Doll Parts

by Amanda Lepore

  “Yeah.” Sophia hugged me and I started crying.

  “And Angel, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Will Michael be arrested now?”

  Photography by © Tina Paul 1989–2006 All Rights Reserved

  “Yep.” Sophia held me close and we looked out at the crowd of oblivious dancers. “Guess the Club Kids will have to grow up after all.”

  In 1996 Michael Alig was charged with first-degree manslaughter. He gained even more fame when James St James wrote his memoir, Disco Bloodbath, which became the film Party Monster. I made a cameo appearance. I figured since I hadn’t aged one bit since those days, I might as well.

  I did my best to avoid the details of the murder, so I didn’t get the whole story until I sat down and watched the movie. Apparently, Angel came to Michael’s apartment to collect a drug debt, and ended up getting physical with him. Another drugged-out Club Kid named Freeze saw this and hit Angel over the head with a hammer, cracking his skull.

  If Michael had just called the police after that happened, I think I could wrap my head around the whole thing. Instead, they hit Angel in the head a few more times, suffocated him, then kept him in the bathtub for more than a week, blockading the bathroom and hosting parties in the apartment until the smell was too much to take. Then Michael cut Angel up into pieces and threw him over the pier near 28th Street. I didn’t sleep for a week after watching that movie. I regretted having anything to do with it.

  In the aftermath of the murder, the Club Kids scattered to the wind. Jenny Talia got clean, Armen Ra became a world-famous thereminist, James St James rode high on the success of his book, Richie Rich started the massively successful fashion line Heatherette, Kenny Kenny continued to reign as the top doorman in NYC, and Sophia Lamar and I kept dancing together and moved forward with the next wave of New York nightlife. Despite all that, we’re all connected forever, like sister wives.

  In 2014 Michael was released from prison, moved to Brooklyn, and joined Instagram. I hear he’s writing a book and selling some lithographs with my face on them.

  I ran into Michael at a club a few months back. It felt like the twilight zone. Kids are dressing up again like they used to, and there I was, chatting with Michael Alig at a Kenny Kenny party, as though nothing ever happened. When I got home that night, I couldn’t fall asleep. I stayed up all night hot-gluing crystals to a new dress, trying not to think about the awful things that had happened.

  I wish Michael the best, and considering how smart I know he is, I’m sure he’ll be fine. I do hope he is able to do something with his life now that he’s been given another chance. Not everyone is so lucky.

  Photography by © Tina Paul 1989–2006 All Rights Reserved

  Chapter 9

  ALL ABOUT EVE

  Limelight and the Key closed down around the same time.They’d both more than run their course; it felt good to move on.

  I was living with grungy blond Chris rent-free. But then he got hooked on heroin, like everyone else it seemed. Even that I could put up with, but one night he asked me for some cash, I said no, and he smacked me in the face.

  I flipped the fuck out, yelling and screaming so loud, half the hotel came to see what was up. I mean, what an asshole, getting hooked on junk after he had been so critical of all the other people doing it, and then hitting me? In the face? Fuck that.

  The hotel manager gave me my own room to move in to, if I would “only stop screaming.” I accepted, and all the doormen helped me move my clothes, shoes, handbags, and makeup down two flights, while Chris locked himself in the bathroom.

  It was weird at first, living in the same hotel where my now-ex worked. But I made the best of it. I got my revenge on Chris by parading my new boys in front of him. I’d come home from a club with some 6'5" baseball player, or one of the cast of The Outsiders that I briefly dated, go to the front desk, pull down my top, and let all my tips from that night fall out.

  “Can you change this into larger bills?” I’d say, and dry hump my new guy as the ex counted through my titty money.

  Richie Rich moved into the room next to mine, Armen Ra took the room on the other side, and Sophia started sleeping over most nights. We were like sorority sisters; we’d spend all day getting ready to go out all night.

  There was a pay phone right outside my door, which one of us was always on. It had a long cord, which was perfect because you could pull it into your room with you when you were having a “private conversation.”

