Doll Parts

by Amanda Lepore

  “I wish I looked like you,” I told her. She smiled.

  Steve pulled up in front of my house, I sat up, dizzy and nauseous, looked at my house and lay right back down. Every single light was on—a foreboding sign. When Mom got super paranoid she needed all the lights on. I sobered up real quick.

  Sandy told Steve to wait until we were inside, and the three of us walked up to the door. It was locked and bolted.

  I knocked. Nothing happened. I knocked again, and saw Mom peeking out of the living room window. “Mom, the door is locked. Let us in.” The twins said nothing. Vomit started to rise in my throat and I braced myself against the door.

  “Maybe she’s asleep,” Stephanie said.

  I waited a few minutes and knocked again. The living room curtains rustled and Mom peeked out. “Mom, I can see you. You have to unlock the door.”

  She moved away from the window, saying nothing.

  “Mom, you said they could stay over!” Still no answer.

  I looked to the twins, not sure what to tell them. It was humiliating.

  I gave it one last try. I screamed as loud as I could, “MOM!” Now I was definitely going to vomit. I ran to the side of the house and threw up, hard and ugly. Mascara was burning my eyes.

  Stephanie and Sandy came over to me. “It’s fine,” Stephanie said. “You can come stay with us.”

  “It’s no big deal,” said Sandy. “Just make sure you throw up everything you can now.”

  I didn’t puke in the car. Steve’s eyes bulged the whole time but he was enough of a gentleman to keep his concern to himself.

  Louise Jr. met us at the door and took me to the bathroom, cleaned my face, gave me something to settle my stomach, and made up the couch for me, leaving a bucket close by.

  The next day Mom let me in and asked how my night was. I told her it was fine but that I was really tired and needed to go to bed.

  The twins never said anything to me about what happened, and neither did Louise, but they all made me promise never to get drunk again. I agreed on one condition: I needed Dylan’s phone number.

  A WOMAN

  SHOULD

  NEVER . . .

  RUN.

  —Exception: She’s on Baywatch, and she better nail it in one take.

  GET A BOY’S NUMBER.

  —Exception: None. She can’t make the first call anyway, so why even pretend?

  CALL A BOY BACK.

  —Exception: Rough trade. He’s only allowed the one call.

  LEAVE THE HOUSE IF HER FACE IS BREAKING OUT.

  —Exception: She’s on her way to get a facial. (PS. cum is very good for the skin. It’s babies!)

  SWEAT OUTSIDE THE GYM.

  —Exception: None. There’s one kind of fluid that should come out of a woman when a man’s around, and it’s not sweat.

  TAKE OUT THE TRASH.

  —Exception: Spinsterhood. A woman can do any other housework, but a man should take out the trash. It could leak on her shoes.

  Chapter 3

  SOME LIKE IT HOT

  Stephanie became a stripper in Newark, which I thought was really neat. She was perfect for it: big tits and even bigger bleached blonde hair. Sandy was a little too conservative to strip, but they had both grown up unashamed of their bodies.

  In preparation for her new job, Stephanie used red hair dye to give herself pink highlights. I was so jealous that I literally ached, like the woman in me was trying to claw her way out to the surface. Stephanie would come home after a shift and Sandy and I would help her unwrinkle her stripper cash while she told us about all the horny guys at the bar.

  Louise Sr. made Stephanie costumes to strip out of, and I begged her to let me help. She showed me a few simple patterns and I caught on quick, embellishing them with hundreds of cheap jewels and beads. When all you’re making are G-strings, bikini tops and pasties, it doesn’t take that long to figure out.

  My designs were a hit. The other dancers at the strip club really liked what I was making for Stephanie, and she said I should go along with her one night and bring some outfits to sell.

  I called up Dylan and asked if he would be my escort to the bar. It seemed like a good setting for a first date. He agreed, and the next night he picked Stephanie and me up in his brother’s car and drove us to Newark. I sat up front and we held hands; his boner was so big it was resting on the steering wheel.

