Doll Parts

by Amanda Lepore

  I remember looking in the mirror while trying on one of my new dresses, with my full hair and fuller lips, and thinking about the Rapunzel dream I used to have. Locked away from the world, unable to enjoy everything that life had to offer a gorgeous girl with great hair.

  I’d never let that happen to me again.

  Chapter 8

  THE MISFITS

  It was 1990, and Keni wanted to take me out for a sort of New York society introduction. We went to an anniversary party for Details magazine, being thrown at Cave Canem, a trendy restaurant in the East Village that was formerly a gay bathhouse.

  My dress was a strapless ivory satin fishtail gown and I wore my favorite waterfall earrings, but my best accessory was Keni: he looked gorgeous in a white suit. We’re the same height, so we photograph together well. When we walked through the front door, we bumped right into Christian Slater, who gasped when he saw us.

  Canem was like one of those old-fashioned supper clubs you used to see in films from the 1940s. The tables were large and round, and everyone took the time to introduce themselves to the new girl on Keni Valenti’s arm. Annie Flanders, Stephen Sprouse, Debbie Harry, and Chi Chi Valenti all came up to say hello. They thought Keni and I were husband and wife and everyone was just dying for us. Christian Slater invited us to the premiere of his new film, Pump Up the Volume. I was super shy back then and didn’t know what to say to anyone, but when we got home I hugged Keni and thanked him for bringing me. I was so grateful to be out on the scene. It felt like I had found a home.

  Details published a picture of me at the party and called me “The Girl of the Minute.” I had a permanent smile glued on my face for at least a week after.

  “You’ve met the New York establishment, all the people that have been on top for the past decade,” Keni told me. “Now you need to meet the kids who will be running things for the next decade. It’s so important to stay on top of trends.”

  For the location of my anti-society inauguration, Keni chose Disco 2000, a new Wednesday-night party at Limelight, Peter Gatien’s Gothic church turned nightclub. Peter was well-known in New York as the king of nightlife, and Disco 2000 was his protégé Michael Alig’s homage to the freaks and outcasts of the world. Anyone who was in the least bit interesting was meant to be in attendance.

  In keeping with the theme, Keni designed me a pure white spandex evening gown and white velvet gloves. He again wore a matching white suit.

  “There are three ways to get into the club,” he said. “You have to know somebody, you have to have a look, or you have to be a drug dealer. Dealers get carte blanche.”

  “I’ll just focus on my look,” I said. “I can’t deal drugs in an evening dress, where will I keep them?”

  At midnight on the dot, I opened up our living room window, leaned outside, and waved a scarf, trying to get the attention of a passing cab. I didn’t want to be stuck looking for a cab on the street in my dress. I wasn’t having any luck. It was a bitterly cold night, and cabs were scarce.

  “What do we do?” I asked Keni.

  “Just stick your tits out the window until a car stops. That dress looks best with hard nipples anyway.” Keni always had a plan.

  Photography by © Tina Paul 1989–2006 All Rights Reserved

  I pulled my dress down, went back to the window, and waved my scarf so my breasts jiggled. A Jeep full of college boys screeched to a stop almost right away.

  “Me and my friend need a ride to a party!” I called out.

  “Tell them we can get them in the club for free,” Keni whispered.

  “You can all get in with us, for free! I’m just desperate to get to the club!”

  I felt like a movie star.

  The boys yelled for us to come down. They were a rowdy bunch of drunk frat brothers, out looking for some trouble. I sat on the lap of the one I thought was cutest, while Keni squeezed in the side. Neither of us wore coats. First impressions are more important than frostbite.

  “You smell so good,” my cute boy said. “What’s that scent?”

  “It’s my pussy,” I whispered in his ear. “It tastes even better.” I felt his dick get hard and it was a monster. My sixth sense/dick sense always steers me right. The radio blasted Prince’s “Let’s Go Crazy” as I talked like a whore in my boy’s ear and we made our way to Disco 2000.

  There was a long line out front of Limelight, but Keni promised that wasn’t going to be an issue.

