The Fashionista Files Read online

  They’re Here! They’re Queer! We’re Used to It!

  Fashionistas make the biggest fag hags. We herd the guys with the Flock of Seagulls haircuts. Our favorite designers are men who love men but adore women. After all, where would Amanda Harlech (a.k.a. Lady Harlech), who was once the muse of Karl Lagerfeld (damn, that woman must have the sickest wardrobe), be without Galliano? And what about Carine Roitfeld (editor of French Vogue) without Tom Ford? To fashionistas, gay men are vital accessories, an intrinsic part of our culture. They tell us the secrets to a man’s mind—and take us dancing till all hours of the night (so what if they wind up ditching us at the bar to go home with a hunk in a tight white Hanes tee?). They understand our style, crazy quirks, and neuroses, and know how to meet our emotional needs better than any boyfriend. Plus, they have no problem escorting us out when we have no date—and letting us know when it’s time to put down the fork at dinner (“No more carbs for you, missy!”).

  Friends of Dorothy

  MELISSA

  When I was eleven years old, my older cousin Maté was a slightly chubby fifteen-year-old guy who went everywhere with a small Spanish fan. He channeled Karl Lagerfeld in a country where machismo trumped Moschino any day. He was strange and unusual, and like Winona Ryder in Beetlejuice, I noticed him because I myself felt strange and unusual, too. I was infatuated with Maté. He had an outsize personality and constantly greeted relatives with two slobbering kisses on both cheeks. He screeched instead of giggled and called everyone “dahhhlink!” Maté and I both agreed that our uncle, Tito Ed (Tito means uncle in Tagalog), who had immigrated to the United States, was just the bomb.

  Tito Ed had found success as a director in San Francisco. He staged full-blown, critically acclaimed productions of Broadway classics such as Pippin and Oklahoma in the Bay Area, as well as more unconventional fare like an all-male version of Caligula. When we picked up Tito Ed from the Manila airport in the early seventies, he walked out of the terminal wearing a bright orange jersey tank top, terry-cloth short-shorts, knee-high athletic socks, and platform flip-flops. His hair was teased into a bright red Afro and he was wearing huge, oversize sunglasses reminiscent of El-ton John. Rather than denying entrance to his conservative home-land and targeting him as a freak, the security officer asked him, “Are you a star?”

  “Of course!” Tito Ed replied, collecting his matching black leather luggage special-ordered from Spain.

  My family soon joined Tito Ed in San Francisco, and my favorite memory of that time is when Tito Ed visited to take my sister and me shopping. His favorite store was Neiman Marcus. At twelve, he gifted me with my first grown-up watch (a crocodile-strap Anne Klein with fourteen-karat-gold trim) and introduced me to his favorite designers: Alexander Julian, Ralph Lauren, and Perry Ellis. Tito Ed would bounce into our house, a fifty-year-old man wearing his signature outfit—white cotton short-shorts, knee-high socks, and a Perry Ellis “America” T-shirt with the stars-and-stripes pattern emblazoned across his chest. Like all fashionistas, he was never afraid to look slightly ridiculous, and commanded a great deal of respect from the theater department at the university where he was a tenured professor.

  When I went away for college, my best friend was Morgan, an Australian guy who had spent his formative years in Paris. He had a foppish haircut, a longish wave that gracefully swooped down over his left eye. (Morgan was called “the Guy with the Hair” in our dorm. Anyone who referred to him made a swishing motion on his head to symbolize the haircut.) Morgan and I spent orientation weekend bonding over our mutual love for Madonna. He was witty, sophisticated, and bitchy—everything I wanted to be, only male. It was love at first sight. We spent every weekend putting together outfits for “clubbing” and rejected the crunchy boho-granola aesthetic that was so popular at the time—Ecuadorian sweaters, Birkenstocks, flannel shirts. Ugh! At Morgan’s suggestion, I wore velvet jackets, short denim cutoffs (a nod to Tito Ed), ropes of costume jewelry, and fishnet stockings with Doc Martens. We scoured the Fourth Street flea markets together, and discussed the merits of the Linda-Christy-Naomi supermodel trinity. He was a Christy guy; I was a Linda girl. We shared Naomi.

  Six years later, when Morgan and I had our inevitable falling-out (you always do with your first love), I was the one who inherited our group of gay male friends. (I “won” them, just like in a real divorce.) They are my coterie, my clique, my most avid supporters, and my favorite group of people. Plus, they can match me drink for drink.

