"I wanted to be famous, just to make the kids who'd laughed at me feel foolish. I wanted to be rich, so I'd never have to do the awful work my mother did and live at the bottom of the barrel--ever....Maybe the illusions, the daydreams, made life more tolerable, but I always knew, whether I was in school or working in
some damned dime store….
I'd make it.”

Joan Crawford





WATCH IT! HEY! I’M DORIS DAY!

Rizzo------------------------------------------------------------------------------


I was a virgin until age 19. Blame it on Television.
In high school I ran with two close friends, who, months after graduation, Came Out. Having never been In, per se (I was Thespian president---flamboyant to the hilt---budding Garbo that I was), been taunted by classmates my entire life, harangued by that clown that brought home the butter (he worked in a margarine plant---ain’t life a scream), being openly gay was a welcome relief.

As stated many, many, maaaaaaany times before, old movies run on TV (it used to be free) were sanctuary from abusive behavior on the part of Dad, the insanity of the Vietnam War, Nixon sweating out his last days, angry protests, the era. I mean, I didn’t even realize that police officers had another title not linked directly to a farm animal until I was ten. Mom called them names (with an oink oink here, and an oink oink there) defiantly at protests, she of waist-length chestnut hair pinned up away from her face with a single wooden thingy, my little brother strapped to her back, screaming bloody murder, his little feets sticking out of the pack just low enough to kick me upside the head with his little white shoes. Little bastard. Mom’s always at her best when called to a cause.

That was childhood, dahling. And you wonder why I watched escapist fantasies directed by Vincente Minnelli or George Cukor? Why Bette Davis and Joan Crawford appealed to me? They were well clothed, well coiffed, well lit, made entrancing entrances, became successful business women, dominated weak men hither and thither, killed them, died of broken hearts or dypsomania. Who the hell needs pigs in a world like that. The problem was, I related more to women than men, and when you’re faggy as that, and your idea of relationships and virginity and What Is Love are based on Patty Duke or Debbie Reynolds, well, you’re not going to get laid. In Life no John Gavin is going to sweep one off one’s feet, Cary Grant won’t be waiting atop the Empire State Building, Laurence Olivier shan’t brood away in the heather--- regardless of what tinsel town doles out to the daydreaming masses. It wasn’t until a most uncivil breakup did I realize that life was not a bowl of cherries, but really just the pits.

Lesson: If life tosses one fruit, add cracked ice, four fingers vodka and stir.

Of course, my wardrobe did little except garner compliments in night clubs. Who wants to sleep with the guy in the brocade skirt? Looks daring on the runway, but has a dreadful effect on one’s chances of scoring. It was, in my defense, a time of androgyny. Boy George. Pete Burns. Dreamy Adam Ant. Liquid eyeliner. Lace. Pearls and brooches. To carry off such garb one must be brave, inaccessible, enigmatic. I made most of my clothes, and, consequently, was often pinned into these rags or hems would be tacked up with boxing tape (which, by the way, holds up well in the laundry). Breeches make wonderful chastity belts! It’s only natural that my virtue was lost to a cross dresser in the backseat of a Jetta--had a twin brother--did some kind of sister act in Vancouver. Handsome, charming, and dressed in man wear when we met. The dresses came later. We’d gone out a few times, and I decided that I was in the flush of True Love. When he suggested we move to the backseat I probably said something ridiculous like “Oh darling, of course!”

I don’t remember much about the event except it was as cold as a Southern California December can be, parked on a side street in Hollywood. No champagne. No flowers. Naturally, I had NO idea what the hell I was doing, so when he said “blow me,” one obliged. I gagged and choked at first, and then there was a lesson about teeth (I have lots of them and they cost thousands), but he didn’t bother to warn me about the end result, which was a shock, don’t ask me why. It’s only fair that a fellow utter a gentle warning---am I wrong? A few nights later at “The O” he started fondling me in public! I resisted (Tammy would never allow such a thing), and being the kind of bitch that only a drag queen can be, he yelled “You fucking frigid little virgin,” storming off in a cloud of Chanel #5.

Back to virtuous enigma.

Kenny turned up at a party in Pomona, of all places. He was tall, handsome, blond. My type. Lived way the hell out in the San Fernando Valley. I’d drive my ’67 Pontiac Catalina Convertible at top speed to what seemed the edge of the world, giddy with excitement. The top down--- man! You should have seen it. Powder blue, big as Carnegie’s Pullman, gas mileage about seven to the gallon, power everything, took speed bumps at 40 miles per. When the transmission finally went out, I drove it in reverse up SanMo, right on Doheny, round the swirly streets of West Hollywood and left it in the Safeway parking lot.

