Doll Parts

by Amanda Lepore

  “No,” I said, “I’m married.” That seemed to turn him on. He asked me all about my husband while he was fucking me.

  “Do I have a bigger dick than your husband?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Way bigger. His dick is tiny; he’s not a real man like you.”

  “I’m gonna cum,” he said. “Where do you want it?”

  “Cum inside me, cum in my pussy.”

  “You sure? On the pill?” Yes.

  He came in me, helped me back up, and brushed the grass and leaves off my dress.

  After that, every time I could get out of the house for more than an hour, I’d call Chuck. He would pick me up down the block and take me to a motel.

  I knew if I got caught Michael would be furious, and might even kill me, but I couldn’t help it. Chuck was a nice guy. We would sit in his truck and he’d listen to me complain about how unhappy I was and how stuck I felt. He told me I should just leave and get my own place, that I could do makeup in the mall and support myself.

  I started to feel guilty about cheating. And that’s not my way of saying the sex with Chuck got bad. I could’ve fucked Chuck every night. But I really started to feel guilty. About all of it. Michael’s family had done so much for me. I felt like I was cheating on all of them.

  So I met Chuck one last time and told him it was over, that I had to be faithful to my husband. We had breakup sex, and he dropped me off down the block from my house.

  When I walked in the door, Michael was sitting in the living room. He gave me a funny look but didn’t say anything. I went to the bathroom, turned on the light, and saw in the mirror that I had a hickey on my neck. I had a split second to think Oh shit before Michael was standing behind me.

  He smacked me in the side of my face. Hard. It didn’t even hurt at first, I was in so much shock that it had even happened. But then he grabbed me by the neck, threw me on our bed, choked me, and smacked me a few more times. I told him everything—about Chuck, the sex, how it had gotten out of hand, and that I’d ended it. He got up and left the house. I didn’t move until I heard his car door slam and his tires screech against the pavement.

  I went to the bathroom to look at the damage. My eye was swollen almost completely shut. There were finger marks and cuts from his nails on my neck. That bothered me more than anything. I could handle the psychology of being hit, but now I had scratches, bruises, and broken blood vessels around my eyes. I didn’t want anyone to ever see me looking like that.

  When Michael came back, I promised I’d never see Chuck again, and it seemed like we could move on. Unfortunately, Chuck had gotten addicted to my pussy. He started calling the house and hanging up if anyone but me answered. He’d drive by, real slow, to see if I’d come out. One day he even knocked on the door. I walked into the kitchen and saw him drinking coffee with Audrey. He introduced himself to me as though we had never met, and winked super obviously. What a creep. He gave Audrey his number and said to call him if we needed plowing. Snow plowing. My pussy had gotten me into a real mess.

  After that first time, Michael started beating me every time we had an argument. Thomas and Audrey knew what was going on, but they’d never stopped Michael from doing anything in his entire life, and they weren’t about to start now.

  Chuck stopped coming around, which was good, but now I had no one outside my house. I was stuck. I was Rapunzel in that fucking tower. All I had was my hair, which refused to grow as fast as I wished it would.

  Chapter 6

  SOMETHING’S GOT TO GIVE

  Every Friday I was allowed to take the bus, on my own, to Dr. Reinhorn’s Park Avenue office. Girls would come and go all day long. Most just came for hormone shots. Nurse Kimmy would take them behind a curtain on the side of reception, stick them and they’d be on their way. Other girls were coming in to meet with Dr. Reinhorn, to schedule feminizing surgical procedures.

  I was too scared to talk to these women. But I took mental notes on what they were getting done, so I could figure out what I needed to have done myself.

  I did make friends with this guy Alex, who was a gay hustler/drag queen. He had a beautiful face but a thug-boy attitude that let him easily slip between a machismo uber-male and ultra-female persona. That kept him flush with clients, and with cash.

  We’d gossip about the girls that came in, talk about fashion, and he’d tell me about the insanity of New York nightlife. He’d grown up in Studio 54 and was “good friends” with the legendary Dianne Brill—whom I hadn’t heard of before but she sounded dreamy—and he said I reminded him of her.

  Michael would never let me go to a bar, gay or straight, but I would tell Alex I’d be there, just to make him happy. The next week I’d see him again and have to come up with an excuse for not showing up: my hormones made me sick, my husband had the runs, that sort of thing. “Well, come tonight,” Alex would say. “Dianne will be there, and you got to meet her. She’ll go fuckin’ wild for you.” It sounded so glamorous. Of course I wanted to go, and told him I’d definitely be there. But instead I was stuck at home with the in-laws.

  It started to piss Alex off that I kept flaking on him. I apologized but he didn’t want to hear it. Then one day Michael showed up unannounced to pick me up. He barged in the reception door, as though he was expecting to find me on my back surrounded by cocks. Alex didn’t say anything but I knew he was suspicious.

  A few weeks later I came in with a bruise on the side of my chin. “You’ve got a secret,” Alex said.

  “I haven’t had a secret since the day I got my pussy.” (Shock and distract.)

  “Bullshit. Tell me what’s going on.”

