Doll Parts

by Amanda Lepore

  We were at an Italian restaurant one night that had a brick oven, and the room was extraordinarily hot. I was seated next to one of the cast members from Jackass, whom I found extraordinarily sexy.

  “I heard you have a big dick,” I told him. He responded by whipping it out, already rock hard.

  I started jerking him off under the table. Nobody noticed at first, but when David saw me he yelled out, “Amanda, what are you DOING?”

  “Oh, it’s so hot in here, I’m just fanning my pussy under the table.”

  “If you’re so hot, then take off your damn dress.”

  I did, and continued jerking the guy off until he came.

  After that night, any time David says to me, “Amanda, it’s really hot, don’t you think?” no matter where we are, I take off my clothes.

  Once we were on the street in the East Village when a trash truck stopped right in front of us. David said to me, “Amanda, can you believe how hot out it is?”

  I looked at him to make sure he wasn’t kidding, which of course he wasn’t. I slipped my dress over my head, took off my panties as he unclipped my bra, and waved down the truck as it was about to drive away.

  “Excuse me! Sir! I have something to give you!” I yelled out to one of the beefy men riding on the back. He banged on the side of the truck and it came to a stop.

  David grabbed my clothes from me and one of his friends took out a camera.

  “She’ll give you a kiss if you let her climb up there,” he said.

  The trashman said yes, I jumped on his perch, and we got a great picture. They helped me down, and I gave the man his kiss. I’m sure I’m the only girl in New York who has ever been on the back of a trash truck wearing nothing but Manolo Blahniks.

  My most memorable naked outing occurred later that year, when David was invited to a party celebrating Azzedine Alaïa’s exhibition opening at the Guggenheim in SoHo.

  Before the party David wanted to go to his favorite sushi restaurant in Tribeca, Nobu. We went with a few of the kids who worked at LaChapelle Studio and this sexy hip-hop music video director I’d never met before named Little X.

  All David could talk about was his new favorite drink, a White Rabbit, which is sake mixed with sour yogurt. I didn’t want to drink, but everyone else seemed to love these things and David was practically forcing one down my throat, so I drank one and it was okay. Not too sweet but really strong. I was buzzed right away.

  The food looked extravagant; I say “looked” because David wouldn’t let me eat any of it. When the waiter brought me my first course, David picked it up and handed it back to the man and requested a clean plate. The waiter brought one over, and David reached into his pocket and pulled out a diet pill, which he placed in the center of the plate. While the entire restaurant was digging into their ungodly expensive Japanese cuisine, I rolled my pill around the plate with my spoon before I picked it up with chopsticks and slowly ate it.

  When the next course came out, David again gave the waiter my plate and gave me a vitamin to chew on. For the next course he allowed me to have a single caviar egg from his own meal. “Great, now you’re going to be bloated,” he said as I swallowed it. The waiter stopped bringing me food.

  We were all having a good time, and I was flirting with Little X, when David leaned over to me and whispered, “It’s really hot in here, don’t you think?”

  “No, I think it’s fine.”

  “It’s really fucking hot in here, Amanda.”

  “Really, David, it’s fine. I’m kind of cold actually.”

  “Amanda! It’s like a furnace in here!” He tried to give me a menacing look but was laughing too hard.

  That White Rabbit must have been stronger than I thought because I stood up, unzipped my bedazzled red dress, and handed it to David. I wasn’t wearing a bra or panties. David and Little X lifted me onto the table and the entire restaurant turned around to stare at us; even the raw fish in the kitchen were gagging. I was sure my left tit was bouncing because my heart was beating so fast. Then, the entire restaurant started clapping for me! I smiled and blew kisses to everyone. A few women came over to the table, flashed their tits, and had their picture taken with me.

  The kitchen sent out a plate of ice cream in the shape of boobs, with cherries for nipples. It was really cute, and such a relief. I’d never taken off my clothes in such a fancy place before.

  When I got off the table, David had hidden my dress and wouldn’t give it back. He rushed me out the door to a waiting limo. It was a cold night, snow was on the ground, all I had on were my heels, and we were heading to one of the biggest social events of the year.

  As soon as we walked into the Guggenheim I saw Azzedine having his picture taken with Linda Evangelista, Naomi Campbell, Stephanie Seymour, and the rest of the supermodels. Every single one of them looked up and noticed my naked body at the same time, and when they looked, the line of photographers turned toward me as well.

