Doll Parts

by Amanda Lepore

  All our lives changed after that. It was so exciting, being part of something that people had such a positive reaction to. There was only one problem: Sophia Lamar.

  She showed up at my hotel the next day, out of breath and totally pissed, accusing me of stealing the spotlight. I was apologetic; Richie really should have told her I was going to be in the show. I kept saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over, trying to calm her down, but nothing worked. She kept calling me a stupid whore and making fun of the way I looked.

  I understood why she was upset, but I hate conflict. No matter what she said, I just apologized, hoping it would end.

  “It should’ve been me in that video,” she said. “I’m the model, not you.” She left after her voice gave out, but went on to bad-mouth me all around town and to all our friends. New York ate it up with a spoon. People I’d never met before started having opinions about who was right and wrong in my “beef” with Sophia.

  Our feud started to become notorious, and the gay magazines all talked about how much we hated each other. The whole thing was so silly, and I think Sophia mostly played into it to ruffle my feathers. If I was going to be the sweet one, then she had to play the bad girl, the ultimate fashion bitch. She created an entertaining story line, but every time I saw her in a club I’d beeline to the other side of the room.

  Elegance Blasé, 2000 Chromogenic Print © David LaChapelle

  Most Perfect Work I, 2005 Chromogenic Print © David LaChapelle

  Mirror Image, 2001 Chromogenic Print © David LaChapelle

  She stopped talking to Richie too, which was sad because they had known each other in San Francisco, before either of them moved to New York. But Richie and I were too busy being on top of the world to worry so much about Sophia Lamar trying to knock us down.

  Everyone wanted a piece of David, and he had an inability to say no to work back then; it was my job to help him find the fun in what he was doing. I loved it.

  Marky Mark was just breaking into acting but was already a big deal, so his publicist was on set. This poor brunette had the job of keeping all the “funny shit” out of Mark’s picture.

  By this point I was showing up to David’s studio every day, and he would try to throw me into whatever he was doing. Apparently the publicist had been warned that I’m always up for the funny shit because when she saw me she started freaking out.

  David assured her she had nothing to worry about, that I was just dropping something off. Then he hid me in his upstairs bedroom and had a hairstylist put a ponytail on me that came down to my ass.

  The brunette publicist stepped out to take a call (you never have to wait too long for a publicist to pick up a phone) and I came downstairs, walked up to wide-eyed Mark, and said, “Hi, Marky Mark. I’m Amanda. I like your outfit.” He was dressed like a pizza delivery boy. I was in fishnets, a patent leather corset, and my tits were exposed. We shook hands and he blushed.

  Production assistants lowered a heavy Lucite slab onto my back and we knocked out some great shots in less than five minutes. One of the PAs waited in the doorway, and when the publicist was heading back he yelled out, “That table has to get off the set.” They lifted the slab and I returned to the bedroom for a quick change, while David and Marky Mark moved on to the next set. When the publicist went back outside for another call, I ran back down and we got our next shot in. As David positioned us, Mark said to me, “You know, I used to be a painter.”

  Funfair Tragedy, 1997 Chromogenic Print © David LaChapelle

  “Oh, that’s great,” I said.

  “Maybe I could do your portrait?” I winked at him and held my position. David snapped away and I made another swift exit.

  “Bye, Marky Mark, it was so nice meeting you,” I said as I ran off.

  He never painted me, but our photo came out great, don’t you think? Mark was a sweet guy and he liked me, especially my boobs.

  After I moved out of grungy Chris’s hotel room, I tried not to take boys too seriously.

  I did have this college boy named Ricky who moved in with me for a few years. He looked like a Spanish Johnny Depp. Dark black hair and very masculine—a great contrast with me, which I always love. I met him at Pat Field’s and would see him around all the time but didn’t take him seriously until I brought him home one day and saw his disturbingly large, uncut cock. He moved in soon after.