  When my friends and I get together, I feel like I am living the high school experience I never had. We scream, titter, kiss one another pretentiously but with great enjoyment on both cheeks, make plans to see Margaret Cho concerts, dance on tables, throwing down vintage Club MTV dance moves (booty bumping, “the sandwich”—two people gyrating on one in the middle—and an exaggerated lambada).

  They always notice my new outfits. Whenever I go out with “the gang,” I have to make sure I am wearing something appropriately “fabulous” or I will not be forgiven for dressing down. The culture has come around to appreciating these men, and as a fashionista, I can only say, “Bravo!” (No pun intended!)

  An Ideal Husband

  KAREN

  Love isn’t always easy. No matter how great your significant other is, a straight man will never be capable of meeting all of your needs and understanding every twist and turn of your emotional self. Straight men are amazing, of course. They can make you feel safe, protected, adored. They’ll hang your hats on hat hooks they’ve put up in your closet, figure out how to work your DVD player, and spoon you all night long. They’ll carry your bags, pump the gas in your car, handle bug and vermin situations at home, and make you melt by kissing you just right. But, like all things in life, they have their limitations.

  A straight man may not understand (or accept) a mental melt-down when it’s “that time of the month.” He doesn’t always get the fact that you can’t do anything for at least forty minutes after your manicure. When you complain about having nothing to wear—and can’t deal with wearing the same jeans and black top again—he is not always sure how exactly to reassure you and validate your wary state of mind. On your fat and ugly days, his words of wisdom and consolation (“Don’t be crazy”) don’t always do the trick.

  You can tell things to a gay man that you wouldn’t ordinarily tell to a straight man. You can angst about the size of your thighs without sounding like an annoying “do I look fat” girl. You can spend hours talking about hemlines, how your jeans fit, the cute waiter at your favorite Belgian boîte, and whether or not you really need that stitched YSL vest, which is only $500—on sale from $2,300! Gay men instinctively know how to dote on you in ways straight men don’t. “I love your bag! Your thighs are so good in those jeans! That coat is divine! You look terrific. That lipstick is such a good color for you. Your skin is amazing. You are a goddess. You, you, you, you, you . . .”

  That is why all women need a gay husband, a cheerleader, partner in crime, confidant, and best friend who will be at your beck and call at four A.M. when you return from a dastardly date, or go forty minutes out of his way to drop you off in a taxi first after a party just because you had a bad night. And if they ever piss you off—and trust me, they sometimes will—you can bluntly tell them, slam a door, hang up the phone, act like a brat, and trust that in fifteen minutes—or the next time figure skating is on TV and you want to share in the long program excitement—the whole thing will be forgotten.

  Sam is my gay husband. I met him, a deliciously adorable fivefoot-six-inch, broad-shouldered Russian with dyed red hair, a wardrobe of plaid, a perfect complexion, and baby-blue eyes, in 1995, and we have been attached at the hip ever since. He runs a restaurant PR firm and at the time I was writing about restaurants (I made the switch to fashion, where eating is a no-no, after packing on thirty pounds!). We had talked on the phone countless times before coming face-to-face. And I always loved his exuberant energy, his brash sense of humor, and his bluntness. Sam has an unca
nny ability to say whatever it is he’s thinking and never come off as offensive, rude, or judgmental. (“I can’t talk to him for you,” he once said, when I needed a quote from a restaurant manager for a story. “It’s in my contract that we not speak because he’s soooo annoying.”)

  He has seen me at my best (size two) and worst (size ten) and loved me just the same (though he has forbidden me from having dessert on more than one occasion. “You’ll thank me later,” he scolded when he pulled the fork—and soufflé—from my reach). We have traveled to London together—and I never had to worry about his making a move on me in bed (we shared a bed and often cuddled). I can pee in front of him, change without feeling the insecure need to hide my body, and try on all of my clothes and get an honest response about what works and what doesn’t. (“Not so good for your shoulders, that top,” he’s said. “It makes you look like a linebacker, and you’re going for ballerina, I’d guess.”)

