my neck. Goosebumps popped up in the millions down my arms and there was a sudden, electrical chill that shot up my back and out of the top of my head. I was finally fagging out a little.

GIANCARLO DITRAPANO