  The whole room gasped, the photogs, followed by Azzedine, Stephanie, and Naomi, swarmed toward us. I grabbed on tight to David.

  “Oh my God, you’re naked!” Naomi screamed.

  David said to me, “I’ll be right back,” and took off with her, leaving me alone, surrounded by cameras and about to receive Azzedine Alaïa and Stephanie Seymour, two of the biggest names in fashion. I wanted to chase after David but did not want to run in front of these people. It felt too tacky.

  A journalist asked me why I was naked. What should I say, that David LaChapelle thought it was funny to leave me naked and stranded? “Oh, I didn’t have time to borrow a dress from Alaïa, and I’d rather be naked than wear anything else.” Azzedine and Stephanie laughed, thank God. I could breathe again!

  Azzedine had shown his approval, and on cue, the rest of the crowd really started going nuts for me. I took a spot next to the wall and started talking to a journalist from W magazine, while photographers snapped my picture. I leaned against the wall, with my hand behind my head and proclaimed, “Alaïa celebrates the female form, and so do I!” which I thought was great.

  But I heard a man shout out, “No! Stop!” It was Peter Brandt, the well-known art collector. It’s over, I thought. I’m about to be thrown out on the street, naked, by Peter Brandt.

  “Get off the wall!” he yelled. “You’re leaning on the art!” I turned around. I had put my elbows right onto a huge pink camouflage Warhol painting. I thought it was just the wall. Peter was actually very nice about it; luckily my elbows are tiny.

  Eventually David found me and apologized for taking off. He’d been getting scolded by Naomi. I told him it was fine, that everything had actually gone really well.

  That night, there had been a shift in the fashion and art world’s perception of me. I went from being a spectacle to getting respect. People seemed to have a better understanding of me. Major national brands started calling me about ad campaigns. Other top photographers started hitting me up. Even Terry Richardson hired me to grab the cocks of these sexy Brazilian twins for a photo shoot. Swatch made a limited-edition watch with my face on it (it was called Tranny Watch but I guess they’ll have to go back and change it to Transgender Watch). A perfumer made a signature Amanda Lepore fragrance, which sold out in minutes. Each bottle was covered in 1,000 Swarovski crystals. Jason Wu made an Amanda Lepore doll, which would be my favorite doll even if it didn’t look like me. He started with a prototype that I thought looked more like Brigitte Nielsen than me, so he made the nose and jaw smaller and the cheekbones higher. Then he increased the size of the boobs, ass and hips, and also made my doll anatomically correct. Jason is an expert at making dolls; he started when he was sixteen. I was blown away by the quality of his work. We released my doll exclusively at Jeffreys and it sold out right away. All the money went to AIDS charities.

  The whole world opened up for me, and all I had to do was show up naked.

  Chapter 12

  THERE’S NO BUSINESS LIKE SHOW BUSINESS

  “When you’re onsta
ge and your look is on point, you can get away with things that other people can’t.” That’s what Cazwell told me as he tried persuading me to musically collaborate with him. He had just performed at my birthday party at Spa, a club on Thirteeth Street. I was sitting on a banquette with my new meathead boyfriend Billy, sipping on champagne.

  Cazwell had been making a real name for himself in the club scene. His whole style was so unique: a sexy gay rapper with a shaved head and piercing blue eyes, who would show up to the clubs shirtless, in bedazzled gym shorts and an oversized gold chain. To top it all off, he was a talented performer. Boys worshipped him.

  “She’ll do it,” Billy said. “But I’m her manager.”

  Cazwell ignored him. “We’re both so over-the-top, we’ll look great onstage together.”

  “I can’t sing,” I said. “My self-confidence can only go so far.”

  “I’ll take care of you,” he said. “Just trust me. I already have an idea for the first song. It’s called ‘Champagne.’ ”

  The next week I broke up with Billy. Some guys think my fame is something more than it is, and that it’ll do something for their lives. Fame doesn’t work like that, though. I was still sad, he was a nice guy and we did look hot together. He would carry me around clubs on his back, or like a baby in his arms. I hated the thought of being single again, but I have to take care of myself first. I’d come this far on my own; I wasn’t about to let a man start bossing me around.

  I called Cazwell and told him I wouldn’t be able to do anything until I got over the breakup.