Anyway, we had four or five dates---I don’t remember---and again, it was Love. When I was finally asked to stay the night, after a respectable period of courtship, what could I say but sure. There was a rather prominent bar in the billiard room. It was the first time I’d spent a night in a man’s bed and the first time a man spent several minutes inside of me. It hurt like hell, but he was very gentle about the whole thing.

“I could stay in you all night,” he said, drifting off to sleep.

Covered in jizz, a little appalled at the thought of it, I lay there, stroking blond locks, thinking of the act itself and of our future together.

I’d finally met the One.

When we woke the next morning, mascara had crept into my left eye. Swollen. Red. A svelte Charles Laughton in The Hunchback of Notre Dame. One supposes the lesson here is use waterproof cosmetics exclusively. Several days went by, me, the phone within arm’s reach. Finally, I broke down, bought a benign greeting card inscribing it Thinking of You, C., popped it in the mail. Days later, one of his good friends called and asked to meet him for dinner at French Market. It seemed strange, but I guess I was expecting some sort of surprise---Kenny sweeping into the restaurant with flowers and candy (or better yet, a diamond tennis bracelet), and kneeling to ask me to be his One and Only. A serenade! What I got that night was a stern but gentle scolding. His friend was nice as he could be about it, tried to let me down easy, but it was clear I wasn’t going to see Kenny again.

Long, long drive home.

Men are jerks.

I didn’t have sex for ages.

Celibate, yes. But stylishly so!

At 21, I was living in San Francisco, on Castro no less, with two roommates who were as exotic as I in their fashion sensibilities. We shared outfits (mine were still made by hand; theirs costly and designer). We’d go out just as chic as European fashion plates, wearing crushed velvet gloves to our armpits and being just as fabulous as you could be in the gay mecca. I worked at Vidal Sassoon on Post Street---loved the look. Japanese tourists would stop on the street, take pictures, giggling shyly the whole time. At this point I’d adopted a Mozart look (a film was hugely popular), making clothes from yellowed tapestry drapes found in thrift stores. I knocked off a jacket of pleather and faux fur seen in some music video, wore opera pumps and tights. Skirts stayed in the picture. I’d walk through Union Square hearing folks cry “there’s that guy who always wears a dress.” A totally inaccessible look. Attitude included if you order in the next 19 minutes!

One night the gang was out (there were about six of us that hung together) at The Midnight Sun. We owned that bar, as far as we were concerned, and if anyone was sitting in our spot against the wall between two particular lighted posts, we’d gather round the offending party and “smoke them out” of the bar. Amazing the power of six chain-smoking fags. I’d dressed fairly normally in a borrowed sweater in hound’s-tooth check, black stirrup pants and patent leather oxfords. Tipper Gore casual. This extremely handsome guy kept looking our way, and when it was my turn to get drinks (it was winter, so we were drinking vodka cranberry, from which we’d switch after Memorial Day, when outfits went pale, to vodka tonic) he reached across his friends, lightly grabbed my arm asking “did you get that sweater at BeBe?”

“I got it from my roommate’s closet. You can ask him.”

I wasn’t being flippant. I was flabbergasted that this stunning guy, who looked for all the world like a young republican (he was), would want anything to do with a scrawny dork like me. He flashed a huge grin, I beamed back coquettishly, and made my way back to our spot, juggling drinks like a person who can carry six drinks without spilling a drop.

“What did that guy say to you?”

“He asked if I got my sweater at BeBe. I told him I got it out of your closet.”

“He’s adorable.”

“If you like senators.”

We all laughed.

I watched wistfully as he walked out, entourage in tow. I had an opportunity to talk to this gent, and blew it. I’m awkward and clumsy at small talk. Often things come out of my mouth that are either insulting or stupid (stupid works really well with guys, mind you) when nervous. I’d cut the conversation short because I was shy. Not many men made advances. The whole thing frustrating and unnerving.

I think it was a Thursday night, because we headed out to a disco that was always packed on Thursdays. For the life of me I can’t remember the name of the club. It was South of Market, and if you were anybody, there you’d be dancing, regardless of what your work schedule was on Friday. We’d only just arrived and in line to get more drinks when someone tapped my shoulder.

