As first reported here, in August 1999 I capitulated ( out of what-;Exhaustion? Loneliness? Boredom? ) . To wit: we now work out on average three times a week at the 19th Street Gym; we unabashedly worship Helios to acquire a ( hopefully [ non-killing ] killer ) tan; we have a share on Fire Island; and we have been to the Black Party and are attending Pines 2000.
And we are having lots of fun.
But, now that we are on the field with the big boys we have seen that many of the fears that kept us playing in our own bejeweled sandbox for so long are wide awake and kicking.
It was never just sheer wilfulness that kept us skinny and pale in all those crazy bitch costumes for years and years. Sure, I lived to be the anomaly-;as different as possible just because we could be. It was proof that we weren't sedated-;that the words and melodies of the immortals had sunk in, and I had learned something of value. Also, it was because in playing by their rules, I might have to stare failure in the face again the way I did all those years ago in school. So the fears of what it takes to conform kept me deliciously non-conformist for years. And though some of those fears were just in my head, two in particular are very present, making the playgrounds of Fire Island, Chelsea, and the occasional circuit party treacherous swamps indeed.
Item number one: I am still 'just' the funny one.
We are still desexualized by entirely too many gay men. Indeed, until I had brought it up for discussion, not a single man in the house circle had commented on my body looking different than it did last August. How crazy is that? When it is so obviously altered and there are pictures to prove it? Certain close male friends-darling Matthew, dear Vera and Wooley had verbally acknowledged the changes by the way, as had quite a few women friends. What does the average queen think will happen if he gives me a compliment on my body as opposed to my mind? I got so annoyed at one moment, I literally said to one friend at Hi-T at the Pavilion: "does it at least look like I work out?" "Sure," was the answer. I couldn't have been fishing more blatantly for a little reassurance and all I got was that limp noodle. Serves me right I suppose.
Now I constantly tell people, and always have done, if they have a physical attribute I find appealing-;be it beautiful eyes, a lovely smile, gorgeous abs, un-be-leeev-able tits or whatever-;and Patrick says that is merely because I am different than others. But not so different that I too am not wildly insecure about certain things.
Item number two. The ultimate self-abuse mind-fuck of all-;having been satisfied in the past with my appearance ( since the barometer for what was fabulous was uniquely mine own ) , in attempting to emulate the figure on a box of exceedingly overpriced underwear I can never be big enough, buff enough, or tanned enough.
I am trapped in a conundrum wrapped in a riddle enmeshed in an enigma: I work out, but obviously not enough, but what is enough, and why do I suddenly care so much that I schedule going to the gym in my diary?
Have I indeed become what I feared most?
Possibly.
I comfort myself in the dark, running a calloused palm over firmer, heavier, alien muscles, that 'at least I am keeping a record.' Surely in my writing I will find salvation because nothing that happens in this odd life remains unexamined. This is a weak rationalization that works for subtle shifts of the soul, as I chase my new tail.
For a moment today I am bitter and resentful, because the old tail I chased in sequins and pearls was designed by greater minds than these repet-a-thud fools with pumped up deltoids and bloated stomachs.
Perhaps the reason entirely too many of the queens, whose habits are now mine, are too churlish to acknowledge my capitulation to conformity, is it would mean acknowledging their own.
And if I must feel the horror that maybe, just maybe, I am merely another ordinary queen-;why then am I continuing with the capitulation? Why not go back? Stop working out, stop tanning?
Because, most shocking and embarrassing of all to this fey thing: I like it.