  Pizza Boy He Delivers, 1997 Chromogenic Print © David LaChapelle

  My Own Marilyn 2002 Chromogenic Print © David LaChapelle

  Ricky didn’t like me going out naked and could be really possessive, like most men. I got him a job bartending at one of my weekly parties, which was a great gig—those bartenders made a ton of money—but he just wanted to be there so he could keep an eye on me.

  The Insider had just done a segment on me (they called me “one of the most extreme plastic surgery cases The Insider has ever uncovered”), so I was getting recognized more than usual on the street, which Ricky didn’t handle well. He didn’t want to share me with the public. I had to get rid of him.

  It wasn’t an easy breakup, I had gotten dickmatized and I do love having a boyfriend. But I had to go to San Francisco for a Heatherette event, and I told Ricky he should move out while I was gone. He was livid and I was crying; I’d be alone, again.

  I called Michael Formika Jones when I arrived at my super-fancy hotel in San Fran. Michael was my boss who had reluctantly hired my boyfriend to make me happy, and now I had to tell him I couldn’t work with Ricky anymore.

  “Amanda,” he said, “this is why I don’t hire boyfriends.”

  “I know, I’m sorry. If you need to fire me instead, I understand, but one of us has to go.”

  Michael decided to keep me. I felt bad putting him in that position.

  I needed to do something to clear my head in San Francisco, so I went down to the hotel gym. It was around midnight, and no one else was there. I was wearing a tube top and had bangs and heels; I hadn’t packed any other shoes.

  My goal at the gym has always been to burn four hundred calories. I put the treadmill on a low speed and the steepest possible incline.

  Two hundred calories in, I saw a well-built, good-looking black guy walk in. I didn’t get a good look, but he seemed familiar and I could tell he was looking at me. I assumed he’d seen me on The Insider, but I was focusing on getting to four hundred calories, so I didn’t pay him much attention.

  He came up to me and said hi, and I said hi back, then he started trying to talk me up, and asked if I wanted to go up to his room. I said, “Well, I have to burn these 400 calories before I get off,” and kept on climbing.

  I think he was surprised that I wasn’t throwing myself at him. He said to me, “You’re really young, what are you, twenty-four?”

  “Yes,” I said. Now he was starting to get my attention.

  “I got a girl up in my room but I can get rid of her if you want to come up.”

  “That sounds nice, but I still have to burn these 400 calories.” I thought he’d move on but he kept staring at me, like he was in shock. It occurred to me that if this guy was so confident, he might have a really big dick, which was exactly what I needed to move on from the ex-boyfriend. So I told him to hold on a minute.

  I finished my workout, then I walked into the gym’s cleaning room, and he followed me in. I took out his cock and got on my knees.

  While I was sucking his dick, he kept saying to me, “Do you know whose dick you’re sucking?” I didn’t know how to answer that because I really didn’t, but I was smart enough to realize I was supposed to. But then I looked up at him and noticed his chin was a little weird, and I knew I’d seen him before, and then I realized that yes, I did know whose dick I was sucking. He was a very famous rapper, they were playing his new song in the clubs constantly.

  I never saw him again after that, but when he got married I couldn’t help but think that his wife had a similar body type to me.

  Giorgio Armani in
vited David and me to Milan for a fashion show. Our Armani Jeans commercial featuring Ryan Phillippe would be premiering.

  Working with Heatherette had made me a fashion commodity, but I was still an outsider, and some fashion executives could never get past the whole tranny thing. David had to really fight for me to be in that commercial. In the end he told them I’d be playing an evil blonde bitch à la Donatella Versace, and that won the Armani execs over.

  For a young girl from Jersey, flying to Milan at the request of Giorgio Armani was the height of success.

  The night before we were to leave, David threw an after-party at Chateau Marmont for the opening of a Los Angeles art gallery. He called the party Elegance Blasé, and the idea was very sixties retro, very fitting with the Chateau. Picture one of the sets of Mad Men. Punch fountains, Roman statues, fondue, and cigarettes in gold bowls on the coffee table. There was also to be a performance/demonstration, by me.