  “You know she’s a virgin, right?” Stephanie said from the backseat. “You’ll rip her in half with that thing.”

  Dylan winked at me. “Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.”

  The strip club stood singularly in the middle of an empty block. I felt so mature, going to make money with a boyfriend in tow. Stephanie introduced me to the sweaty manager, who gave me a table in the back of the smoky room to set up my wares.

  “When the girls are done with their set onstage, they’ll come through the audience for lap dances. They’ll have cash on them, so you should make out okay.” He didn’t ask for any split and left me alone the rest of the night. I don’t know why he let me in there in the first place, I was a kid.

  I sold a few pieces, though it wasn’t really about the money. I was mostly just charging for materials. Sparkles aren’t cheap, you know. It was more exciting to be there with all the girls, to see the way men looked at them, even the way Dylan looked at them. I wasn’t jealous when he was ogling. Who could blame him? These girls were sexual goddesses. How could I be mad at him for wanting to fuck them when I wanted to be them?

  After a couple of hours, Dylan started getting restless. He told me he had something he really needed to show me, and I assured him I really needed to see it. I sucked his dick in the backseat of his car in the parking lot. It was bigger than my arm, and I’d never done it before, but he was very patient with me. Once I figured out how to open my mouth wide enough I started to really enjoy it. He asked if he could cum in my mouth and I said, “Only if you’re my boyfriend.”

  He agreed, and I swallowed.

  We waited for Stephanie’s shift to end, and Dylan dropped us off at her house. I kissed him good-bye and made plans to see a movie with him that weekend. Stephanie was laughing at me as we walked to her door. “He’s the horniest guy I’ve ever seen,” she said.

  “You don’t know the half of it.” I was trying to be coy.

  “Wipe the dried cum off your chin before my grandmother sees you.” She handed me a napkin and patted me on the shoulder.

  As we sat around the kitchen table, each counting our cash from the night, Sandy made us Bloody Marys (mine was virgin) and they plied me for the details of what had happened. “Are you going to let him fuck you?” Stephanie asked.

  I’d been thinking the same thing all night. I wanted Dylan to take my virginity; I had thought about it since the night I met him. But not in the body I had. I wanted to have sex the way a woman was supposed to.

  I think Stephanie and Sandy always assumed I was homosexual. That night I tried my best to explain to them what was really going on, even though I barely understood it myself.

  “I just wish I had titties,” I said. “Like a girl is meant to have.”

  The twins were unfazed. “You can take estrogen hormones; they’ll make your tits grow,” Sandy said.

  “Yeah, but where am I supposed to get hormones from? My parents will never get them for me.”

  “You know,” Stephanie said, “I’m pretty sure this girl Bambi I work with had a sex change. Maybe you should talk to her.”

  An image popped into my head: me, dressed as my Dolls of the World Japan Barbie, in a red-and-gold kimono, kneeling at the feet of my wise she-sensei as she made tea and told me the meaning of life and the burdens of tying a corset.

  “What makes you think she had a sex change?” I asked.

  “Her hands and feet are too big. Her toes hang off the ends of her shoes. Guys don’t notice those things, but girls do.”

  I had to meet this dancer.

  The next night Dylan drop
ped Stephanie and me off at the titty bar. Stephanie pointed out Bambi to me, said “Good luck,” and went to prep for her set.

  Bambi was on the stage, topless. She looked like Raquel Welch, with a large mound of Rita Hayworth red hair. An older man was playing with her large, pink nipples while he tucked cash inside her G-string. Her million-yard stripper stare was down cold.

  Set finished, Bambi gathered her clothes and stepped down into the audience. She walked by and I said hello.

  “You want a lap dance?” She looked irritated.

  “Uh, no,” I stammered. “I’m friends with Stephanie. I make G-strings and bikini tops if you’re interested?”

  Bambi stared at me hard. Then she sighed, shrugged, and started looking through my piles.

