by Willam Belli
As you can see (inset), he had given his camera to the guy I gave mine to and we all got just about the same pics. He posted this one. There’s shadows on a few faces, nobody looks quite ready, and I look like I’m in the process of deciding how to tell this kid to get his fuckin’ hand outta my wig. But Mr. Blue Man in the middle looks great.
So after I saw what he posted, I went “Okaaaaay…” in my head exactly how Delta Work would and went ahead with posting the one in which the majority of the group looked good… minus Ravey Smurf. (above)
That’s how social media works. I’m not going to reblog a picture if I look like I’ve got a load on my tongue I don’t wanna swallow. Candis was the host of the show and you can’t even see her. Jesus. Group selfie decorum, man. Don’t try to outpose each other. A solo pose in a group shot takes up too much room, so interact with the others in the shot. You put your hand upon your hip, and you make you look like shit. You put your hand upon my hip, then I dip, you dip, we dip. Engage. Model. Yes… Yaaaas… Oh, wait. Same thing, but chin down. We don’t ever need to see up your nostrils.
Now, very few people will actually get to walk down a red carpet in Cannes or a runway during New York Fashion Week. I’m really lucky (that Courtney Act was already booked and I got to fill in) to have done a few of these ego-tripping strolls. But understanding what makes press-hungry sociopaths like me tick could be just the ticket to getting into their squad or maybe cleaning their fluids off your couch. A model is like a prostitute with a chip on their shoulder. They usually want to be the most most person in any equation, and that includes sex. I’d much rather be worshipped by a normal person than fucked by a guy who I’m worried might think I look fat on my back. If you like dick way more than reading, keep going. I’m about to get to the good stuff. Like how you can use the red eye filter to make your hole pics look better.
THINGS THAT CAN ALWAYS BE LIGHTER, AKA THE HAUS OF DOLEZAL CHECKLIST
Birth weights. Don’t go crazy and smoke the trimesters away, but there is no need to gain more than 50 pounds for a pregnancy. It’s a baby, not a litter.
Your butthole. Maybe make sure it doesn’t look like a Brillo pad? Buttholes are like mood rings and can change all different shades, but it’s up to you to make sure yours falls in the acceptable range between skin color and the shade of a new recess kickball.
Your teeth. When I got veneers I told them to make them two shades darker than they wanted to because I knew smoking, drinking, and assorted straight West Coasting was gonna discolor them anyway within a few years. I recommend the same for anyone who is fuckin’ with their chompers.
Your dog’s fur. Any dog that has a white face and has its fur around its eyes stained with that weird gray eye boogie seepage needs help. Arms of an Angel the animal if you don’t wanna care for it and keep it cute. The easiest time to clean eye boogies is when they’re lying down. Ambush them with a moist paper towel. They won’t like it. It’s like trying to put a Q-tip in a drag queen’s ear during her number. But it’ll save you having to Facetune their fur lighter in pics, too.
11
How to SUCK LESS at
GETTING FAMOUS/INFAMOUS
Let’s talk freely for a moment. These are just a few lessons you’ll learn if you’re a guy trying to make it in the big city. Girls have it easier, because getting big tits is easier than getting a big dick. Both are considered money in the bank for any kind of career as an ingenue or ingedude. When some early twenties person from nowheresville asks if I have any advice on where to find auditions or how to break into acting, I tell them if you can’t figure out on your own how to audition, you’re probably not cut out for it. I try to put on sunglasses as I say that last part so they know I’m an actual cunt and I don’t just play one on TV. F’real. Think how many try and, out of those many, how many actually make it. I sure didn’t despite having done everything other than rodeo and porn. I’ve never been a series regular, and my name is usually spelled wrong in my contracts. (If it’s incorrect in actual credits on a SAG production, I get more money. Cool, huh?) Despite some Nip/Tucking and being on a couple of billboards, I never caught on until I made a mess on a game show. I came to LA to act, but didn’t even make has-been. I’m a never-was.
