NY Mirror

Downtown clothing entrepreneur PATRICIA FIELD opened a new boutique, then feted it at Capitale, where the HOUSE OF NINJA vogued on platforms, KIM AVIANCE did runway on a treadmill, and every drag queen who's ever worked for Field trotted out a lip synch and a toast (most of them between 10 and 11 p.m., when there was open bar). Transsexual diva AMANDA LEPORE announced, "My pussy and Pat Field are the two hardest-working cunts in show business!" as the crowd welled up with misty admiration. Later on at Cuckoo Club, Amanda toasted herself by blurting to me, "I did my pussy lips today!" And just what does that entail, darling? "Well," she said, "there's a doctor who injects your pussy lips with fat. But you have to have the fat taken out of your stomach, and that leaves a scar." Bummer. Not an option. Not to mention the fact that Amanda has no fat on her stomach. "That too," she said. "So I had silicone put in, and it looks great!" She blithely lifted up her dress as everyone within a cunty mile yelped with eye-popping delight. "It's fabulous!" I shrieked, something I don't always exclaim about vaginas. It was ripe and firm, and even smelled vaguely floral. Better yet, it was as delightfully hairless as a newborn chihuahua. Plus it feels good (to her, I mean). "My face was getting all the attention while my pussy was doing all the work," explained Amanda, "so I wanted to treat her to something nice!" How inspiring. Let's all designate one day a month for rewarding our pussies. (By the way, for her new doll—a plastic representation of plastic—Amanda had to tell designer JASON WU to make the breasts and butt way larger than he originally had. Next step: pumping up the you know what?)

The lips were plumper than beefsteak tomatoes at the Imperial Court of New York's annual gala at the Marriott Marquis—a benefit for God's Love We Deliver, which served the usual head-spinning procession of big "gals" in masochistic heels and chandelier-scraping headdresses. New empress GEFIL TEFISH added a crown to her ensemble, turning her coronation into a Midsummer Night's Dream–themed spectacle, complete with almost redundant fairy lights scattered through the crowd. You turned gay just watching it. (Well, you did. I already was.)

Bedecked in fairy lights, I went to a special screening of the amiable trifle Kinky Boots, the real story of a drag queen who helped save a dying family business by inspiring shoes that another character calls "porn wear for hermaphrodites." It's Mrs. Henderson Presents for the silicone-down-there crowd. As in the flawedFlawless, the drag character veers between hyperdramatic exclamations ("Burgundy? Burgundy? Red!"), self-pitying revelations ("Dad felt I never fit in"), and unsolicited life lessons ("I didn't want you to know what it was like not to feel respect"). And even if she represents pure sex on a stick, she has no ostensible love life. But—the only drag in the world who sings live—she puts on fabulous shows, with backup dancers and hair extensions yet. CHIWETEL EJIOFOR plays the part ferociously, and it's funny to realize he's also in Inside Man, because here he's inside a woman.


MR. BLACK IS THE NEW BLACK
Still fairy-lit—but now in burgundy heels for hermaphs— I spent Friday at Mr. Black, the downstairs East Village dance club, which has a nicely casual dungeon-cum-speakeasy feel, studded with waiters with their butts exposed (for real crack addicts, I guess). My admirers included a guy who kept gushing, "Guess whose hair I blow-dried today. Mrs. Huxtable from The Cosby Show!" and a gent who glamorously regaled me with tales of his Crohn's disease (which involves bloody diarrhea, what ho). I love the nightlife.

But let's plug up some of the other provocatively puckered parts in clubland—namely the upper lips, especially when clubbies who crave attention with their legs spread try to sell me stuff like "Fame is so hollow. People are so fake friendly just because I was on a silly TV show"; "I'm a hugely successful model, but on the side I wait tables in Hohokus"; and "I had to hire a new publicist just to keep people away!" It's certainly working, dear.

But the talented gays keep soaring. As I told you last year, GSN is launching an updated, wacky I've Got a Secret with a fab all-queer panel. And contrary to an early newspaper article saying the gay record label Twist was a bad idea because no sane person would want to be labeled a gay artist, people have been cartwheeling out of the closet while singing "Dixie" and then landing on their knees to do so. Rather than aim to ghettoize gay musicians, Twist wants to break them out of the ghetto of small label–land and put them on the big stage they deserve. Bravo!

They cartwheeled with burgundy bells on to the Splash party for SANDRA BERNHARD's opening night, where LIZA MINNELLI—who's hot again, thanks to a 34-year-old TV special—was so swarmed by gushy gays and greeters that she had a panic attack and had to be escorted out the door. (Bye bye, blackbird.) Sandra was feeling no pain, probably thanks to the "no MADONNA" rule that I hear downstairs DJ JOHNNY DYNELL had been given, and CHARLES BUSCH was also percolating, especially when he spotted S. EPATHA MERKERSON in the crowd. "Should I ask her to be in my next play?" he wondered, then thought about it and said, while rolling his eyes, "No. People do that to me all the time. 'I want you to star in Coco!' " All through this, I stood with a glum, defeated look; the last time someone was spotted having fun at Splash, the cops shut it down.

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