Suck Less: Where There's a Willam, There's a Way

by Willam Belli

  If you find yourself taking off your makeup in a remote location, you can make your own wet wipes by just blowing your nose. It’s your own snot so you can’t get an infection from it (I think), and it totally gets off eye makeup.

  ACCUTANE is a miracle drug for acne. But if you’re a girl and you get pregnant on it, you’ll need an actual miracle worker like Helen Keller. Your baby will be retarded and deaf and probably not so hot as a contributing member of society. There is a 100 percent chance of some sort of birth defect. So every pill you take has a pregnant-lady peel-back tab with a big red warning on it to not get knocked up. I can only have butt babies, so I made cute nails out of them. The other side effects include mood swings, dry eyes, additional mood swings (since you can’t drink on it), nosebleeds, and my cracked, chapped lips. On the upside, I had zero blackheads. For someone who’s tried everything, even putting my own piss on my face like a toner, it was a godsend.

  Since you were nice enough to buy my book, I will give you a foolproof pimple technique.

  Now that I’ve told you these things, here’s the part where you ignore all of it and have a pick party. Clean a needle with fire, alcohol, or spit, depending on your desired level of sterility, and then lance the nastiness straight through the top of the peak. Use cotton swabs on each side to squeeze it until what comes out looks like the watery red pre-cum stuff a ketchup bottle releases before the actual ketchup. Let it sit for a second, and clear the area. Then go in for the last squeeze to get the core out. Now wipe the mirror, pig.

  1 Get an Advil Liqui-Gel and pierce it with a pin.

  2 Squeeze some of the gel onto the pimple and the pimple kinda magically disappears in a few hours. I don’t know why this works. I’m not a scientist. But it does. And if it doesn’t work on you or gives you some kinda chemical burn, fuck off completely. I’m a drag queen.

  SOME MORE HOW-TO TIPS:

  1 Avoid eye makeup fallout if you do foundation before eye makeup with Post-it’s!

  2 Making marbleized lips (as on the title page) is easy. Dip little pieces of card stock into swirled liquid lipstick (preferably OCC); then stamp it onto your lips.

  3 There’s an art to humblebrag pics. Clearly, I’m showing off my shitter in the example, but my caption would read something like “#CLAWPOWER” and thanking the manicurist. You’re never too old for that whorey look.

  4 Shove a safety pin or hairpin through the end of your spliff or blunt to stay burn-free when there’s not enough finger space.

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  How to SUCK LESS at

  LEAVING THE HOUSE

  My grandma Belli was a good Italian wife who got a scholarship to Juilliard for music, raised five kids, and bowled a 260. She also lived in sunny Florida and had stage 4 melanoma for eight years of her life. I got a buncha good Golden Girls wicker purses when she passed, though, so it’s not a totally bad story. The point is, tanning is bad. Sure, I’ve said stuff in the past, like “Tan fat is better than pale fat.” I totally stand by that, and if you’re fat, you should, too. Literally. Stand your fat ass up, ’cause the traditional lie-down tanning bed will leave you with streaks on your sides if you’re big. Plus, you can do squats in there and it’s like Bikram without all the yoga twats. There are plenty of good self-tanners out there. Fuck cancer.

  I always have a garbage bag with me in case someone I meet is ugly. It’s also good for when the weather is iffy and you don’t wanna tote around an umbrella. Not a giant Hefty one or nothing. Just a thin one that you can poke a head hole in and wear as a poncho in a pinch. Also great for outdoor concerts and festivals that get moist. No one wants to get hit by your soggy umbrella at the concert when whoever’s onstage says, “Put your hands up!” Oh yeah… That’s the other thing. If you’re at a concert and somebody with a mic yells “Where all my ladies at?” I’m gonna be the loudest “Haaaa-eeeey.” It’ll be like a three-syllable “Hey.” Don’t be embarrassed. I just want everyone around me to know that the gay contingent is in the vicinity and present. We are gonna be loud and have fun and dance ’cause it’s a concert. If you ain’t into it, best to maybe try a dinner theater and sit the fuck down. I fag out hard and I fag out early. I will tell it on a mountain and yell “Yes, bitch!” at any little riff of a run. I’ll “Mmmmmphm” real loud at a good part, like I just had the best bite of ribs ever, and I’ll do it harder if I catch any side eye from anybody.