  He has nursed me through many a bad breakup and come over to give me a hug at three A.M. when I called him, hysterical. He has made me giggle like a high school girl on a first date more often than not. He has held my hand through scary movies and while walking down the cold city streets. He has saved my life by hooking me up with dinner reservations when I had nowhere to eat at nine P.M. on a Saturday night. He has escorted me to dozens of weddings and events where going stag would be unacceptable. And he has come home to my parents’ house for holidays, where he fit right in . . . and managed to make the whole clan laugh when he asked my brother if he could convert him (to gayness) and got in on the family jokes about my dad’s big hair (it’s still feathered back and full, very Bee Gees, circa 1977).

  I have accompanied him to his favorite gay bar (aptly named the Cock), served as the approval board for many of his boyfriends (very few men are good enough, I say), and babysat his darling pug, Sheila. The best thing about our relationship is that we never have to make apologies for our actions. Our love is purely unconditional. We can blow each other off and not take it personally. We can talk about our deepest, darkest secrets—and constipation problems—openly. We call each other a hundred times a day without seeming like stalkers. We have never argued. And I don’t think we ever will.

  I even put his sperm on hold, in case I turn forty and happen to be single and want a baby. (Don’t worry. We’ll turkey-baster it.) He promised to pay for private school and camp for our little one so I could use my disposable income for clothes. “You’ll be the mommy to our baby,” he’s said. “Everything you say and do will leave an impression. You have to be a good fashion role model.”

  Oh, if only he were straight . . .

  Flaming Fashionista

  All your beautiful girlfriends are jealous of your perfect size-six figure. You screech when excited about the little things (terrier puppies, extra-long sleeves, women’s shoes with a red sole—a telltale sign that they’re designed by Christian Louboutin and hence, très fabulous) . . . you’re a fashionista on fire! You and your posse of straight women friends gush over the same men, share jeans, and address one another by saying “girl” at the beginning of every sentence. Queer Eye has nothing on you!

  Adopt the Karl Lagerfeld “3-D” diet when your weight is up by at least 2.5 pounds. It is the insane regimen the designer went on with his doctor’s support; he lost something like a hundred pounds on it.

  Wear many cashmere sweaters (and maybe even a cape) at once. Consider a walking stick like Andre Leon Talley, or an eye-patch, like John Galliano.

  Conquer at least three different bouts with addiction. Then fall off the wagon. Repeatedly.

  Be a charmer—this will help you flirt your way up to first class on airplanes.

  Sleep your way up the freebie ladder (bartenders, nightclub doormen, hairstylists).

  Wear cross-trainer sneakers with your good black pants.

  Carry a bag, which may affectionately be known as your man-purse (logos a must!).

  The Flaming Fashionista subspecies also includes the following phyla:

  Drag Queen Fashionista

  If you get up in the morning and sing Ella Fitzgerald while blow-drying your Marilyn Monroe platinum-blond wig, pull on vintage Pucci housedresses for grocery shopping, wear a size-sixteen high-heel shoe, shave your armpits, legs, and mustache . . . you’re fashionista royalty! Consider labeling yourself a “mactress.”

  Adopt a signature persona, whether it’s boozy sixty-year-old former socialite chanteuse, à la “Kiki” (Justin Bond’s alter ego), or black glamazon supamodel (à la RuPaul).

  Host Tupperware parties. Wear white gloves as you display the goods.

  Perform. Learn to do Barbra, Bette, Liza, whatever tickles your fancy.

  Keep at least a dozen boas in your closet at all times, in case of emergency.

  Have a wig supplier.

  Exfoliate regularly. You have more products than a department store, sweetie.

  Dandy Fashionista

  If you wear four-piece tartan-colored Vivienne Westwood suits, never leave home without your bowler hat and a boutonnierre, and actually own a pair of spats . . . you’re a fine-feathered fashionista.

  Put at least three hours into getting ready every morning.

  Makeup is a must. But stick to powder and eyebrow pencils. Faux beauty marks a plus.

  Iron your silk handkerchiefs.

  Befriend Bill Cunningham, the New York Times’s roving Styles photographer. He’ll love you and constantly put you in his much-admired section depicting street fashion and trends.

  Spend rent money on bespoke Turnbull & Asser shirts.

  Carry a monogrammed cigarette case and lighter set. Even if you don’t smoke.

  Get a business card that says, simply, “Dandy.” While you’re at it, use British words like “randy.”

  Love Boy George.