  The phone rang one day, and this guy asked for Armand.

  “Nope, wrong number,” I said.

  “You’re not Armand?”

  “Do I sound like Armand? I’m a girl, asshole.” I hung up, and Armen was staring at me.

  “What was that?” he asked.

  “Oh, they were looking for someone named Armand. That used to be my name.”

  “Amanda, that used to be my name too. They were probably looking for me.”

  “You mean we’ve been friends all this time and never knew we were born with the same first name?”

  “Guess we could stand to spend some more time together. You should come work with me!”

  Armen was managing the makeup department at Patricia Field’s on Eighth Street, and he offered me a position doing eyebrows and makeovers. Sophia and I still danced at a lot of parties, like Twilo, a monstrous warehouse of a techno club in Chelsea, as well as Bowery Bar and Plaid in the East Village. It wasn’t enough to cover the extra income I’d gotten from the Key. I did need a day job.

  Patricia Field was the lead costume designer on Sex and the City, so everyone knew who she was. Her store was an extension of the nightlife scene. Her best customers were club personalities who weren’t afraid of a strong look. It seemed like a perfect fit.

  When I went in for my interview, wearing a leopardprint halter top, black cigarette pants, and nude Manolo Blahnik pumps, the store was packed. Armen was busy with a client, but he pointed me toward the back office. I quietly knocked on the door.

  “WHADDYA WANT?” I heard a gravelly voiced old man scream from inside.

  I cracked open the door and whispered, “Sorry, sir, I’m looking for Patricia?”

  The door yanked fully open, and there stood Patricia Field, with her trademark manic red hair, a cigarette hanging out of her mouth (and another one lit in her hand), and no makeup on her face. Not even eyeliner.

  “Oh, uh, sorry, Patricia. Armen told me to come in about a makeup job?”

  She looked me up and down. “CAN YOU DO MAKEUP?” She was screaming so loud I turned around to see if she was talking to someone on the other side of the store.

  “Um, yeah. I went to beauty school.”

  “PROVE IT.”

  She slammed her office door behind her and walked to the makeup counter, trailing smoke. I followed, eyeing a quick escape. Armen watched us walk toward him and rushed his customer out of her chair, which Pat plopped down in.

  “WELL? LET’S GO.”

  I looked over at Armen; he was dressed like a chic deco lesbian witch. “You got this,” he said, and set his makeup brushes down in front of me.

  I picked up a foundation, tested it on the back of my hand, and approached Pat, who was still smoking her cigarette.

  I worked on her face, and Pat stopped yelling everything she said and started asking me about my life, where I’d come from, what clubs I worked at, who my friends were. By the time I was done, she’d smoked six cigarettes and was offering to let me borrow outfits from the store for my nights at Twilo. And she also gave me the job.

  I was able to wear the same clothes I wore at nightclubs, but instead of five-inch heels I’d wear three-inchers. More practical. Sometimes I’d show up in gowns with fur pieces, and Pat just loved it. It was the perfect job for me. The whole place was covered in mirrors, so when I didn’t have a client I could stare at myself.

  Since my counter was by the front door, my coworkers acted like it was my job to be security.


  Kids would steal from us all the time; our code word for them was “Jenny.” So if you thought someone was stealing, you’d yell out, “Hey, Jenny is here!” and everyone knew to watch out.

  Whenever I heard someone yell out about Jenny, I’d go hide in one of the closets. After I’d come out my coworkers would be all pissy with me. “Leave Amanda alone,” Pat would say. “You know she lives in outer space.”

  Pat is a really special lady. She hired kids who couldn’t get a job anywhere else—lots of transgender girls and homeless kids, people who had a hard time getting a start. She used to say she ran the only transsexual welfare system in the country. And she was right. Where else could a tranny get a job that didn’t involve removing her clothes?

  THE ART OF

  FLIRTATION

  Flirting is an art form, not unlike origami, decoupage, and nipple torture.

  STEP 1:

  Eye Contact. So important. Pick out your guy, make direct eye contact, smile, then go about your business as though it never happened.