  “Rule number one of going out: the door person is God and must be treated as such. They decide who pays and who doesn’t. And they have all the free drink tickets.” He walked right up to the doorman and air-kissed him, then peeled me off my date and offered me up for presentation.

  “Kenny Kenny, this is Amanda Lepore,” Keni said. “Amanda Lepore, this is Kenny Kenny, the most important doorman in New York City.”

  “Hi, Kenny Kenny, you look great,” I said. If someone takes the time to look good it is your duty as a human being to acknowledge their hard work, even if hypothermia is setting in. He resembled a femmed-up, less androgynous Joel Grey in Cabaret—hair slicked back, face washed out with a strong smoky eye, a man’s shirt and tie paired with a pencil skirt and patent leather heels.

  Kenny double kissed me and unclipped the black velvet rope. “Let this be a lesson to all of you,” he yelled to the crowd, and took my hand to spin me around. “That’s how you put together a look!”

  I walked in, all smiles, with Keni on one arm and my boy candy on the other. I felt like Grace Kelly. The rest of the college boys followed behind us like a gaggle of wide-eyed baby geese, following their mama into incoming traffic.

  Inside, Disco 2000 was a crowded, dark, cavernous maze.

  The music was like a hummingbird’s heartbeat playing loud enough to make my other senses stop working. Spotlights zigzagged around, and the stained glass windows of the church reflected brightly, but otherwise I couldn’t see a thing.

  We lost the boys almost immediately, though I held on to my cute one for dear life. I mean, that dick was like a billy club, no way in hell was I going to let him go until he beat me with it. It’s a shame I don’t remember his name. Maybe it was Billy.

  Keni wound us through the throngs of sweaty dancers, heading toward a back room that was closed off by another rope. “THIS IS WHERE MICHAEL ALIG HAS HIS PARTY,” Keni screamed into my ear. “YOU HAVE TO MEET HIM. HE’S GOING TO LOVE YOU.”

  I’D HEARD A LITTLE ABOUT, oh, sorry, here we go. I’d heard a little about Michael Alig before. He was the high priest of New York’s Club Kids, and this back room, called the Chapel, was where he held court.

  The Chapel was situated around a circular bar in the middle of the room. The music was more fun than the main dance floor, sort of retro eighties camp, like Devo, Madness, and obligatory Madonna. Nightclubs always tend to recycle music from the decade before.

  I met so many people in the Chapel, kissed so many cheeks, and turned down so many hits of ecstasy, that it all became a blur. But here are the people I do remember:

  JAMES ST JAMES: Keni introduced us and James said hi (it was more like, “Oh, hiiiiiiieeeeee”) and then he searched through his lunch box purse, yelling about something he’d lost and slurring his words so badly I thought he was doing a Nico impression.

  MICHAEL MUSTO: The famous Village Voice writer. His countenance was quite possibly the inspiration for the scowling emoji. He said I looked like Cleo the Goldfish from Pinocchio. I’m not sure if that was a read or not but I took it as a compliment.

  CLARA THE CHICKEN: A man dressed in a large yellow chicken costume, doing the chicken dance as though he were on crack (he was). Dadaism. Surreal. Television monitors splashed pictures of Clara all over the place.

  PETER GATIEN: Lingering in the shadows, with an eye patch over one eye. A couple of times I saw him staring at me and held on to my college boy extra tight.

  ARMEN RA: Dressed almost identically to me, but all in black. Black velvet dress and gloves with a black mink, a
black flip wig, and a large diamond ring. We looked great together. Yin and yang. I adored her immediately.

  And then came Michael Alig himself. I knew who he was as soon as I saw him, since I had helped Keni design the outfit he was wearing. It was made of red fishnet, and we had woven multicolored rubber tubing into the netting as fringe. His face was femme and his boy shorts had the ass cut out.

  Michael walked up to me and the first thing he said was, “You look fabulous. Would you like a job?” His arms jerked and twisted around his face as he spoke, as though he were uncontrollably voguing.

  A woman he was with yelled out, “You can’t just pay everyone to come to your party, it sets a bad precedent!”

  “I have to hire her,” he said. “She’s exactly the type of person I want coming here.”

  I looked to Keni, who shrugged noncommittally.