  Patrick Macdonald, our favorite N.Y. dandy

  TURNING FASHIONISTA MAKEOVERS FOR OUR MEN!

  Constructing the Right Look

  MELISSA

  When people ask me what attracted me to my husband, the first thing that comes to mind isn’t his beautiful blue-green eyes, his skinny, indie-rocker frame, or his honey-brown hair with natural blond highlights. It’s not his goofy sense of humor, his sly wit, or his thoughtful and piercing intelligence. (God, do I sound like a contestant on The Bachelor or what?)

  It was his shoes.

  A pair of ragged Jack Purcell Converse All-Stars. Black canvas low-tops with a white plastic toe.

  It was always a secret desire of mine to date someone who wore Jack Purcells. The coolest guys in high school and college always wore them—but they were way too cool for me. Back then I was still in my pleather-shoe phase. In college, the only guy I “dated” was my gay best friend, and he always wore slip-on Ferragamo loafers. Not exactly the weapons of mass seduction.

  Mike was sitting cross-legged at a crowded party in Brooklyn, and the minute I spotted his shoes, I fell in love. I had to meet him. To me, Jack Purcell sneakers are more than just footwear. They symbolize artistic, nonconformist aspiration. Jack Kerouac wore Jack Purcells. They are the shoes with the “sole” of a poet.

  Back then, Mike was working a retro-fifties thrift-store look— spread-collared cotton shirts he’d pick up from vintage shops for eighty-nine cents with a wingspan from neck to shoulder, a beige polyester jacket, baggy 501s, and his trusty Jack Purcells. It took him from college to grad school to his first job as an architect. When we first met, he didn’t know Dolce & Gabbana from Viktor & Rolf.

  With my help, he’s added high-fashion awareness to his wardrobe. Almost eight years later, the poly-cotton blends have given way to sleek Helmut Lang shirts, crisp Gucci suits, and trim Jil Sander pants. (He was crushed when Jil left her label—and like other fashionistos everywhere is eagerly anticipating her return.)

  But when we moved to Los Angeles in late 2003, Mike was in a funk. “I need a new look,” he said. He was tired of dressing like a typical New York architect, clad in minimal shades of ch
arcoal and black. He wanted to look casually professional, like the other architects in his firm in a happier land where the sun often shines. These men wore designer T-shirts with Gucci jeans and interesting sneakers. Of course, we headed to my favorite place on earth: a designer outlet mall.

  We started at the John Varvatos store, where he stocked up on fine-gauge knit T-shirts. Talk about high-end casual—they were a hundred bucks a pop, retail. Skeptics would scoff at such an expensive T-shirt, but buying designer does make a difference—the cut of the shirt was square, with a more flattering fit, and the finishes on the collar and sleeve seams were exquisite. Plus, they will last him a hell of a lot longer than any cotton variety. I also pulled a glen plaid sports coat, wool and cotton trousers, and he loved it all. At Prada he scored a pair of straight-leg jeans and two pairs of cotton pants. The pants were trim-cut with a slight, almost undetectable flare on the leg—a little David Bowie action that suited us just fine.

  He picked out a checkered Ben Sherman broadcloth shirt with a matching tie in the same pattern by himself.

  Mike as a scruffy slacker and then all duded up with a “Zoolander” expression

  “This is the coolest shirt in the world!” he said.

  “It’s just like the one Ashton Kutcher was wearing in US Weekly!” I squealed in agreement.

  Mike is now made over into a sleek, LA-style architect. Although he’s now wearing Italian cashmere rather than vintage shirts from Sears, his feet are still shod in Jack Purcell sneakers. Of course, this time, they’re limited-edition versions from John Varvatos.

  Full-throttle Fashion

  KAREN

  The second I met Todd, I felt a connection so strong that I knew he would become my boyfriend. I can’t explain it. I remember sitting with him, snuggled up on a banquette at a lounge, thinking, Something feels really different about this. I was so attracted to him—and not just because of what he looks like, which, admittedly, is gorgeous (the olive skin, the sexy dimples, the hazel-greenish-brown almond-shaped eyes, the long lashes, the goatee, the chiseled arms), but because of his warm, open energy, which was so inviting, I actually felt shy. He still makes fun of me for projecting the kind of body language that gave him no sign of whether I was into him. Yet the entire night I thought he was so yummy and amazing that I had to pull away. I was too scared to give him the green light.