I'm the One That I Want

by Margaret Cho

  It was becoming so clear—the boys buying makeup at Walgreen’s and the overly made-up “women” I would see spilling out of the bars on Polk Street when we’d close the bookstore at night. I would crane my neck out of the back window of my parents’ station wagon while we were stopped at a red light, trying to catch a glimpse of the goings-on at Kimo’s, the hot nightclub on Pine.

  Kimo’s was famous for drag beauty pageants like the “Empress of San Francisco,” where aging queens would adorn themselves with feathers and false eyelashes and duke it out for the sublime glory of the imperial crown.

  The drag queens of my youth were as distant and aloof as the popular girls at my high school. Unattainable and admired, these beacons of femininity taught me about desire from afar. There were two drag queens who worked at the bookstore a few years later. Alan, an anorexic psychology student with horrendous skin, and Jeremy, a tiny blonde who would later gain fame as an artist, painting exquisite objets d’arts entirely out of makeup. They were the main contenders in the Drag Wrestling matches held at the bar called the End Up.

  There would be an actual ring in the middle of the club, and the champion, often Alan dressed in a black baby-doll sheer nightie and stiletto heels, would weave her way through the crowd. Her glossy black wig was dark as night and you could tell she had blood in her sights. The spotlight would shine directly on her, throwing her crater-face into relief, and you knew she would win before it even began.

  Jeremy would appear from the other side of the club. Teetering on black maribou high-heel mules and wearing a leopard-print pajama set, she had big blonde curls that were all hers, no wig for this tawny beauty. She’d place a pink ribbon high in her hair, and she was as pretty as could be, considering she was about to get her ass kicked.

  They didn’t shake hands. There was no referee. It just started without warning. Jeremy waved to the crowd and Alan took off a spike heel and knocked her opponent down with it. Negligees were torn off, hair ribbons went flying, narrow limbs snapped through the air and slim bodies bounced off the ropes.

  The battle was a dizzying triumph for Alan, who preened on the mat in triumph, clutching a long lock of Jeremy’s real hair in her glamour-length Lee Press-On Nails, as Jeremy savored the agony of defeat, lying on a bed of shredded lingerie and fishnet.

  These exhibitions were horrific in their ferocity, catfights to the death, biting and scratching and kicking at carefully concealed balls, with the ripping off of the loser’s wig as the final act of humiliation. Since Jeremy didn’t need a wig, his real hair had to do. Drag queens are capable of great violence. They should be allowed to enter the WWF. RuPaul could take out Stone Cold Steve Austin in a heartbeat with a flutter of one false eyelash. Drag queens are strong because they have so much to fight against: homophobia, sexism, pinkeye.

  Jeremy’s makeup art was spectacular. He did beautiful paintings, delicate dioramas in nail polish, dreamy watercolors accomplished entirely with Aziza eye shadow. He also did performance art with his drag wrestling opponent.

  The last time I saw Jeremy and Alan perform was at the Castro Street Häagen-Dazs. They took over the ice cream counter for impromptu drag queen guerrilla theatre. Jeremy pulled his wiry body on top of the glass counter, then knocked off all the tasting spoons and the cone display. For the grand finale, he shoved a chocolate-dipped vanilla ice cream bar up his ass and then pulled it out and ate it.

  Confused patrons who had come in for their after-dinner treat and not for this—the only way to put it—spectacle, fled the premises, and the police were called. By the time they got there, everyone was gone. I wonder who called 911 and cried, “He’s shoving ice cream up his ass! Please hurry!”

  Jeremy died of AIDS a few years later, but Alan still carried on, studying Melanie Klein and alternately turning tricks as a dominatrix and selling pot from his apartment. He lived in the basement of an old Tenderloin building in an apartment with bloodred walls and the perpetual odor of baby powder, left over from the many bath parties he once had, sensual affairs where guests would fill and refill his claw foot bathtub, washing each other and screwing the night away. We’d smoke his seedy, headachy cheap trannie pot and get high and talk about how much we missed Jeremy.

