If you haven't caught on yet, I am a former fat kid. Now, we can all sit here and talk about things like "body dysmorphic disorder" and "finding the beauty within" but let's be real...I know I'm not "fat". I am however, gay fat. What's that you ask? Gay fat? Yes. Gay Fat. You see...gay men have a certain "type" of guy they are interested and he is pictured here:
Hot right? Don't you wish everyone looked like that? Well newsflash...in gay world...EVERYONE DOES. At least...anyone who is worth noticing looks like that. The perception of hot in the gay world has sparked numerous debates, thesis papers, and probably will be the start of a few of those new fangled "gay divorces" that are about to hit the market after this past week's SCOTUS awesome decision...tick tock.
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| YAY! Let's go on a group honeymoon! Nothing bad can happen with that idea... |
I've always dressed with clothes that accentuate God's gifts to me and by that I mean, my clinical insanity. This goes back to my formative years as a fat kid. My earliest memories of being exposed to fashion was being berated in the Sear's dressing room by my mother and grandmother who would be screaming through the door:
"HURRY UP WITH THOSE SLACKS"
"IS THE HUSKY FIT OK?"
"IS THERE ENOUGH ROOM IN THE CROTCH?"
These were real concerns for the guardians of an 8 year old with pant sizes of 42x26 ...yes...I was FAT.
Allow me to make one point very clear...I never dressed myself. My mother was in complete control of making sure my McHammer parachute pants and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles jean jacket complimented my flat top hair cut. My father, a man who only knew to wear uniforms, would bring me to get my school uniforms to wear during the week. This...lasted until college.
I realize that my extreme fashion choices are a direct "rage against the machine" attitude of being forced to wear what people told me every day of my life. But I also realize...I need someone to pick my clothes out because I don't give a fuck what I'm wearing if I think it looks good. Glitter's outfits have ranged from pieces of glass glued to my forehead when I decided to be the White Queen from the Chronicles of Narnia for a party that I think was in April to channeling my inner Stevie Nicks and parading around New York City wearing 2 strategically placed scarfs, sneakers...and nothing else.
But if you want to know what really projected me into the world of fashion...here it is:
Disclaimer: The following sentence is going to make you think I was raised "rich". In reality, the only persons who thought I was rich was me and my sister. Hey, fake it till ya make it.
Many of my summers growing up were spent traveling Europe. <---see.
My father's job took him to various locations and often, my sister and I would sneak away for a week while not saving lives at a camp for overly privileged children and see him. However, once my sister got her braces off and tried highlights, she got herself a boyfriend and I...had only tried highlights with my braces...NOT A GOOD LOOK.
I flew to London to see my father and while you could marvel at the various sights, history, and culture of London...I was excited the hotel had a pool.
I begged my father not to drag me to that stupid round theater \or go and meet Queen what's her nuts at some fundraiser...MY HOTEL HAD A POOL! Where else on earth could you swim at a hotel...WITH A POOL!?! I know...I was a dick.
My father phoned down to the pool (we were in Europe so of course we phoned and did not call) and asked what time the pool was open until. The receptionist informed him that the pool was open BUT proper swimwear and bathing caps were required. Now, I guess this is because in Europe...people go to the beach in the fucking nude and you might think that's hot but guess what...it's NEVER the people you want to be nude that don't wear clothes.
A few minutes later room service came up with swim caps and "suggested swim suits". So wait...not only are you telling me I have to wear a condom on my head but you want me to wear a pin stripe one piece while enjoying your facilities and I'm paying $2,000/night to stay here? Fucking swell.
Dressed liked 2 ex-convicts from the 1930's my father and I went for a dip in the pool. It was lovely...It was rejuvenating...It was...a hotel pool and I knew my father secretly hated me. We spent well over an hour in the pool and surprise surprise, I wanted to eat. We looked around for towels to no avail. If my grandfather was with us he would regale us with some soothing Irish words of comfort
"Goddamn English no good bastards and their ugly goddamn faces can't even give us a goddamn towel. Jesus Christ! If it wasn't for us you'd all be speaking German you tea sipping sons of bitches" He's a poet.
There was supposed to be a pool attendant who I'm sure went on break when he saw two American's come in hoping we would drown so we were left alone. My father, in his infinite wisdom, told me that we would just slip through the lobby, soaking wet and barely clothed, and get back to our private elevator where nobody could see us. FOOL PROOF PLAN.
The elevator door opened to the lobby...at least...I think it was the lobby. Oh yes, the lobby of our hotel, in the time we were basking in unfiltered pool water because the British don't treat their pools with chlorine, was transformed into the L'OREAL BRITISH FASHION AND GLAMOUR AWARDS.
My father and I starred at each other blankly. FUCK!! What do we do?! We can't stay in the pool all night! Nobody seems to want to help us. I was sure my father had a plan. My father...a skilled secret agent who could infiltrate Al Quedia bases without recognition...decided...we should just make a run for it.
"NOBODY WILL EVEN NOTICE" he said to me
"YOU'RE WEARING A COORS LIGHT T-SHIRT AND I DON'T HAVE PANTS ON" I retorted
We causally sauntered in attempting to blend in with the illustrious crowd.
Naomi Campbell, Claudia Schrieffer, Elle McPherson and Kate Moss were in the lobby of our hotel posing and pouting for the world's media to oogle over...and there I was...soaking wet and looking like fucking Pugley Addams at summer camp.
We were stopped by security. "You can't be here" they told us. Looking at us like we just stole the Hope Diamond under my head condom.
"We are guests of the hotel"
"Sorry sir, the hotel is closed to guests you'll have to leave"
THE HOTEL IS CLOSED TO GUESTS?! WHAT THE FUCKITY FUCK!? But sure enough, there the sign.
"The ____________ will be closed to guests for a private party from 7p-10p. All guests are asked not to attempt to access the hotel premises during this time and we thank you for your thoughtfulness"
First off, that's not THOUGHTFULNESS.,,that's insanity. Where the fuck were we supposed to go? Oh, they didn't care. They ESCORTED US OUT OF OUR HOTEL.
For anyone not familiar with London it's known for its sunny and warm evenings and its almost Caribbean like weather. Oh my bad...that's Miami. London is known for being 50 degrees and rainy in August. So what were we to do? Well...seeing as it was night time and most of the stores were closing, my father thought it'd be best that we find ourselves some suitable clothes. This part of London was Newbury Street, Fifth Ave, and Rodeo Drive's richer, obnoxious cousin. We went from store to store looking...insane and finally my father gave up. He walked up to some random homo, gave him his credit card and said we would take whatever fit us.
And then we left. We strolled the streets of Londontown dressed to the nines wearing matching Gucci suits...it was the first time I ever owned a piece of high fashion...and we looked ridiculous.
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| Just the two of us |
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