validation. I hardly knew who I was anymore.
When I was dressed, I came out of the tiny bathroom and glanced in the wall of mirrors at the boy I had become.
It almost worked. The hair was perfect, the silhouette unobtrusive beneath the loose clothing. The double shiner helped, too, and so did the broken nose. The big problem was my eyebrows.
I normally go through a good amount of monthly suffering in the ongoing war against my hairy Mediterranean genes. In addition to lip waxing (to keep me from sporting a mustache like Nonna Vincenza) and bikini waxing (I get the Playboy, not the Brazilian, since I know you’re wondering), I also regularly wax my heavy eyebrows into slender, delicate arches. Very femme and very not-a-boy.
“I could try filling my eyebrows in thicker with an eye pencil,” I said.
Malloy looked at my reflection in the mirror and shrugged.
“I’ll just tell people you’re gay,” he said. “That you’re my nephew who just moved out to L.A. and got bashed by a bunch of douchebags right in front of his apartment. I’ll tell ’em I promised my sister I’d let you stay with me until they catch the guys who did it. That you’re scared to be alone so I let you tag along.”
Jarocho said something in Spanish to Malloy that got them both laughing.
“What?” I asked, feeling irritable and annoyed and left out.
“He says he would go gay for you,” Malloy said.
I rolled my eyes.
“Great,” I said.
Jarocho flashed his dentures and gave me two thumbs up.
The next order of business was to translate the note. Malloy gave me a wad of cash and then checked in with Didi by phone while I ducked into a nearby beauty supply store for some cheap non-prescription color contacts to disguise my black coffee eyes.
On impulse, I also bought a bleaching kit for my hair. Just because I was a boy didn’t mean I had to put up with gray hair. I figured bleached blond would be about as far from my normal look as I could get and would be still reasonably believable for a gay guy my age.
Born actress that I was, I started imagining details about my new character. I figured I used to be a hot little twink ten years ago, but now I was getting older and thicker in the middle. My boyfriend of five years had just dumped me so I was overcompensating with the blond hair. I did a drag show on the weekends using the name Ivana Mandalay, which would explain the girly eyebrows. Of course, coming up with a believable real name was a little harder. I didn’t want anything too butch, too silly, or over the top. I needed something generic and easy to remember.
“Daniel,” I told Malloy when I got back in the car. “That’s my new name.”
Daniel was the name of the first guy who ever put his finger inside me. Danny Zawadski. He was big and blond, and stuttered when he was nervous. I think he’s married now and owns a restaurant in the old neighborhood. Not a drag queen by any stretch of the imagination.
“Daniel?” Malloy said, looking me up and down. “That works.” He looked down at the bag in my lap. “What else did you buy?”
“Bleach,” I said. “I figured I should have blond hair to go with my new blue eyes.”
“Right,” Malloy said.
I wondered if he was pissed at me for improvising. I don’t know why, but I got a peculiar thrill from being off Malloy’s script. I was really counting on him way too much. It felt good to make decisions for myself.
“Didi said that Romanian broad is on a shoot today,” Malloy said. “But that we can meet her on the set at three when they break for lunch. In the meantime, we can go back to my place. You can do your hair and get those contacts in.”
I wondered how many more different people I would need to be before I could be me again.
15.
Tabitha Moore’s shoot was for Rawkus. They were set up in their dusty, cavernous studio on Stagg Ave. I never shot for Rawkus, since they don’t pay for shit and I don’t care for their creepy, misogynistic and
When I was dressed, I came out of the tiny bathroom and glanced in the wall of mirrors at the boy I had become.
It almost worked. The hair was perfect, the silhouette unobtrusive beneath the loose clothing. The double shiner helped, too, and so did the broken nose. The big problem was my eyebrows.
I normally go through a good amount of monthly suffering in the ongoing war against my hairy Mediterranean genes. In addition to lip waxing (to keep me from sporting a mustache like Nonna Vincenza) and bikini waxing (I get the Playboy, not the Brazilian, since I know you’re wondering), I also regularly wax my heavy eyebrows into slender, delicate arches. Very femme and very not-a-boy.
“I could try filling my eyebrows in thicker with an eye pencil,” I said.
Malloy looked at my reflection in the mirror and shrugged.
“I’ll just tell people you’re gay,” he said. “That you’re my nephew who just moved out to L.A. and got bashed by a bunch of douchebags right in front of his apartment. I’ll tell ’em I promised my sister I’d let you stay with me until they catch the guys who did it. That you’re scared to be alone so I let you tag along.”
Jarocho said something in Spanish to Malloy that got them both laughing.
“What?” I asked, feeling irritable and annoyed and left out.
“He says he would go gay for you,” Malloy said.
I rolled my eyes.
“Great,” I said.
Jarocho flashed his dentures and gave me two thumbs up.
The next order of business was to translate the note. Malloy gave me a wad of cash and then checked in with Didi by phone while I ducked into a nearby beauty supply store for some cheap non-prescription color contacts to disguise my black coffee eyes.
On impulse, I also bought a bleaching kit for my hair. Just because I was a boy didn’t mean I had to put up with gray hair. I figured bleached blond would be about as far from my normal look as I could get and would be still reasonably believable for a gay guy my age.
Born actress that I was, I started imagining details about my new character. I figured I used to be a hot little twink ten years ago, but now I was getting older and thicker in the middle. My boyfriend of five years had just dumped me so I was overcompensating with the blond hair. I did a drag show on the weekends using the name Ivana Mandalay, which would explain the girly eyebrows. Of course, coming up with a believable real name was a little harder. I didn’t want anything too butch, too silly, or over the top. I needed something generic and easy to remember.
“Daniel,” I told Malloy when I got back in the car. “That’s my new name.”
Daniel was the name of the first guy who ever put his finger inside me. Danny Zawadski. He was big and blond, and stuttered when he was nervous. I think he’s married now and owns a restaurant in the old neighborhood. Not a drag queen by any stretch of the imagination.
“Daniel?” Malloy said, looking me up and down. “That works.” He looked down at the bag in my lap. “What else did you buy?”
“Bleach,” I said. “I figured I should have blond hair to go with my new blue eyes.”
“Right,” Malloy said.
I wondered if he was pissed at me for improvising. I don’t know why, but I got a peculiar thrill from being off Malloy’s script. I was really counting on him way too much. It felt good to make decisions for myself.
“Didi said that Romanian broad is on a shoot today,” Malloy said. “But that we can meet her on the set at three when they break for lunch. In the meantime, we can go back to my place. You can do your hair and get those contacts in.”
I wondered how many more different people I would need to be before I could be me again.
15.
Tabitha Moore’s shoot was for Rawkus. They were set up in their dusty, cavernous studio on Stagg Ave. I never shot for Rawkus, since they don’t pay for shit and I don’t care for their creepy, misogynistic and
Similar Books