  “These are nice,” she said, “but I like green. It looks good with my hair. Make me a set in green and I’ll buy them.” She walked away, not giving me the chance to ask her anything else. But something told me Stephanie was right, and I had just met my first transgender woman.

  4 NON

  BLONDES

  DOVIMA

  Dovima With Elephants, taken by Richard Avedon in 1959, is one of the greatest photographs ever taken. She wore Dior, the elephants wore wrinkles and chains.

  GRACE JONES

  I did a show with her once; I had to pull off her pantsuit to reveal a dress underneath. The pants got stuck and she yelled at me, “Pull! PULL!” I pulled so fucking hard I thought my tit would pop.

  DITA VON TEESE

  Inspired me to get into burlesque. Understands body angles better than anyone else alive.

  LANA DEL REY

  “Will you still love me when I’m no longer young and beautiful?” Honey I’ll be beautiful when I’m 100, and so will Lana. Oh, and she has great nails; we have the same nail technician!

  I designed Bambi an extra-special bikini top.

  It was emerald green, just like she wanted, and I created a studded necklace with hundreds of tiny green and pink gemstones that would cover her tits but flash a lot of skin when she moved. It was gorgeous, and Stephanie begged me to let her wear it. “This one’s for Bambi,” I said, “but she’s not getting it for free.”

  I set up shop as I normally did, and waited for Bambi to finish her set. As soon as she got offstage I waved the emerald-colored bikini in the air, the jewels catching flecks of light in the dim bar.

  She smiled and hustled toward me. “Stunning,” she said. “How much?”

  “It’s yours, on one condition. You have to tell me: are you a transgender? Because I am.”

  She set the bikini down and looked at me, really looked at me for the first time. “I know,” she said.

  We were both silent for a few seconds.

  “Are you going to do the whole thing?” she asked.

  “Yes, I want to, but I need hormones and I don’t know how to get them. Do you think you could trade me hormone pills for costumes?”

  Her million-yard stare faded away.

  “Okay, I’ll do it,” she said. “On one condition. Don’t tell your mother.” Bambi picked up the bikini and walked backstage.

  The next night she gave Stephanie a month’s worth of pills for me. I took one as soon as they were in my hand, and spent the next hour staring in the mirror. I felt so badass. I was fifteen, taking female hormones on the sneak.

  Because I was so young, they started working almost immediately. My skin cleared up and became softer, the hair on my arms became even finer than it already was, and my weight redistributed so my hips got bigger. Most exciting of all was that my chest became really sore, to the point that it was hard to take a shower. I was developing breasts. Not enough to fill a bra, but they were becoming noticeable.

  Bambi never became the mentor I wanted her to be, but she did show me how to properly “tuck” my penis, which she used to do while stripping before she had her sex change. She also taught me to wear a large belt around my waist to pin in my stomach and give me a great shape. For the most part, though, I was just another business transaction for her.

  When young transsexuals approach me and ask if they should start taking hormones, I always encourage it. If you know that’s what you want to do, you should just do it now. As you get older, the male hormones set in and it becomes harder to change. Once you have a man’s build, a man’s feet and hands, you can’t reverse that. If you chemically castrate early, you’ll never experience being a man, and you can deal with the surgical aspect when/if you’re ready.

  Whatever you decide to do, do it legally, with a real doctor. When I was going through it, there were a lot fewer resources for transgender youth. Don’t use my risky decisions as your excuse. You never know what you could be taking when you buy something off the street.

  Two months after I started taking the hormones, my mother walked into the bathroom as I was getting out of the shower. Before I had a chance to cover up, she got a good look at me, and dropped her laundry basket.

  I wrapped a towel around my body and walked to my bedroom. Mom followed me in, staring at me. “When did you get breasts?” she asked.

  I’d developed full A cups by that point; I knew I could only hide them for so long and was prepared with a cover story. “Isn’t it great? I asked Jesus to send me boobies, and he did!”

  “Oh. That’s nice. He gave you really pretty ones.” She walked away.