  Forbes and Dante didn’t spend much time on Polk Street. They both had boyfriends and led fairly sedate lives, although they did have their draggy moments. One day, a messy brown Jackie O wig appeared behind the cash register, and everyone who worked that day took turns wearing it. First, Dante, who looked like a hip ’60s lesbian in it. Then Forbes, who looked like an unhappy secretary. Then me, like a little girl in drag.

  Forbes loved black men and Asian men, and he had two boyfriends, Black Gary and Chinese Gary. He also flirted a lot with my father, which I found hilarious. Forbes called him “Joe,” the name my father insisted all white people call him. “Oh, Joe,” Forbes would often say with a long sigh. “My Joe, those are some snappy pants!” he’d call after my father when he’d wear his ridiculously bright plaid trousers. My father ignored him all the time, just like he ignored me. And Forbes loved it, unlike me.

  Forbes, who was also a very talented artist, once presented my father with a portrait done in oil, framed in simple blonde wood. It was so dead-on, the half smile starting in the eyes, the intelligent forehead, the easily annoyed mouth that could go either way. My father seemed uncomfortable with his own image, but he hung it up in our living room anyway.

  I’d look at it, marveling at the idea that someone could take your face and put it on a canvas so perfectly, and then have it be more than just your face. That painting was my father so very clearly, the rage and the sweetness all wrapped up in a sweater vest. I hated that painting when I hated him. I loved it when I loved him. My father never mentioned it. It just hung there.

  Surprisingly, my father had a history of hating homosexuals. My mother told me the story.

  “One time, Daddy have a friend, so close that he is almost, well you know . . . Sometimes when you are young, you have a friend, you love your friend so much you don’t know what to do, so with Daddy and his friend, he have this kind of situation. So one day Daddy and his special friend go to a picnic and they drive to the country and they stop car and Daddy’s friend say that he love Daddy, something like that. And then he put his hand on Daddy leg, something like that. And Daddy was so shock. And so he punch his friend, and then kick him out of the car and just drive back without his friend. And he never speak to him, see him again. And how much pain is Daddy, because he miss his friend, but Daddy cannot forgive that kind of situation. Because when you young, is not really gay, how they have gay wear the leather pants we see in front of bookstore. Not like that kind of gay. Maybe they become that kind of gay later. When you young, you just love, you don’t know what to do. You just love your friend, you don’t know what to do.”

  Years later, after the store closed and all the employees got new jobs and some died and we all lost touch with each other, I came home to attend my grandfather’s funeral. My family and I were all bumping around each other in the emotional fog that mourning can bring. My father and I were sitting in the living room, not talking as usual. We were both looking at Forbes’ painting, which captured my father in his younger days. We stared at it, quietly and unaware of each other. Suddenly, my father said, “You know, I really loved him.”

  I felt it. He did love this wild yet oddly conservative homosexual who had tattooed arms and a British accent, a man so unlike himself that the idea of a friendship between them was ridiculous. At that moment, I loved my father more than I ever had. His simple statement made me cry, and I didn’t care if he saw me.

  5

  ON BEING A FAG HAG

  I am fortunate enough to have been a fag hag for most of my life. A fag hag is a woman who prefers the company of gay men. The marriage of two derogatory terms, fag and hag, symbolizing the union of the world’s most popular objects of scorn, homosexual and woman, creates a moniker that most of those who wear it find inoffe
nsive, possibly because it smacks of solidarity.

  Some women have come to me urgently expressing their desire for a new name. Countless fruit flies, queen magnets, and even a swish dish or two have begged me to reconsider the title of such an important entity. While no woman wants to be thought of as a “hag,” you must acknowledge that the gay man in your life is not concerned with your youth and beauty. He wants to know your soul. He loves you for your courage and intellect. Whether you are lovely or plain, you are beautiful to him for these qualities—and many more.

