may 3.2002 * ju s t out 45
HUMOR
Men in uniform
High heels, low morals
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M y
U P F re e
"
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S
o here it is, 2002, and I must say I’m just
a little disappointed. Having grown up
wratching 1950s and ’60s sci-fi movies, I
was certain we’d all be wearing those
unisex jumpsuits by now. But the only people
wearing them are prisoners on road crews and
Robert Downey Jr. when he appears in court.
What’s more, unisex dressing is still a one-way
street: Sure, a woman can wear pants, but a man
can’t wear a dress unless he’s a judge, a priest or
an Islamic fundamentalist.
M e...I’ve been work
ing up to the idea
gradually. „
After a peri
od of teen rebel
lion (picture Boy
George in Flashdance),
any clothes of mine that
seemed too queer went,
well, back in the closet. Only
after I turned 30 did I feel com
fortable enough to make gayer
fashion choices like rolling up my
shirtsleeves until they fit tight on
my biceps. Yeah, I know it’s
cheating, but since I’m gay and
Italian, I figure it’s my
birthright.
Following the gay principle
of Jeans as Marketing, I began
to choose pants that barely
had enough room in them
for me, let alone my wallet.
When the bulge in my
front pocket from my keys
made me look like I was
wearing a colostomy
bag, I chose not to buy
bigger jeans but to invest
instead in a purse.
That’s right, a
purse— not a man bag,
not a satchel, but a purse.
It’s not like some beaded clutch
you’d expect Joan Crawford to pull
a compact out of and powder her
nose, but it’s a purse nonetheless.
So when the invitation to my
friends’ annual Red Dress Party arrived,
I figured I was ready.
Every year I make a pilgrimage to
Patsy’s in Palm Springs, a consignment
store for the clothing of the Beverly Hills
elite, and I always walk away with incredible
bargains— great stuff, like a pink sports
jacket that used to belong to Wayne
Newton. If ever there were a place
to find a red dress, Patsy’s is it.
The store is run by Patsy Fowler
and her mad son Frank. Frank need
ed a wheelchair after a recent
medical procedure and was enjoying freaking
customers out either by sitting on his foot so it
looked like his leg was amputated or just park
ing himself in the comer and drooling.
I immediately found a silky, jitterbuggy
number (size 10, if you’re interested) and a pair
of gold sandals (size 11) because heels do so
much for the line of the dress. My partner,
Floyd, had more trouble but eventually settled
on a wine-colored strapless with a black
caribou bodice.
“Do you think this color counts as red?” he
asked.
“The lining’s red," Frank answered. “It’ll count
THE GOSPEL
ACCORDING
TO MARC
by M arc Acito
Be Well, Stay Well...Naturally
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as soon as you pull your skirt up over your head."
Guess he’s been to this kind of party before.
I was pretty impressed I could find
a dress that fit so well, but once I
arrived at the party I realized the
world must be full of gowns made
for husky women that fit slender
gay men perfectly.
The outfits were divided in two
basic categories: Sluts and House
wives. Since muscles never go out
of fashion, the guys who hit the
gym regularly squeezed them
selves into dresses that left
so little to the imagination
they could only be called
Wienie Wraps. A no-tuck
policy prevailed, and a
good many solved the vis
ible panty line dilemma
by simply going without
panties. A few more who started
out with panties lost them before
the night was over.
The more full-figured boys
opted for a Republican National Con
vention Chic— y’know, Nancy Reagan
red but in Barbara Bush’s size. One fella
even saved money by borrowing his
mother’s dress. O f course, the savings
will be offset by the extra therapy
sessions he’ll need.
Footwear choices were divided
pretty evenly between heels and
comhat boots. The combat boots
are a good look, but they’re so
last season.
It didn’t take long
for many of the guys
to realize it’s much
easier to get up
someone’s skirt
than it is to get
into his
pants, and
things
turned pret
ty randy. I
took to the
dance floor,
strutting in my size
11 sandals, flipping my
skirt like Tina Turner and
boogying with a delightful
ly insane woman who would only answer to
the name Poontang O ’Plenty.
“Well if you’re Poontang O ’Plenty, who am
I then?” I asked.
She smiled and said: “That’s easy. You’re
Scarlett O ’Harlot.”
I must say, freed of my pants and of my
identity, I have never felt more pretty and
witty and gay.
And that, my friends, is The Gospel
According to Marc. J H
M arc : Acrro’s column appears m eight newspapers
nationwide. H e can be reached at m arcadto@ attbi.com .
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