  Speaking of ribs, don’t ever go out without eating beforehand. You ever get in a line for a club or concert and some bitch behind you has takeout, and you’re like “Damn, I’m in my cute going-out clothes and now it smells like onions”? The upside is now you won’t feel bad about letting your friend cut the line to stand by you. So no eating in line, and don’t try to be a buddy to my bully and offer me some grub. It may be cute for you to try to cover up chicken taco burps with some Trident, but I’m here to get fucked up and not worry about taking a deuce at this spot.

  “I like tans on my legs but not on my face. Shut up!” Trust me. Google that quote and have a say-something hat day.

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  How to SUCK LESS at

  TATTOOS

  HERE ARE SOME GUIDELINES SO YOUR INK DON’T STINK.

  Have your tattoo be of some use to you or others. Maybe an important reminder to just be the yin to nature’s yang and breathe. Just kidding. Your body is gonna breathe whether you want it to or not. And the only thing worse than a yin-yang tattoo is a No Fear T-shirt slogan or a Chinese symbol that probably has meant something different to every Panda Express employee who’s laughed at you. My tattoo is useful because I’m basically the Swiss Army knife of transvestites. I always got a ruler on me no matter what. My dad asked me what happens if I move to Europe with the metric system, and I assuaged his fears by telling him that all the good stuff is still measured in inches there (dicks and hair weave lengths).

  Think of it as permanent jewelry, like my friend Kain.

  Coulda left off the “ogies” but to each their own.

  Never put a name near a sex organ. Too many questions. My name is inches from this lady’s butthole, for some reason. It’s almost as bad as a tramp stamp that says “She get it from her daddy.”

  Nothing trendy. Bands break up and teams get traded all the time. Sorry. RIP DWV.

  Be ready for ignorance. Some older folks think visible tats are the death of any employment future, so that kind of prejudice is something you need to be ready to encounter. For instance, some asshole once said, “You wanna fuck a guy with a neck tattoo, not date a guy with one,” and that’s mostly true (I was the asshole). It’s mostly because neck tattoos are basically Viagra for anyone with a penchant for getting banged out by bad boys, so there’s not a chance a neck-tatted man can be faithful with all the ass being thrown at him. It’s like FaceTiming the pope to say grace. Or trying to have stained glass etched on your body and ending up with plain ass. My face in this tattoo needs the lord also.

  Don’t get a tattoo that you have to shave for it to look good. I had enough beard issues that I don’t need your forearm fur adding more shade.

  5-7 inches: Dollar Dicks are penises that are about 6in/15cm on average. These are penises that you may not necessarily have to do a full on douche before bologna-ponying if you do a thorough enough shower. But remember if it starts to smell or feel like you’re roasting a turdle dove, don’t try to fuck your way through it and think “I can get him off before it gets really bad.” All the fucking & motion will create radiant energy and greenhouse effect the room further concentrating that shitshock smell.

  7-9 inches: Dongs have a certain amount of heft. Think how a regular clock ticks or beeps but a grandfather clock goes “dong.” Like that. Many of the people who possess appendages in this range know they have a healthy slab on them. For instance, it’s definitely a Dong if the owner says something rhetorical like “Tell me how much you like this Dong” while you’re sucking it even though you obviously like it cause it’s in your mouth. Duh.

  9+ inches: Narnia
Cock is big enough to predicate that no food is consumed pre-intercourse due to the fact that Narnia Cock’s reach and range will go beyond the normal lower rectum. Narnia Cock is no joke. Remember, Aslan was a noble lion, not a shitty kitty. Come correct.