  Similarly, most of the homosexuals I know bristle at the word “fag.” It conjures up images of awkward, limp-wristed adolescence, of the taunts and catcalls of bullying jocks who are insecure in their own sexuality, all too willing to lash out to mask their fear.

  But when you put these two words together, they seem to cancel each other out. The pain vanishes, and as you know, bees without sting offer only pure honey.

  As a teenager, I found myself drawn to the slight, sensitive young men in my theater group, perhaps because they reminded me distantly of my beloved Forbes and Dante. High school was a dangerous place, and my search for sanctuary led me to gay men once again, even if they didn’t yet know their own sexual identities. Or maybe they did know and just weren’t telling. The only thing that mattered was that we found each other. If you are a gay man, think back on the girl you took to the prom. She was your first fag hag.

  I was a loud, fat girl, and saw as my natural companion the fey, lithe boy. We were both scared. Thank God we met.

  Growing up, getting older, shedding baby fat for womanly curves, my fag, Berry, watched me burst forth from my fleshy cocoon, and I was suddenly seen by the world as the butterfly he always knew me to be.

  I heard his voice get deeper, saw his long limbs become corded with lean muscle. His lips, once hesitant and shy, blossomed sweetly, confident and ready. When we walked down Castro Street together, longing looks would be cast his way, and I saw he was beginning to return them.

  We never went home with anyone back in those baby days. We just stayed with each other, watched John Waters’ movies late into the night, daydreamed while listening to Roxy Music’s Avalon, cut each other’s bangs, and talked about Madonna and what we’d do when we left school and all the bullshit behind.

  Berry cried in my arms after he told his family he was gay, and he let me throw things and break them when I was rejected by my first boyfriend because his friends thought I was too fat.

  We sneaked into the gay hustler bars on Polk Street and laughed as the chickens and the chicken hawks cruised each other and ignored us. We dressed each other up and took pictures. When we both got lovers, we weren’t jealous. We grew up, but we didn’t grow apart.

  When Berry was gay-bashed on Market Street, greeting me the next morning with a black eye and a smile on his face, he tried to make the best of it, dismissing the whole thing as “Truly funny, if you really think about it,” but I knew that it hurt him more than he could say.

  When my parents told me they hated me because I was a failure at everything, Berry baked me a cake, made me a mixed tape, and loved me madly.

  Berry and I dressed more and more alike as we got older. We told everyone we were brother and sister, but it is almost as if we were closer than that.

  We both tended to pick boyfriends who cared little about us, which makes me glad that we had each other to love.

  We are friends even now, in what seems like a lifetime later. We grew together, grew apart, then together again. We still love to make dinner together and talk about the days when everything was new, and life was so exciting because it was just beginning.

  If this relationship sounds familiar to you, it is very likely that you are a fag hag. We are from all walks of life, all classes, all ages, all races; straight, lesbian, and somewhere in between. We are as diverse as we are numerous. The common bond that we share is our alliance with gay men, a connection that is both nurturing and powerful, sweet and sour, retail and wholesale.

  Although our fag hag experiences vary greatly, there are generalizations that can be made. Fag hags usually make all the plans and see that they are carried out in a manner that pleases both the fag and the hag equally. This is because most of us have a knack at organizing and mobilizing. We are leaders, and keep our troops in line.

  Fag hags like to be the center of attention. It is ironic that at a gathering of men, coming together for the sole purpose of meeting one other, they will all spend the better part of their evening hanging on the only woman’s every word.

  Unfortunately, this situation does not last. By the end of the party, a fag hag often finds herself alone in the room, in the midst of the overflowing ashtrays and half-finished drinks, deserted by all her admirers—who have paired off to admire each other. This brings us to the next fag hag rule of thumb: We always drive ourselves to events, and for the most part, we enjoy going home alone. I suppose it could be looked at as a depressing end to an evening, but I find it joyous. I love to sleep in bed alone, tossing my body in slumber every way I can, waking up without having to kiss some sour mouth or awkwardly realizing I have no idea whom that sour mouth belongs to.