  I thought about it. Did I really want to invite this level of insanity into my life?

  “Sure.”

  The first job Michael Alig gave me was working the front door of Limelight, alongside Kenny Kenny.

  Michael wanted to show me off to passersby on the street; he thought it would bring people in. It was only a few days before Christmas, and freezing cold outside. I showed up to the front door wearing a little red 1920s-inspired dress, which I had personally hemmed so that my pussy was just barely covered.

  “You’re going to freeze your ass off,” was Kenny Kenny’s hello. He was in a military suit with his pants tucked into his boots.

  “But I have a fur coat,” I told him. It wasn’t a coat, it was a stole, and it barely covered my tits. I wasn’t wearing stockings either, and I had six-inch heels on. “If they wanted to hire an Eskimo, I’m sure they would have.” I winked and he laughed.

  Kenny gave me a quick rundown of how the job worked. It wasn’t rocket science. People who were part of the scene, who dressed up and added to the atmosphere, got in for free. The “normal” people had to pay because that was how the club made money. You had to have a nice balance of the people who made the party fun and the spectators who kept the lights on.

  It was harder than I thought it would be. I felt bad asking for money. Kenny would turn people away, and they’d come up to me and I’d just open the rope. The entire line moved over to my side of the door, completely bypassing Kenny.

  On top of this, every fifteen minutes I would have to be escorted down the stairs and inside so I could warm up.

  “I think we’re in a John Waters movie and haven’t figured it out,” Kenny Kenny said. “There’s no good reason for you to be out here.”

  He was right. I lasted two nights before Michael moved me inside and made me a go-go dancer and his new best friend.

  Michael Alig could have been the next Andy Warhol. He was bright, creative, and he had something to prove. If only he hadn’t become a drug addict and murdered and dismembered someone . . .

  A week after I started at Disco 2000, I was invited to join my coworkers on Joan Rivers’s new talk show.

  Keni and I worked for hours trying to figure out what to wear, which kept me from thinking about how nervous I was. We settled on a gold bikini top and bottom and a white mink coat that a client from the Key graciously, benevolently, willfully, legally bought for me.

  When I arrived at the greenroom with my extra-long Madonna ponytail, I hadn’t even thought about what to say and I was completely flushed, which made me more nervous, which made me more flushed.

  “Just relax,” Michael said. “You look amazing; you’re every man’s fantasy of the ideal woman.”

  Another of the new Club Kids was there, an androgynous glammed-up Blueberry Shortcake rainbow sparkle named Richie Rich. “Honey,” he said, “you’re going to steal the show with that body. All of America is going to freak out when they see you.”

  Michael said, “Tell her you don’t even get paid. You just love to party and parties love having you because you look so good.” That sounded good. Michael knew what he was doing.

  Joan wanted nothing to do with us until the cameras were on, then her whole attitude changed, like a pinball machine turning on. On camera I told Joan I didn’t have time to work because I was too busy getting ready to go out all the time. She asked me if I was a hooker, which I thought was rude but not completely out of line, I guess.

  Working in nightclubs was my job, and to me, being professional is so important.

  My job was to dance for fifteen minutes, three times a night, in a cage above the dance floor. They’d lower the cage to the ground, a security guard would help me into it, and then they’d yank me up. I’d wear a bikini or lingerie, the same stuff I was wearing at the Key. Between my sets I would hang out with Armen and Richie Rich (who were both way too cool to dance in a cage, which Michael hated), mingle, and look as perfect as I could. After my last shift in the cage, I went home for the night (usually not alone) while the party continued to rage on. By that point everyone was drunk or high anyway and I could slip out unnoticed. I’d make seventy-five dollars for the night, so I still had to work at the dungeon a few times a week to support myself, but I was having a good time and meeting a lot of sexy men.

  No one in the clubs knew I was transsexual at first. There were whispers, I’m sure. Transsexuals weren’t super common back then, so it wouldn’t occur to people right away. It’s not like trannies were on Donahue at that point. People just assumed I was the new hyper-feminine female on the scene, following in the footsteps of Dianne Brill or Julie Jewels.