  While David and his crew set up the party, I went to work on my dress. It was sheer white and backless, and I’d already spent hours hand stitching black Swarovski crystals on it, but there was still more to do.

  All of David’s inner circle and most of his celebrity friends showed up. Jaid Barrymore, Drew’s mother, overheard me talking about my pussy surgery with Armen Ra, who had just recently moved to the City of Angels himself. Jaid came in mid-conversation and blurted out, “Oh, you had the vaginal surgery? I’ve been thinking about getting it as well.”

  WHO NEEDS SLEEP WHEN ARMANI HIMSELF IS WAITING FOR YOU?

  “Oh, it’s great,” I said. “You should do it; you’ll never miss your dick.”

  She gave me a lemon face and walked brusquely away.

  “Amanda, she thought you were talking about vaginal rejuvenation!”

  “I know what she thought.”

  The DJ put on “Fantasy,” by Mariah Carey. Armen and I hightailed it to the mini dance floor, where we were met by Drea de Matteo, aka Adriana from The Sopranos. Armen loves Mariah, and apparently so does Drea, because they were really getting into it—dancing, singing, not a care in the world.

  Their fun was ruined by the raven-haired beauty, Rose McGowan, who was famously dating Marilyn Manson at the time. She walked up to the DJ and blurted out, “Can you turn this crap off?”

  Rose didn’t know it but she had stepped on a beehive of Armenian fury named Armen Ra. He tapped Rose on the shoulder, hand on hip, heel tapping furiously while Drea giggled like a schoolgirl behind him.

  “And what is wrong with Mariah Carey, Miss Rose McGowan?” He was having none of it. “Who asked you, anyway?”

  Rose was twenty percent terrified, and eighty percent irritiated. She started walking away.

  “Where do you think you’re going? What’s wrong with Mariah? You tell me!” Armen and Drea chased Rose around the party, both of them yelling out, “What did Mariah ever do to you?” until Rose made a swift exit. I didn’t get a chance to ask her about Manson’s supposed rib removal.

  There was a buffet of food laid out—elaborate three-tiered cakes and sumptuous multi-colored pastries that resembled an Alice in Wonderland tea party.

  But this being Los Angeles, David knew no one was going to eat anything. So all the food had been made by one of his set designers out of frosting-covered Styrofoam.

  At the height of the party, David told me it was time for the show. I took off all my clothes, walked over to the buffet, and quietly started knocking things over. Not angrily or forcefully, but methodically.

  Most of the partygoers barely even watched. These were LA scenesters; they’d seen the biggest rock stars in the world destroy hotel rooms, throw televisions out windows, and streak down Sunset Boulevard. My antics didn’t impress them much, but I thought it was clever. It was meant to be an anti-eating, anti-food demonstration.

  As the party wound down and the bulk of the guests left, David and I smoked a little pot, something we rarely do. Quentin Tarantino was there; I’d never heard of him, but David assured me it was a big deal, and so we both wanted to be extra fun for him. It sort of backfired. I ended up changing into my negligee and brushing out hairpieces by the crackling fireplace as David and Quentin spaced out and stared at my tits.

  One of the logs in the fireplace rolled out onto the carpet, sending thick clouds of smoke into the air. Stoned and unsure of what to do, David and I fumbled our way to the back patio and watched as the room got cloudier and cloudier, like a fish-bowl filling with smoke.

  Eventually Quentin had the good sense to get the log off the shag carpeting, but the room was a disaster. Soot covered everything, and the smell was overpowering. David and I stayed up all night wiping black dust from brick walls with white bath towels.

  Realizing we would never be able to fix the mess, David called the hotel manager, who came as we were packing up to catch our early-morning flight to Milan. We were both crying and apologizing, but the manager barely blinked. He looked around and laughed at our sad attempts to clean up.

  “Well, Mr. LaChapelle,” the manager said, “I’m afraid you will no longer be allowed to have a room with a fireplace.”

  That was it. They didn’t charge David a single cent for the damages. They were very cool about it.