But getting to the top of the fame game is a race to the bottom, and there’s no bigger bottom than me. So when the World of Wonder told me I was hired for RuPaul’s Drag Race, I knew I had a limited time to make as big of an impact as possible. I went in with a plan: specifically, either to fuck my way to the middle or to fuck everyone else up. I executed an almost textbook example of the old drag phrase “pulling the pag.” Being disqualified may have made me slightly notorious, but I credit a lot of hard work along with hundreds of pounds of hair, makeup, and tape for truly making me a “thing.” Because at thirty I knew my asshole wasn’t getting any tighter and big breaks rarely come after a decade of obscurity. Unscripted television is really just a springboard for whatever you want to brand yourself as. Most people figuratively jump off that springboard and are like “Ooooh, this water is lovely” and float up to the pool bar. If I were lifeguarding, I’d yell, “Do laps, bitch. Swim. It’s time to work.” Say yes to everything. Because you don’t want to swim back to your hometown with your tail between your legs.
People say, “How do you do that in heels?” and I simply tell them they should see what else I can do in them.
Not knowing what you want to do shouldn’t stop you. I mean it’s helpful. Figure out what general area you want to excel in or else it’s like planning to win an Olympic medal because you know it’ll look cute with an outfit once you get a sex change two decades later… kinda. Knowing where you want to go without knowing how to get there is fine. You’ll meet people to help along the way (sometimes for money). Setting realistic general goals is key. Don’t be just a “model.” Be a “personality.” No one has ever said “I want to grow up to be an Andrew Christian model” at career day mainly because even at junior high age, it doesn’t exactly scream 401(k).
While we’re on the subject, if you say you’re a model but the closest thing to an agency representing you is Instagram, what you actually are is a liarmouth. But then again, many reality shows fib, too. RuPaul’s Drag Race, for instance, purports to find America’s Next Drag Superstar in the same way that America’s Next Top Model said they were gonna find the next top supermodel. Sure, reality shows find superstars, but does anyone remember who won American Idol when Jennifer Hudson lost? I sure don’t. My friend Tracy said RuPaul’s Drag Race claims to be the Olympics of drag when in reality it’s the Rock-Paper-Scissors of drag. They get it wrong more often than they get it right. #FACT.
Since we’re on the subject of lies, now is a good time to get further into the why of reality shows. In your hometown, growing up, probably any girl who dated eighteen different dudes at once was referred to as a skank. Now we refer to her as ABC’s Bachelorette. You won’t be shocked to know that in eight seasons of RuPaul’s Drag Race, Pisces, Cancers, and Sagittariuses showed up with the most frequency because those signs frequently are emotional and like attention. (Other notable reality Cancers, besides me: Bianca Del Rio, Jujubee, Bob, Milk, Big Ang, Mike Tyson, Fantasia, Michael Phelps—all big personalities.)
Reality television appearances are basically notoriety nachos: They won’t fill you up like dinners full of fame—and you need a meal. Specifically, a meal ticket. To get these paid gigs, try working to brand yourself by aligning with causes and opportunities that cater to you and your audience. For instance, I enjoy bareback sex, so I speak openly about Truvada and PrEP in hopes I’ll get a deal. I also fucked a guy with psoriasis once, so I’m also all about chemical-free skin products, like those that I endorse for Obsessive Compulsive Cosmetics. (See what I did there?) What I’m trying to say is stay current and stay cunt. Priority one after any big event that’s considered a star-making opportunity is to keep your visibility up. Many take that too literally and say yes to every free drink, thereby increasing the
ir body’s square footage and, literally, their visibility. Don’t do that. A lotta girls come off the game show and within the first year they have a RuPork’s Drag Face mug from all the cocktailing combined with water retention from flying and coke bloat.
Everyone here has been on some sorta reality/unscripted programming, has been in someone who was, and/or both.