  When I’m stuck with a day that’s gray and lonely, I just stick my fist in my mouth and make hot guys with tattoos touch me for money—which also brings to mind my favorite way to catch a hooker who’s not using his own pictures. Keep the ad up when they walk into a room so if their tatts or general appearance don’t match their pic, you can handle it. Buyer beware. Speaking of, if you’re planning on major ink, have the money allocated for it before you start. I know this one hooker named Brandon who I wanted to do a GoFundMe for his incomplete full back piece but hey outta sight, outta mind.

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  HOW TO SUCK LESS AT

  PIERCINGS

  A genital piercing is like fighting. It always sounds like a great idea at first, but you might fuck up your teeth. I had to spend almost $1,200 to fix my veneers even though the material is supposed to be stronger than a toilet bowl. I had my guiche/taint pierced, and one guy literally looked at it and said, “I’m not into that,” and left. I woulda been sad, but this is why you always have a backup butt buddy. I liked my taint barbell because it felt good every time I sat down. It was perfectly lined up with my prostate (that little spot you can press behind your balls that feels good). But if you get pierced in the wrong spot, it’s like putting a door knocker on a screen door—totally useless. With the right spot, you can sit on a hard surface and just gently rock back and forth, playing with that spot without even a hand check. It’s like edging for your butthole. Sluts know what I mean. Some shops won’t do any sort of genital piercings. It’s a very personal area, so you can’t, like, just faggily run up into Claire’s, trying to get your nipple pierced and screaming about discrimination upon denial.

  I pierced my own nipple to get sent home from school in ninth grade. There was a test and I wanted out, so me and a safety pin went to town. It worked. The second time I pierced that nipple was when I was playing Joseph in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. It may not have been historically accurate, but it distracted from the fact that I had on more makeup than all the Rockettes put together. The third time I pierced both and that was the last. I ended up taking them out when I got liposuction and not putting them back in. If I squeeze my nipples now, a little drop of yellow smegma-looking stuff comes out to this day, reminding me of my poor judgment.

  I subscribe to the school of thought that when pissing, I don’t have to wash my hands if I don’t touch my dick (pull down flop out and use elbow/foot to flush). If you have a Prince Albert, you will have to plug the second hole if you take it out or risk a secondary stream of pee.

  Labia, hood, and clit piercings are all fine, but just know that gravity is a sin and those little piercings are like vagina weights and can turn your lady bits into some Laffy Taffy stretched-out shit. Don’t do too large a jewelry gauge down there.

  Let this serve as a warning that some holes never close and refined sugar is the devil.

  What’s the quickest way for a white girl to get keloids? Supergluing earrings to your lobes. Put medical tape or Band-Aids down first and then the glue if regular earring backs aren’t enough. Or be that rotted queen deformed by drag. Your call.

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  How to SUCK LESS at

  HAIR

  I came out as a lifestyle guru at eight years old, when I marched into my mother’s room and said, “Hey, guess what? I can French braid!” Without even looking up, she said, “Oh good. Just what every mother wants to hear from her firstborn son.”

  I bought my first wig at a thrift store and tried desperately to make her blond. I brought the good Garnier Nutrisse box dye because SJP was in the commercials and I loved her. When it didn’t work, I used peroxide. Then bleach. #FAIL. I realized that it wasn’t dyeable because it was a synthetic fiber. Later in life, I learned that the only way to transform a synthetic wig into human hair is to have a man ejaculate in it and clap real loud at the same time.

  Hair coloring was always so fascinating to me because it could make or break a career. Norma Jean Blahnd vs. Platinum Marilyn. Gays and girls alike have had obsessions with single-process divas for years. Cher is black as a mother-fuck. Reba is a brick of red with not a lowlight. Remember mousy-brown Christina post-mouse-keteering that Mulan song? You could tell she hated singing about her boring reflection so fuckin’ much, and that’s probably why she took to the Clorox.