  We got on our plane to Milan, exhausted, but I was too excited to care. Who needs sleep when Armani himself is waiting for you?

  David sat across the aisle from me, and my seatmate was a little old lady—very Park Avenue proper, in a Chanel suit and wearing a large golden brooch. I was a little embarrassed by my look; my hair was dirty, and I’m sure I smelled like I’d just come back from two weeks at a Girl Scout camp jamboree.

  “What are you doing in Milan?” she asked.

  “Oh, I’m modeling.”

  She hesitated. “What for?”

  I gave my best Marilyn impression: “For Armani. He’s going to have me in his show. Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “That’s nice, dear.” She picked up a book. I don’t think she believed me.

  Our first night in Milan was the Armani fashion show and the premiere of our commercial.

  Armani had flown in some of the biggest stars in the world for the show; that’s what all the designers do. So it didn’t even occur to me anyone would notice I was there. But they did. I don’t know if it was my lips or my tits or the fact that I was wearing a see-through dress, but cameras followed me the whole night.

  We sat front row at the show, which I’m sure was lovely, but I could barely pay attention I was so excited to be there. As we left, it seemed every camera in Milan was pointed at me. I . . . loved . . . it. LOVED. IT. I ate it up, all of it.

  The next day, on the front page of the Italian newspapers? LA SILICONA AT ARMANI and a picture of me in my see-through dress. That was the best day of my life.

  Chapter 11

  AS YOUNG AS YOU FEEL

  Maybe the most famous photo David took of me is Amanda Lepore as Andy Warhol’s Marilyn. David worships Andy, and I worship Marilyn. She was a pioneer in plastic surgery; she had her nose and chin done, and she had electrolysis on her hairline and silicone injections in her breasts. I even heard she had her eyelids done. That’s a lot of work for those days. She was self-made, like a transsexual in a lot of ways.

  The makeup that people are doing today, all the contouring, Marilyn did all that. She would use glycerin and Vaseline to contour and highlight her features, stuff cotton balls between her lips and teeth to make them pout, and even made her own lip gloss. Everyone else had matte lips. Marilyn invented beauty techniques that were well beyond her times. She wasn’t a perfect beauty, but she had created this persona of perfection; she worked at it.

  When I dyed my hair yellow I really hated it, but the color looked very similar to Andy’s silk screen of Marilyn. I suggested to David that we do a remake of the image before I dyed my hair back. He loved the idea and told me to come to the studio the next day to shoot it. I thought we would be able to do a pretty picture; David had something completely different
in mind.

  I showed up with my hair and makeup already styled like the original picture, and earrings that matched what Marilyn had worn. David was alone in the studio. It was quiet. No lighting and makeup people running all over the place, no stream of celebrities coming for photo shoots. It was just David and me. He had a very specific idea of how he wanted to do this, and he wanted to do it all himself.

  He had studied the original publicity photo from Niagara that Andy had made his silk screen on in order to match the lighting. He also made a blue vinyl collar that matched our backdrop, same as what Marilyn had on. David vamped up my makeup and added a pink foundation onto my skin. Then he took a wired window screen and some knitting, and sprayed black ink on my face and neck, to give a similar effect to the silk screen. He unscrewed the spray bottle and dripped the black coloring onto me as well. The hardest part to get right was the lips, and he spent a while trying to get them perfect.

  Usually David has a monitor and I can see his photos right away, but I didn’t see the Marilyn image until the prints. It came out kind of punk, I thought. Different from anything else I’d ever seen. It was in i-D magazine, and Montblanc used the image on its bags. It was even on a statue, in Central Park over by Bergdorf Goodman. Then it became really successful and the image was seen all over the world. Other people started trying to copy the look. Even Kate Moss did it once, but I never thought it looked as good as the one David and I did.

  I’ve done the Warhol Marilyn look a couple of times since then, for parties. It’s a lot of fun but messy. People ask me to redo it all the time, but where’s the art in doing something you’ve already done?

  David loves when I take my clothes off in public.