This all must sound/look like a lot of legwork (depending on whether you’re reading it or listening to the audiobook). While I was writing this, I had to turn down invitations to an Elton John party from my friend David and a weekend in the Keys with a redheaded man who lets me count the freckles on his asshole with my tongue. That alone shows you how dedicated I was to educating and makes it impossible to deny my work ethic. If you’re not ready to work that hard and make serious sacrifices like me, maybe it’s time to defer those dreams. Drown that kitten that was you on the A-list party invites and cozy up to the idea of being a plus one. The easiest way to get there is by being so good at sex that a hookup wifes you up. Look at Amber Rose. She went to high school across the street from my house in Philly with my cousin and was a bitch who got her ass beat by my friend Tank Ass. Li’l bit of Kanye cum and Wiz jizz later, she’s basically made it. I’m looking forward to seeing who the father of her next abortion will be. I bet she could give some tips on where to find a man (Source Awards), but I’d say try turning on your favorite hookup app in an area with really good real estate, a yacht club, or a medical school. Word to the wise: once you get in a trick’s house, don’t go opening closets or snooping. I had cameras all over my last house and saw lots of people where they didn’t belong.
Speaking of closets, my buddy who dated a boy-bander sure did keep the guy’s secret, but he also kept that guy’s Teen Choice Award (which is a full-size surfboard). Like, how the fuck do you explain that? The guy shouldn’t have been getting any awards anyway since he was playing scaredy-closet-cat, so in this case, I say good. But under normal circumstances, the only things that are acceptable to steal from rich people you fuck are hearts and Netflix passwords. I wish you all the success you can swallow.
POP-UP QUIZ! ARE YOU RIGHT FOR A REALITY SHOW? FIND OUT HERE:
If you were to go on a competition-based reality game show, it’d be because
A. you’re looking to set a good example for your community.
B. you’re a masochist, an egomaniac, and a failure at your chosen profession.
C. production waived the piss test and a check’s a check.
D. all of the above.
The kind of show you’d want to be on would probably
A. tell the contestants lies about each other to create tension.
B. pay their staff salaries that, after taxes and divided by the sixty hours a week they worked, come out to be less than minimum wage and thereby technically illegal.
C. allow participants in recovery to call their sponsors once a week but keep them motivated with Muhammed Ali pics and inspirational posters for the hotel room walls.
D. all the above since these are pretty much standard in reality television.
If at any point you knew you weren’t going to win, you would try to get the boot by
A. defecating in a large pot and aggressively stirring it by telling another contestant that you violated rules knowing they would cry foul.
B. complaining that a female producer was only smoking out contestants she adored and not you.
C. refusing to get into a van at ten p.m. after a fourteen-hour day and after being handed $75.00 for you and eleven other contestants to eat ($6.25 each).
D. doing exactly what they told you to do when they hired you.
If you were to have a married executive producer’s dick in you during production, something you might say to them in the future would be
A. “I sucked your dick from the back, rawdogged AND kept my mouth shut about it, and you’re gonna act like how your work buddies try to treat me and others is OK?”
B. “You can save those pearl necklaces for another cocktestant of yours who showed me all those texts and pics you sent him.”
C. “How is it you have the backbone of a scoliosis patient when it comes to doing what’s right but you’re able to support that two-hander of a cock?”
D. “You’re wearing a condom next time.”
If you were looking for things to complain about to the host, you’d probably say
A. nothing because they couldn’t hear it over the lines they’re being fed through their earpiece.
B. nothing because you were told not to make eye contact or talk to the host unless directly engaged by the host.
C. “Bye.”
D. “All the above.”
If you were asked back to do another round of the same show, you would
A. giggle.
B. immediately jump at the chance, only to have said chance rescinded and be told later that it was a tactical move to show you who’s boss by someone you were fucking who would know.
C. have a lawyer review the contract in case it gave the production company 100 percent career control over all media, future works, and licensing.
D. build a snowman in hell.
Your career path after your reality TV stint could best be described as
A. setting fire to everybody’s rain while shouting like a transvestite suffragette.
B. an amateur arsonist with a focus on bridges.
C. a constant gardener who knows that land mines grow best in light shade, especially when irrigated with a steady stream of piss and disdain.