Lo and behold, the young republican.

“May I have this dance?”

I shoved the cocktail at Christian, whose hair looked especially good that night.
We shouted at each other over the music. I was nervous and stiff, playing up the bleach blond ‘do, grinning like a hyena. We talked jobs, I mentioned Sassoon. We didn’t exchange numbers.
My friends twittered and teased at how silly I looked. All of us were spinsters. The very idea of men, a crashing bore. We functioned much like a sorority; everything kept within the clique.
Blair went back to his friends. Later, he stopped to say goodnight.

Friday morning. I tossed on some wacky ensemble (a Victorian side saddle riding habit---very mannish---brooch rakishly nipping the waist), made my way down Castro to catch the underground. I hadn’t slept thinking about Blair. I was still drunk, which everyone seemed to notice, but made no fuss. We all partied. They’re hairdressers, for god sake, just as bad as bartenders and waiters. Tip dollars drive people absolutely wild.

I was a receptionist (there were four of us). Phones forever ringing. Ringing. Ringing. (For fun we’d pick up lines someone else was on, making strange lascivious breathing sounds into the receiver as they’d finish saying “Rafiki has an opening on Tuesday” or “We don’t do highlights and a perm in the same day.” Huff puff. It broke the monotony, and we LAUGHED!) The kind of wealthy, spoiled, demanding clientele who freak out if a nail’s chipped or a day was disastrously bad in the hair department---All Day Long---day in, day out.

Personal calls were frowned upon, but my peers were cool because we all had personal lives way more important than some absurd receptionist job. Not to mention the fact that one of the English franchisees had recently arrived in San Francisco (Sassoon was then owned by Proctor and Gamble), and, god love them, Brits can be the most arrogant people in the world, especially if one is regarded as The Help.

“Some guy named Blair is on line three for you, Craig,” Kim whispered.

I took the call in the staff room.

“This is Craig.”

“Craig, it’s Blair. We met last night, remember? Can you talk for a second?”

I would have talked an hour.

Star colorist Michael Brown stood, mixing tint in a plastic bowl, loudly clattering while he openly listened in, that smug facial expression I’ve only seen in San Francisco, plastered on his cheeky face. OK, I sounded a fool. He HAD to make some raffish quip about the call, of course. The opening was irresistible. The nerve.

Believe me, I’d have done the same to him.

Momentarily unequipped to quip back, I could only muster a shocked, “I have a date on Saturday.”

The rest of the afternoon was blurred by excited anticipation.

I have a date on Saturday.

The staff gathered around the corner, spending ample tip cash at a saloon, The Iron Horse. Cheap happy hour drinks. Complimentary buffet. Dinner for the price of a few cocktails. I dominated the conversation. We usually each had a turn. We were as tightly woven a family I’ve ever known. Transitory. Momentarily close. Like that odd step-sister from your dad’s second marriage.

Blair arrived at the appointed time. Roommates conspicuously home. There was no way one of us was going on a date without Grilling The Dolt. His outfit would be inspected (he was asked to turn about), a couple of pointed questions would be asked, and if everything was satisfactory, I’d be allowed to go out with this guy without much razzing in the morning.

“Don’t wait up for him,” called Blair as we walked out the door.

“Don’t worry, Doris Day will be home earlier than you think,” one shrieked.

They howled with laughter.

I didn’t come home that night. I didn’t come back in the morning. Somewhere along the line we went down to Fisherman’s Wharf, bought cracked crab, sourdough bread, champagne, had a picnic on the floor of his living room. We’d gone to the symphony the night before, stopped in for a late supper at Harris’s Steakhouse, which had a dress code (jackets only) and I didn’t have one, so they loaned me a dreadful navy jacket in polyester. I went to the bathroom at some point, came out not realizing that the back of the blazer was tucked into my pants. At least I wasn’t trailing a roll of toilet paper.

The following week an enormous dozen American Beauties arrived at the salon.

Beginning of my first serious relationship. In the end, and writing this now, I realize I never got over Blair. Not really. The most poignant memory of him is from the rear of a taxi. He sat in the apartment window, looking down, melancholic, as we drove away.

Small town, San Francisco is. After the breakup we’d run into each other in bars; invariably Blair would be with someone else. It was a difficult year together (my neurosis became painfully evident; no matter how reassuring Blair was, I never felt good enough for him).

I left town after six months, fleeing to Los Angeles. Blonder than ever.