  There’s something about all that artificiality that makes a person gravitate toward it. Anyone who’s ever bleached their hair knows what it’s like to pick those fun little scabs in the back by the neck two days after processing. Then you’re all like “OMG, I have those scabs too!” It’s sad for them but makes me appreciate their efforts. I’m pulling for them. Just like each New Year’s Eve, I make a resolution for this to be the year Rachel McAdams finally gets her hair game together. I mean, girl… True Detective? Sure, solve crimes and shit, but ol’ Lady Murder, She Wrote Lansbury had time for a rinse-and-roller set, and so do you. Lady cop all you want, but you cannot be cavalier about touch-ups on those roots and expect a consistent color. Hair color has chemicals that work in conjunction with the heat coming off your scalp, so if there’s too much regrowth, the color doesn’t process. Especially if you’re using bleach. Golden halos are like piss rings of yellow around your head and occur when the new blond doesn’t match the previous blond. Roots are OK in your hair or wig—if it’s styled. Without the finesse of a “done” style, you risk looking like the eighth mug shot in a series of ten pics showing a meth user from ages twenty-eight to forty-two. You want that hair to look paid and laid, honey. Even ombré has its limits.

  We should probably talk about wigs now too, ’cause when someone asks “Is that your hair?” they probably already know it isn’t. I do it all the time just so I don’t feel as bad about the mess going on with my scalp. So don’t bother lying. It’s fine to throw in some fake hair, extensions, pieces, or whatev.* But treat it like a top-secret crime and cover your tracks—especially if you’re a man. This man-bun trend doesn’t seem to be bottoming out anytime soon, but bottoming out is the only thing you’ll be doing if you’re a man with visibly fake hair. Call me old-fashioned, but you cannot reasonably ask to top a man while wearing someone else’s hair. Above all, your man hair should look like you didn’t spend a lot of time on it if you want it to appear effortless. Think archetypes of manhood: Steve McQueen, Idris Elba, Patrick Swayze, Jason Momoa. Even if they did spend time getting perms, edge-ups, and color, it didn’t look it.

  It’s smart to factor in the amount of upkeep that will be necessary should you decide that the hair on your head will not be the stuff that’s grown from your scalp. Don’t do any drastic hair changes if your money situation isn’t solid. You never want to have to choose between gas money or getting your extensions out. If whoever is grabbing your ass that month thinks you look good blond, ask for money when it comes time to get your hair done. Where I grew up in Philly, most of the women got their men to pay for their hair appointments, which is weird because the men probably never got to touch it after it was installed.

  Speaking of fake hair, test-run a look before making the change with your own locks. Go to a wig store, buy a wig cap for however much they charge, and try some wigs until the Asian lady starts to yell. I have no clue why all hair stores are run by Asian people, yet it’s still racist if a white person wants to do braids. I think any hairstyle can be worn by anyone. Like, I’m not going to go into the Chickenhead No Mo salon in Inglewood and say “Gimme the ‘Beyoncé Goes to Haiti’ braids.” That would be culturally insensitive. It’s called a box braid. Learn your shit. If you’re buying a wig and think you’re being overcharged, the best thing to do is notate the manufacturer on the tag and maybe the model number on the box. Google will tell you how much it costs online and you can know if you’re being
ripped off (they will always try to rip you off, especially in October because of Halloween).

  Like any structure, a wig needs a good foundation. A wig cap is your best bet if your hair isn’t thick enough to hold a hairpin without slippage. Tape or a sticky ACE bandage around the perimeter of the head works too if you plan on shablamgeling all over the dance floor or speedboating. I like to bust the wig cap open at the top and pull it down to my neck like a choker. That way, when I pull it up, all the little baby neck hairs and circumferential hairs are slicked up into it and not poking out the sides. Crosshatching the pins at four to six junctures on the head should keep it in place, depending on the style and weight of the unit you’re sporting.