  “Use the pain,” Cazwell told me. “It’ll make you a better singer.”

  “I don’t want to look stupid on stage, though,” I told him.

  “You’re Amanda Lepore; you could get up there and say your ABCs and people will go nuts.”

  I am used to people looking at me and sometimes having a negative reaction. I don’t really care, because I’m confident in my look, so it doesn’t matter what they think. No one ever sees me when I’m not looking good. If I don’t have the time I need to get ready, then I don’t go out. Singing on stage felt like building myself up all over again. It was going to take time to get as comfortable as I’d need to be in order to do this.

  I called Armen Ra to ask his advice, since I knew he was a great singer. “You can do whatever you set your mind to,” he told me. “Just treat it like everything else you do and practice your ass off!”

  I called Cazwell right after and agreed to start working with him. He sent me a copy of the track to start practicing with.

  A week before our first performance I went to Moscow for a massive Heatherette show. Four thousand people crammed into an event space just to see me walk in feathered pasties and a rhinestoned G-string. Backstage I asked Richie, “Do you really think I should start singing? Isn’t this enough?”

  “Mandy,” he said, “you know better than anyone you can’t stagnate. Keep on truckin’, pumpkin.” He was right. When I walked the runway that night, I felt it. I wanted to do something more.

  After the runway show we were met by a young Russian boy who was to be our interpreter, guide, and driver while we were in the city. Richie, his team, and I crammed into a limo, headed for the after-party. I hadn’t eaten for two days to prep for the show; I was starving.

  “Let’s skip the party,” I said. “I just have to eat something.”

  “You cannot venture out on your own,” the Russian driver said. “You have all been in the newspapers, and you will get abducted.” He drove off, but traffic was awful; we were going nowhere.

  “If I don’t eat something right now, I’m going to pass out,” I said.

  I never eat. If I say I need to, then I mean it. “Come on, Mister,” Richie said. “Our star needs sustenance!”

  “You are hungry? Give me rubles, I will get you food.”

  We were in the middle of a freeway. There were no buildings even close by. He pulled to the side of the road and jumped out with all our cash.

  Fifteen minutes passed. Richie was freaking out, sure we had been abandoned. Finally our guy returned and handed me a large brown bag. I didn’t even care what was inside; I was so hungry I’d eat anything. I opened it up and was about to stick my hand in when I felt the bag move. It was filled with live lobsters. Never in my life have I screamed so loud. The driver was laughing, but I was livid. I threw them out on the road. “Why would you do that?” I yelled.

  “I’m Club Kid,” he said. “It’s funny, right?” I didn’t think it was funny.

  The after-party was equally awful, but I did find some berries to stave off death. A drag queen called Hitler Marilyn followed me around all night. She was dressed as Marilyn with a Hitler mustache, and wore an elephant-sized beaver fur coat that she swore was mink. I’m pretty sure that coat had teeth.

  The rest of the week I was supposed to make appearances with Richie, but I’d had enough of Moscow already, so I locked myself in my hotel room and hammered Cazwell’s song into my head. The song moved fast and the lyrics were a little complicated, so I needed to go over them until it came as easily as using liquid liner.

  By the time I got back to New York, I had the song down cold.

  Cazwell and I showed up at Spa—I wore sequined pasties and a white G-string, he was covered in bedazzled Smurfs.

  “You’re so quiet,” he said.

  “I want to get this right.”

  I sat backstage and looked out into the crowd. All the friends and family I had made after twenty-some years in the New York nightlife scene had come out to support me.

  Keni Valenti, who had started me on my journey of glamour.

  Rose, the man-hating thorned Rose, who taught me how tough a woman could be.

  Armen, who taught me there was a deeper meaning to all of this.

  Richie Rich, who stayed true to himself and kept his heart pure, no matter what life threw at him.

  Sophia, the smartest person I’ve ever met. Forever my sister.

  And David, dear sweet David, who offered me the world and his heart, and showed me what a work ethic is all about.

  James St James tapped me on the shoulder, bringing me back to reality. “You’ll be great,” he said. “I wrote Michael and told him you’re performing. He’s here in spirit!”

  I knew that to be true. I owed Michael so much; he had taught me that art is all that survives, and all that matters.