  STEP 2:

  Eye Contact. Double-check your work. If he doesn’t pick up on it by now, he’s not your guy. Move on.

  STEP 3:

  Make Your Presence Known. Laugh loudly at something your friend says. Make a sexually provocative body movement. The key is, make him look at you while you’re preoccupied with something else.

  STEP 4:

  Expose and Ignore. Now that you have his attention, show him exactly where you want him to touch you. If you aced anatomy, I’m sure you’ll have a few ideas. I suggest pulling your hair up to reveal the nape of your neck.

  STEP 5:

  Success! He walks over, leans in to say hello, and puts his hand on whatever spot you wanted him to. It always works!

  A lot of people think that I’m addicted to plastic surgery. But the truth is, if I’m addicted to anything, it’s beauty. I suppose plastic surgery is part of that. My first psychiatrist said I was “body conscious.” The reality is, the more work I put into my look, the more right I felt. The more loved I felt. Hormones, makeup, growing my nails, anything that increased my femininity. Even buying an eyelash curler gave me a sense of hope, happiness, and acceptance.

  One day I was staring at myself in the mirror at work and noticed extra skin around my eyelids. I immediately made an appointment to see my surgeon.

  Dr. Reinhorn and I talked about an eye lift. It was tricky; some girls had it done and looked uneven, and the procedure also leaves a scar on your forehead, which I did not want.

  So I asked him if he could just cut along the line where I draw in my eyebrows; that way I would be able to trace the scars when I did my makeup. Two birds, one surgery. He thought it was a great idea and made a plan to take a triangle of skin out along with the muscle underneath, and lift my lids that way. In theory it would give me permanent Botox. The day of the surgery I drew my eyebrow line in blue Sharpie and told the doctor, “There’s your scar.”

  It was an intense procedure and I was on a lot of pain pills, but the worst part was that I wasn’t allowed to put makeup on my face for a full week after. Armen took care of me but I was driving him nuts; I was so high on pills I kept repeating myself, talking about the same nothing over and over.

  After three days I’d had enough and needed to get out. Antony & the Johnsons were playing at Joe’s Pub, and I really wanted to go, plus I wanted to see how lashes were going to look on my new lids.

  Armen begged me, “Please don’t fuck with the scars, it’s too soon.” But I didn’t care. I put on a huge Farrah Fawcett–style wig that covered most of my forehead. Armen helped me do my makeup since I was too high to draw a straight line, and he also helped me into a black patent leather gown.

  I didn’t want to mess with the brow scars, so I left them exposed and taped pieces of black lace to my temples. It looked like my scars were part of the lace, rather than red gashes with little black stitched Xs.

  Most people simply eyed my look, but when we saw Antony backstage, she got on her hands and knees to worship me. She said, “You’re an even more extreme performance artist than Marina Abramović.” It wasn’t on purpose; I just really needed to get out.

  A cute, dark Italian guy at the show started hitting on me. He seemed to know only three things to say in English: “Beautiful girl, beautiful hair, beautiful body.” Isn’t it always the case that you meet the cutest guys when you can’t have sex? He was hitting on me like crazy, petting my hair and grabbing my ass, but I hadn’t even pinned my wig on the right way, so I told him it wasn’t going to happen. He kept begging me to bring him home, so I finally gave in and told him I was just getting over being sick so he had to be gentle with me.

  First thing I did when we got to my place was turn the lights off and kick the wig head under the bed. We started fucking and he was very excited, loving it. Everything was going great until he pulled my hair, yanking the wig right off, so my scars were completely visible.

  He turned white. “OH MY GOD, WHAT’S THAT? WHAT’S THAT?!” He was screaming. I told him to calm down, that I’d just had surgery, but he kept freaking out, his dick went down, and he ran out.

  It was funny seeing a guy go from being in heaven to pure hell so quickly. I really should have pinned that wig.

  I’d heard rumors about Sophia Lamar’s life story, but she told me the whole thing one day during an aerobics class.

