This Halloween I had, as usual, nothing to wear, little idea what I wanted to hide behind. Then I watched That 70's Show, where Jackie put makeup and a dress on her boyfriend, Kelso, self-proclaimed gorgeous male, in an act of illicit love, parents out for the evening. The rest of the crew went to a disco, pretty poor Wisconsin imitations of Travolta style, struggling to "stay alive" in swinging's exclusionary clique, Kafkaesque doorman standing between dorkhood and coolness' bliss-and I had an idea. I was going glam.
The evolution of glam androgyny has to do with the dandy's love of fabulous clothing and the sexual revolution's high-flying freak flag-love-ins, free love, and the cultural breakthrough of birth control pills and homosexuality. Glam, a bisexual, specifically male cult of persona, is supposed to turn on both men and women, a sort of "anything that moves" phenomenon. Glam is sex unfurled, with all the frills. It's free and easy, feminine allure in male performance. The "love that could not speak its name" developed its own language, a "bialect" for dedicated followers of fashion.
Having just a vague idea what this meant, having always been perplexed by Lou Reed's Transformer album cover and the attraction of David Bowie in the Ziggy Stardust early seventies, I watched Velvet Goldmine, a film ode to glam, everything gorgeously bizarre, and I was ready. I did my best to shine, wearing glittery black bellbottomed tights, bright red and black, and tight, velour shirt, retro brown leather pimp jacket, shiny gold and white feather boa, bright dangly earrings, and, the only androgynous shoes I could find to fit my size-12 feet, Birkenstocks. And makeup-I wore everything my female fashion advisors could loan me or advise me to buy: eye-liner, eye-shadow, mascara, blush, lipstick, and nail polish, and I did my hair with gel, hairspray, and glitter everywhere. And I stuck a peacock feather in the back of my tights and shook it.
It was all so fun and sexy feeling, I started to wonder what parts of myself I was touching that had never before been touched. But I went with it, let myself go, all that, but I was nervous. What splash would I make? I wanted to be the sexiest thing around, a skintight advertisement; and I wanted to dance. Most of all, staying in character seemed crucial-flirting with everyone, batting my eyes while talking tough: an outrageous performance.
I'd gone in drag on Halloween before. Lots of men do: it's easy to find the clothes (dresses are often very flexible and stretchy) and makeup, women seem to like to dress men up like girls, and women fascinate men, let's face it-their mystery, the power of beauty, that forbidden fashion.
So folks assumed I was going as a woman or a transvestite. Everybody did, at both parties we hit. I told them androgyny; they said I looked lovely. Especially men. The truth is, I'd never been hit on by a man in my entire life, not once. It happened a lot. Men couldn't keep their eyes off me. Or their hands. They looked me in the eyes and smiled, complimented me, told me I was hot, all things I do when I meet a pretty girl. But they were straight! Women found me pretty; men found me sexy. Being felt up by men, twice, hmm, my character liked it; I found it flattering. It was a little embarrassing, a little uncomfortable, and a little something else. I took everything as a compliment, trying to leave it at that, but leave the act intact.
Now, I honestly dressed mostly for women, trying to attract some of that interest, the epicene nature of my costume notwithstanding, and I felt all man. Though I flirted mostly with women, as is my wont, my beat, maybe some fashion signal went off, some sexual-aesthetic border crossed. Men, particularly other gender-bending dabblers, turned their heads and smiled. I wasn't a straight, stock Halloweenism, not simply female, neither Glenn nor Glenda. As I said, when confronted by frequent misreaders of my costume, "I'm all man."
My car got a flat tire between parties, and I changed it, with a little help from my three friends. They feared for our safety, thinking I was a magnet, a red cape waving before the horns of some imagined, intolerant bull, an American nightmare of homophobia, some faction inflamed in that seedy part of town. I couldn't understand their alarm: of course I was dressed fabulously, but it was the night's directive, the holiday spirit.
Just around 2:00 am, after the second party, we stumbled to the bar where our inebriation would be ineluctably completed, except for me, since I was sober and driving. As we walked confused circles around our destination, a young black man, standing on the corner with his friends, ostensibly not in costume, looked at me and said, several times, "You should not be doin' that!" so that my friends, trying to avoid trouble, walked faster.
I said, "It's Halloween," and smiled; but I walked faster, too, as one of my inebriated friends whispered, "They're gonna whoop our ass!" And so I looked at my friend and paused, at this subtle racism exposed, and it all seem so unreal and unnecessary, this distrust. His fear of attack for what I represented, it was so absurd I had to laugh, and started to saunter again. His fears gave me confidence, and I knew I must be doing something right.
What was so disturbing in my expression, what taboo exposed? People's usual referents, perhaps, would not neatly apply. I didn't fit in this world, didn't give the sense so many want and need; the allusions conjured stayed hidden. The feminine in the male stimulates both males and females to respond, but differently. Back in That 70's Show, when Jackie's father suddenly entered her bedroom, Kelso all decked out in glam, the sex exposed triggered panic in the boyfriend, rage in the father, who immediately, without a word, started to strangle him.
Certain things happened, and they were things I'd never seen. Somehow none of it had anything to do with me; I was an observer of my effect: me watching me being watched. It was a hell of a show.