  I can carry on with plans I made for brunch without having to consult or bring along the “trick.” I don’t have to gauge his expression to see whether our drunken episode resulted in a fight and try to gauge his mood. I don’t have to dress quietly and duck out the back door, or learn a new language. Tricks are always much more trouble than they are worth. That is why, every Halloween, when I am asked “Trick or Treat,” I always err on the side of chocolate. Yes, it’s true. I do live in paradise.

  Fag hags, contrary to the wisdom of popular culture, are not “beards.” The term “beards” refers to the complicit relationships between some women and gay men, wherein they pretend, for the “benefit” of family and sometimes employers, that they are a conventional straight couple. This is so that they might enjoy the “status” of being “normal” heterosexuals.

  I find this a violation, a travesty, and an aberration of the fag hag/fag relationship. However, I do not wish to judge those who find themselves in the kind of predicament that requires such a façade. It is not their fault, but the fault of the ignorance of those around them. In my world, honesty rules above all, and the truth helps everyone. So have a beard if you must, but I would prefer that you be clean-shaven.

  We fag hags love drama and are skilled thespians on the stage of life. We also crave scandal and gossip. Be warned, we don’t keep secrets, we harvest them. Of course, we do know when and where loyalty is required, and in these cases, we are true to our beloved. Bitchiness is always appreciated, and insulting others behind their back is a favorite pastime. This is a way for us to repay the world for the way we are treated. Women and gay men have long been considered second-class citizens by the dominant culture. How do we keep our strength? By talking shit about those who think they can oppress us. Herewith one caveat given me by a particularly elegant and flamboyant gentleman: “Fight fire with flame!” Do not underestimate the power of our wagging tongues. Cross us and you will get burned, not licked.

  Most of us like to shop and love to be taken to lunch at a restaurant in a department store. Not the food court, mind you. We are still ladies, regardless of how we behave at times.

  I still lobby for a “Fag Hag Day,” when we might be shown the gratitude we deserve en masse. We are important. We are the backbone of the gay community and as such should be honored! Consider that there are holidays as innocuous as “Secretary’s Day”—with special greeting cards to celebrate them. What might a “Fag Hag Day” card look like? Possibly a photograph of a winsome young man in an evening gown, with a darling bit of verse at the bottom:

  You have stuck by me now and then,

  Even though you know I like men.

  We are so close, my sweet fag hag,

  Sometimes I think you are me in drag!

  Gentle reader, if you wish to join us, I bi
d you “Welcome” with open arms and an arched eyebrow. Let it be known, however, that this is certainly a profession that chooses you. Many of us did not plan to become fag hags, we just looked around one day and realized that was what we were. Others aspired to greatness, and then greatness materialized around them in the form of a group of cute advertising executives spending Labor Day Weekend on Fire Island.

  The fastest way to become a fag hag, if you are so inclined, is to get a job as a makeup artist, but this is not practical or realistic for most. (I do not offer the perfect solutions, only the ones I know work.) Another is to become a grand dame of the stage and screen. For myself, this route has been most rewarding. This way, I can “hag” as many “fags” as I like, and bring to the world this kind of love story that is so common, yet so often overlooked.

  Whatever road you take, when you get there, be good to the men in your life and let them take care of you. Know that what you have is precious and holy. Remember, regardless of sexual orientation, men and women will always need each other.

  So if you’ve nothing nice to say, go sit next to the cutest, most elegantly dressed and well-mannered guy at the party. He will appreciate it, I promise.

  6

  NICKY AND THE NEW SCHOOL

  When I was fourteen, I attended a senior party with Jodie Peet. The party was one of those where the parents are out of town and there are a bunch of people passing joints and picking at a turkey carcass. It was in St. Francis Wood, where all the rich kids lived, in a beautiful mansion. The kids’ bedrooms all had their own bathrooms, which seemed so extravagant to me, but in one the toilet was broken and there was all kinds of shit floating around in it.