  Michael knew I had a pussy—everyone knew that, because I wasn’t shy about showing it off—but sometimes he’d say things like, “I wonder what you’d look like if you were a boy,” to try and gauge my reaction. I was hanging out with him one time in the bathroom at Disco 2000 and he asked if he could watch me pee.

  Maybe he thought trannies had to use a straw to go to the bathroom or something, I don’t know, but he was so inquisitive about it that I knew he was thinking something he wasn’t saying. So I did what I always do when I want to change the subject: I started talking about how pretty my pussy is. “I just love my pussy. It’s really perfect, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, Amanda, of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “I mean, my surgeon really made it beautiful, don’t you think?”

  He agreed, and gave me a big hug while I peed.

  Once I confirmed for him that I was a tranny, he made me his new “It Girl” and started hiring me for every party he’d throw. People told me It Girls only lasted until the next blonde beauty showed up. I didn’t care so much. I just wanted to have a good time. There’s no point worrying about things you can’t control.

  THE AMANDA

  LEPORE

  COSMETIC

  ESSENTIALS

  Makeup is completely personal. What works for me might not be right for you. But these are all the cosmetic products I most adore!

  Chanel No. 5 Foaming Bubble Bath and Body Powder (on all this skin, honey)

  Giorgio Armani Luminous Skin Foundation

  Chanel Natural Finish Loose Powder

  Lips: I wear red lipstick or no lipstick. MAC Prep + Prime, Kat Von D Santa Sangre Lip Stain, MAC Matte Cherry Lip Liner, Kevyn Aucoin Persistence Lip Stick and Dior Addict #856 Lip Gloss

  Cheeks: MAC Pro Longwear Blush (any pale pink or peach colors)

  Highlighter: MAC Silver Dusk Powder and Fix Plus spray, to keep me porcelain and dewy

  Eyes: MAC Black Liquid Eyeliner, Chanel Eye Shadow quads in any color, Makiash Mascara

  Michael had the energy of a ten-year-old and the personality to match. He loved to play tricks on people, tripping them on the dance floor, or pissing in a cup and dumping it out a window that overlooked the line of people waiting to get into his party. Other people would yell at him or call him an asshole. I’d just say, “Oh, Michael, you’re too much,” and leave it at that. It wasn’t my place to judge him. I think that’s what he liked about me.

  Photography by © Tina Paul 1989�
�2006 All Rights Reserved

  Every party Michael threw had a theme, but I didn’t usually follow form. I had my look down, I wasn’t trying to change it. Plus a lot of his themes were gross, like Blood Feast, where everyone basically dressed like zombies, or Emergency Room. That one was actually sort of fun. Michael had a set designer build a makeshift hospital clubhouse. Armen, Richie Rich, and I dressed as sexy nurses (I already had the costume). We’d go up to hot guys and ask if they were feeling ill. If they were, we’d give them a checkup. Then Michael would come by and give them their “medicine,” which was Rohypnol with a vodka chaser.

  My favorite parties were when Michael would get a celebrity to show up. He sent out more than 200 letters to the stars of his favorite shows, inviting them to accept an award: the Nightlife Achievement Award.

  By “award,” Michael meant a cheap piece of plastic he would glue together and cover in glitter. It usually fell apart the second he handed it over to the poor celeb, who hopefully didn’t put it too close to their clothing.

  A bunch of people responded, which Michael did not expect. He’d run around saying, “What if Joyce DeWitt tells Florence Henderson that she won too? They’ll know we made it all up!”

  Barbara Eden, Nichelle Nichols, Snapple Lady, Mr. Ripple, and even the “Where’s the Beef?” lady all received awards from Michael Alig. My favorite was Donna Douglas, aka Elly May Clampett from The Beverly Hillbillies. Michael covered the floors with hay and released a bunch of live chickens. I wore really cute capri jeans, just like she wore on the show. I loved finding a way to make the celeb’s style fit into my own style. It was harder to do for Mr. Ripple. I ended up just wearing white.

  These weren’t A-listers showing up, which Michael preferred. “Club Kids are about soulless American consumerism, the emptiness of celebrity,” he would say. “The B-listers are living proof of that!”