  Was it fair to play into her mental illness, and let her believe that Jesus had made me a girl? Or was this one of those little white lies that didn’t hurt anyone?

  I decided that if Mom was able to believe that Jesus had made me a girl, then I might as well go with it. And since Dad had completely disappeared (besides a weekly check in the mail) and Joseph had a girlfriend he’d basically moved in with, there was no point hiding anymore. When I was home or at the twins’ house, I dressed as a girl.

  I wore light makeup and Mom told me I looked nice. When she went clothes shopping, she’d buy me girls’ clothes. I really loved a black top with ruffles that was super girlie and cute. Mom also bought me a padded bra, which she said would make me look fuller. She really embraced it.

  One day she gave me the greatest present I’ve ever received: my first very own lipstick. It was Revlon’s Cherries in the Snow; it was just the perfect shade of red. I wore it every day.

  She did start to get on me about wearing too much makeup. “You look like one of those girls on the corner, swinging their pocketbook,” she would say. “If you use your lipstick every day you won’t have any left for special occasions.” The thought of running out terrified me. I went and bought three more.

  I still hadn’t decided on a name. My mom told me she would’ve named me Kristen or Stephanie if I was born a girl, but I already knew a Stephanie, and Kristen didn’t feel right. I considered a stripper name, something like Corvette, but I wanted a real girl’s name, not a character.

  Louise Sr. came up with Amanda, which is Armand if you drop the “r” and add an “a.” “This isn’t a science fiction project,” she said. “You’re not becoming someone new.”

  I loved it. She was right, I was always Amanda, even when I went by a different name.

  Now that my outside was more matched up with my insides, I felt it was time to go all the way with Dylan.

  We’d been dating somewhat steadily but it wasn’t too serious. He’d take me out every Friday night—to the movies or to see Rocky Horror Picture Show play at an old run-down theater in central Jersey, or to see his friend’s cover band. His own band wasn’t that great, so they didn’t play very often.

  Mom liked Dylan and thought he was cute, but I tried not to let her see him. He’d drop me off and we’d make out on my front porch but he hardly ever came inside. One time he did, and we made out in my room. Mom saw us and screamed at the top of her lungs until he ran out the front door. I never brought him over again.

  Dylan was probably fucking other girls on the side but I didn’t care that much. He was just too horny to wait for me to be read
y, so how could I blame him? I’d give him blow jobs every time I saw him, but he was a man and he needed more.

  One Friday night, I called and told Dylan I was ready to go all the way. He picked me up and we went to the house of a friend, whose parents were hippies. They were laid-back, and Dylan said they’d definitely let us have sex in their bedroom.

  I didn’t know what to expect. Dylan gave me a Quaalude to help me relax. It worked. He took off all my clothes and laid me down on the bed. My tits were still very sore, so he kissed them a little but didn’t touch them too much. He climbed on top of me, between my legs, and slowly put his entire huge dick in my ass and kissed me. It was painful, but I really loved the feeling of him being on top of me. It reminded me of when I was a kid, with the pillow and the wet dreams. This was exactly how I imagined sex would be.

  After that, Dylan and I started spending a lot of time together. We’d hang out and fuck at the hippie house a few times a week. He had me completely dickmatized; I’d do whatever he wanted once he came at me with that huge dick.

  Stephanie and Sandy both moved to Chicago for college right before my junior year of high school.

  I missed their friendship and advice, and I really missed going out to bars with them and flirting with boys. My breasts were a B cup by then, and I loved showing them off.

  The only times I would dress as a boy were the few days a week I showed up to school. Mom would take me clothes shopping and I’d look through the girls’ sections for things that were unisex enough to keep me happy and not draw attention from my peers. One time a girl in my class was wearing the same shirt as me and everyone laughed and laughed. It wasn’t even a girlie shirt, so I didn’t see what the big deal was. The next day I stole a pentagram patch from Joseph’s room and sewed it to my T-shirt. Kids left me alone that day. For a few weeks I sewed it to whatever shirt I was wearing if I went to school.