D. brunch shows and light escort work before doing another reality show.
If you selected mostly A’s, that’s cool. You should do Cupcake Wars.
If you selected mostly B’s, you’d be perfect on Bravo… or bullshit. Same diff.
If you selected mostly C’s, you’ve won a year’s subscription to Instagram. Go to “Apps” on your phone and download it. You’re welcome.
If you selected mostly D’s, you will probably be on Big Brother at some point.
Find us in the M4ET section of Craigslist.
12
How to SUCK LESS around
FAMOUS PEOPLE
I’m not famous. I’m a novelty at best. Sometimes people say I’m gaymous. Meaning if you’re gay, you probably know of me or know someone I tried to hook up with when I was performing at their local club. When I meet people, I can usually put them into one of two categories: people who will ask for a picture and people who won’t. It’s fine, asking for a picture. I love it. I mean I didn’t get into this business because I was a shy wallflower who didn’t love attention. But sometimes, if my war paint isn’t on or if I’m just trying to enjoy a panini, it might be nice for you to do a quick boot ’n’ scoot with me. Basically, tell me my boots are cute or give me props and then sorta scoot off. A great example: Katy Perry once hollered at me to sing “Boy Is a Bottom” midway through “Chow Down” at a party, yet I was still too shy to say anything to her until she was leaving. As she passed, KP purred approval at my shoes because she had the same ones in pink (Louboutin Pigalle Pensee). Compliments are the easiest icebreaker. As my fangirl flamed, I realized I should get a picture, but in all honesty, I was happy just feeling her shine and didn’t wanna keep her from enjoying her night for one second more since she had made mine. (FYI, I sure woulda sucked the hair off the balls of the sweet-looking man who was with her, who I won’t name here.) I coulda tried to force a photo, but not everything in life needs to be calibrated later by how many likes or views it gets.
Like if you’re at a show, don’t stand in the front row of a show and film the whole time. Most performers would rather see faces if they are performing close enough to actual bodies. If you have a familiar-faced friend, never make them feel like every time is selfie time. They’re your buddy, not a social media tool. When Alaska and I were backstage at the Queen show to see Adam, sure we were Glamberting out but the only celebrity we actually got a pic with was Lisa Rinna’s
lips (Lisa Rinna was also in the photo).
You may wanna grab a Swiffer, ’cause I’m about to drop a bunch more names.
I was lucky enough to work with Betty White twice in the past decade. I saw people jumping for pics with her and falling all over her. People got so worked up, they forgot that asking for pictures on set is tacky and unprofessional, especially when it involves asking the ninety-four-year-old national treasure to take it again because the flash wasn’t on. Someone actually asked her to do a quick video. Decorum was out the window. Like, each person who asked knew damn well that Betty ain’t got time for their nonunion bullshit.
Fill in the bubbles.
My friend Todrick has Taylor Swift on his voice mail and that makes sense. Abuse the fuck outta her if you meet her. She’ll let you. She’s that type. Bitch’ll probably walk your dog for you. But don’t try that shit with me. Don’t be asking me to call my friends with gold trophies so you can hear their voice mail. Yes, I have the CW’s Hawkman’s number from when he used to go-go dance, but, no, we cannot call him to squawk.
Attempting to muster recognition from anyone you meet is also dicey. If a dude asks me “Do you remember meeting me at ____?” I say, “Yeah, you were that one guy.” If he persists and starts to spill details of our singular encounter that is escaping me, I simply tell him, “I believe you.” It’s my nice way of saying “I’m sure it happened, but I sure as fuck don’t remember.” I’d rather be real than fake it and lamebrain out when someone comes at me the next time I’m in their town. Telling me who you know that I know won’t always be a safe bet either. Like, sure. I fucked this one guy who was one of the child actors chucking rocks at Forrest Gump, but I don’t feel the need to brag about it, y’know? His dick was probably what Forrest was running from, because it is fuckin’ huge. (Hi, Todd!) See? I’m modest. But in reality, I was all like “Beat up this ass like you tried to beat Forrest.”