  “I was in one of Castro’s prison camps on my fifteenth birthday,” she nonchalantly said, as she jumped on and off a step, raising two-pound pink weights over her head.

  “What for? What did you do?” I was out of breath, and not sure how serious she was.

  “It was for reeducation, to turn me straight. I was lucky to get out of there. Some people were stuck there for most their lives.” The other girls in class were giving us strange looks.

  “How did you get out?”

  “My mom was well connected.”

  Besides both of us being beautiful transsexuals, we had almost nothing in common, which helped us get along well, like Jane Russell and Marilyn Monroe.

  “DAVID LaCHAPELLE IS HERE, AND HE’S BEEN ASKING ABOUT YOU.”

  Club promoters all across the country wanted former Club Kids to host events with them, and Sophia and I used to travel together. We were hired by Camel Cigarettes to travel to Dallas for a party. They paid us a ton of money, way more than our usual rate.

  On the plane ride there, Sophia told me she’d lived in Texas for some time. “My friend said to me, ‘Americans will kill you if they find out you are a boy in a wig.’ I was very careful; I wouldn’t jump in a car with a stranger. Then one day a gorgeous long-haired boy asked if I needed a ride, and I said to myself, He can kill me, I don’t care. He treated me so nice, I knew I would never have sex with a gay man again.” That’s when she decided to have a sex change.

  “Sexuality is complex,” she said. “I’m a woman when I’m in bed with a man, but otherwise I’m just Sophia.”

  “I’m just Amanda, but I’m definitely a woman.”

  “Having a vagina doesn’t make you a woman.”

  When we arrived at the club, it was just a typical dive bar. We walked in, me in a white corset and Sophia in red, and no one knew who we were. Patrons actually moved away from us, like we were diseased. We walked right back out and went back to our motel.

  “It’s so boring, to show up to these places with nothing to do,” Sophia said as we lay in bed, filing our nails. “Maybe we should start coming up with an act. That way we could get hired as performers and make more money.” We stayed up that night coming up with our plan.

  Once back in New York, we went to the Abracadabra store on Twenty First Street. There was a cute guy at the counter.

  “You have to teach us a magic trick,” Sophia blurted out. No hello or anything. If I’m sugar and spice, Sophia is snips and snails.

  I flirted with the guy (eye contact, touch and reveal) and told him what we were looking for. We didn’t need anything t
oo complicated, just something fun we could do on stage. It turned out he was a part-time clown and had lots of ideas.

  “Maybe you could do something with balloons,” he said.

  I pulled out my tits and pinched my nipples. “Oh, I love balloons. What did you have in mind?”

  My new clown friend showed me how to make a balloon dog and how to make it walk. Then he gave Sophia a top hat with a hidden compartment.

  “We need a big finish,” Sophia said.

  “You could do a paper coil and pull streamers out of your mouth. That’s an easy one.” The coil was a little plastic ball with tightly wound paper crammed inside. Sophia had a sinister grin on her face, which meant she had an idea.

  I spent weeks getting my balloon animal down. I would pump and pump those balloons for a few hours every day until it was second nature. What’s the point in doing something if you’re not going to do it right?

  The night of our magic premiere, Sophia and I showed up to a Susanne Bartsch party looking like magician’s assistants just off a Parisian runway; red under-bust corsets, black bras, thigh-high fishnets with garter belts, black fishnet gloves, and top hats.

  We walked on stage. I pulled out one of my pink balloons, blew it up real sexily, and tried to make my dog. It didn’t work; I was too nervous, and my hands were shaking. My dog was disabled. I threw it down, winked to the audience, and picked out another balloon, this one yellow. The crowd was into it and super supportive, clapping and hollering, thank God.

  This time my balloon dog was just right and I walked him across stage, letting people up front pet him. I picked up my yellow dog and squeezed him against my tits until he popped.

  Sophia then did her trick, pulling a rabbit out of her top hat. The rabbit was plastic, but the audience didn’t care. We looked great.