  I thought about the twins and the Louises, and Tina too, who each taught me to take pleasure in being the fairer sex. I carry them with me wherever I go.

  And, of course, I thought about Mom. The woman pulling strings behind the curtain, who I knew was with me, watching out for me, and loving me as she always did.

  Cazwell came up beside me. “You ready to do this?” he asked.

  I gave one last look in the mirror. Everything was perfect.

  We walked out onstage and the band launched into our song. I opened my mouth, and started to sing.

  Acknowledgments

  AMANDA

  Thank You to: Aimee Phillips, Alexander Legaspi, Alan Hererq, Alexander Dymek, Andi Oakes, AnnMarie Regan, Arhlene Ayalin, Armen Ra, Artware Editions, Bec Stupak, Brandon Voss, Brian Buenaventura, Carol Currie, Cazwell, Chi Chi Valenti, Daniel Nardicio, Chris and Amy Bracco, Christian Louboutin, Christophe Laudamiel, Christopher Barrette, Danilo Dixon, Danny Nguyen, David Mason, Diana Coney, Dianne Brill, Dita Von Teese, Domonique Echeverria, Doris Borhi, Duo Raw, Eric Currie, Erich Conrad, Esteban Martinez, François Nars, Garo Sparo, Gery Keszler, GoodandEvil, Heatherette, Henry Ruiz, Hunter Woodham, James St. James, Jimmy Floyd, Jason Wu, Jayne Mansfield, Jean Paul Gaultier, Jen Gapay, Jimmy Helvin, Jodie Harsh, Joey Arias, Johnny Dynell, Jonathan Mendelsohn, Jordan Traxler, Kayvon and Anna Zand, Kenny Kenny, Keni Valenti, Kyle Farmery, Ladyfag, Lady Gaga, Laurant Philippon, Larry Tee, Life Ball, Leo Herrera, Lorenzo Diaz, Louie Laborde, Lynn Verlayne, MAC Cosmetics, Madonna, Mao and Roger Padilha, Marilyn Monroe, Mark Sifuentes, Matthew Dailey, Matt Gorny, May
Day, Megan Vice, Michael Alig, Michael Formika Jones, Michael Musto, Milkshake Festival, Mim & Liv Nervo, Michael Benedetti, Mighty Real Agency (Carmen Cacciatore & Martha Tang), Mike Killmon, Mike Skinner (R.I.P.), Miley Cyrus, Miss Mya, Naomi Yasuda, NEXT Magazine, Patricia Field, Perez Hilton, Pinup Girl Clothing, Project Publicity (Len Evans & Jeff Dorta), RedTop, Rene Garza, Richie Rich, Risqué, Robert Sorrell, Roxy Cottontail, Sophia Lamar, Sharon Needles, Steven Perfidia Kirkham, Steven Pranica, Susanne Bartsch, Steven Klein, Swarovski, Ted Ottaviano (Book of Love), The Blonds, The Ones, Trey Cornwall, Viv Farmery, World Of Wonder (Randy Barbato, Fenton Bailey, Thairin Smothers), Yadim Carranza.

  Thank you, Thomas Flannery for your vision, diligence, hours of candid conversation and of course, your invaluable assistance in getting the ball rolling to tell a story of this international blonde bombshell!

  Thank you, David Vigliano and Vigliano Associates for your support, wealth of knowledge and belief in this project from the beginning.

  Thank you, Regan Arts: Judith Regan, Alexis Gargagliano, Mia Abrahams, Catherine Casalino, Richard Ljoenes, and Lynne Ciccaglione. Thanks to ‘Team Regan’ for your belief and continuous excitement in this project and for sharing your editorial and design expertise. It’s a pleasure and honor to be the newest member of the Regan Arts family!

  Thank you, to my management team at Peace Bisquit: Bill Coleman, Angelo “Pepe” Skordos, Michele Ruiz and Mike Borhi for your continuous support, love, guidance, creative input and going way beyond the call of duty to ensure that my memoirs were the absolute best they could be - we did it!

  Very Special Thanks to:

  David LaChapelle & DLC Studios: Amanda Crommett, Kumi Tanimura, Reid Welsh. Thank you, David, for your generous contributions, love and friendship.

  Marco Ovando, for providing so many of your amazing photos, and for all of our wonderful adventures across the globe.

  Rob Lebow, for making the cover of my first book so gorgeous!