  I told him the truth—that my husband wouldn’t let me out of the house. That I’d asked Michael if I could go to a bar one night and was smacked in the face for it.

  “That’s horrible,” Alex said.

  “Yes, I guess it is, but what can you do?” That’s how karma works: you can’t get everything you’ve ever wanted without paying a price.

  “If you ever need a place you can stay with me. If you want to leave your husband you can definitely get jobs in New York and you’ll do really well.”

  I was grateful, but there was no point in worrying about things I could never change.

  Mom called one day, out of the blue. We hadn’t talked in a couple of months. She wanted to give me her new address.

  “You moved?”

  “Just write down the address,” she said. “It’s a hospital. The cancer is pretty bad, and I’m going to die soon.”

  There was that paranoia. Some things never changed. It was snowing out, so I told her I’d come by and see her the next day, after the roads were cleared.

  Michael drove me to the address and it was, indeed, a hospital. I started to get scared. Really scared. I asked Michael to wait outside while I went in. She was sleeping and looked peaceful, but her skin was a dull gray, and she was thinner than I’d ever seen her. It was very obvious she didn’t have long to live.

  It hadn’t been that long since I’d seen her. Had it? How had this happened so quickly?

  I found her doctor. It turned out Mom had a lump the size of an egg on her breast. She’d had it for a long time but didn’t want to have a mastectomy, so she had never told anyone about it. By the time a doctor noticed, there was nothing that could be done. The cancer had spread throughout most of her body and brain.

  There was just no way; this didn’t make sense. I mean, I’d seen Mom at Thanksgiving and she’d seemed fine.

  I started crying, which woke Mom up, and she started crying too. We hugged and cried as the doctor edged out of the room.

  “This is all my fault,” I told her. “I was supposed to be looking out for you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, and wiped tears from my face. “I’m your mother. It was my duty to look out for you.”

  That night Michael was sweet and supportive for the first time since before we had married. My in-laws cried with me. All I could do was cry.<
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  Over the next few months, I sat by Mom’s bedside every day. Sometimes she was really with it and happy to see me. We’d talk about the past and read fashion magazines, just like everything was normal.

  Other times, she’d have no idea who I was. When she was like that I wouldn’t stay. It was too hard to take. It eventually got to the point where she didn’t recognize me more often than she did.

  One bitterly cold February night, Mom woke up, looked at me, wrinkled her nose, and said, “Who are you?”

  “I’m your daughter, Mom. Amanda.”

  She squinted and twisted her face. “I don’t have a daughter. Who are you?”

  I tried to remind her; I told her about the Sears P.J. dolls, about the barber, about Joseph and Dad and the makeup. All the makeup.

  She had no idea what I was talking about and started looking around desperately.

  “I don’t have a daughter,” she said again. “Why are you in my room?”

  “It’s Armand, Mom. Your son.”

  She tilted her head, confused. “Armand?” She fell back asleep.

  I sat beside her and cried.

  Later that night, Mom woke up, as with it as she ever was. She looked at me and said, “Don’t cry, Amanda. Everything’s going to be all right.” Then she went back to sleep and never woke up again. She died the next afternoon.

  Thomas handled all the arrangements. There was no funeral; I couldn’t handle one. Mom was cremated and buried in Paramus.

  I tried to forgive myself for not having noticed she was sick before it was too late. Nobody else blamed me, but nobody else knew what Mom and I had been through together. At least she was finally at peace, I thought, and tried to focus on that.

  Dad came by soon after and met my new family. It was awkward, having him and Thomas in the same room. I could tell Dad felt bad that these people had taken me in when he wanted nothing to do with me. I didn’t care; I was too angry with him. It was the last time we ever saw each other.

  Joseph showed up too, with a white trash date/whore, asking about any inheritance. It was the first time he had seen me since I transitioned. “Getting married was stupid,” he told me. “You should get divorced. Move to New York and become a hooker. The way you look, you’d make a ton of money.” That was the last time I ever saw my brother.

  NAILS

  DONE

  Nails are the one beauty routine that you do for yourself, not for anyone else. You can see them whether there is a mirror around or not, unlike your face, hair, or ass.

  A woman’s manicure can tell you a lot about her, if you pay attention. They come in a few basic types and shapes.

  NO MANICURE

  This girl will try to come off as low maintenance, but in reality she is just too busy with her career and family to take care of herself. She needs to schedule some time on the calendar to remember she is a woman. Not to be confused with the girl who has an old manicure that is chipped and rotting away; that is the worst kind of laziness. Either repair the nail or remove the polish.

  SQUARE MANICURE

  The most common type and shape. Preppy. They do not hinder a girl from performing even the most mundane tasks. She can wear an “accent” nail if she’s feeling daring. You can see these nails congregating en masse at your local Starbucks, gripping on to mocha frappé lattes.

  OVAL MANICURE

  Timeless, classic, and goes with everything. Best in pinks, nudes, and reds. An oval girl sometimes plays with other shapes, usually always with a French manicure. I won’t bother to say anything about the “squoval” trend except that those who wear these nails can’t seem to make up their mind.

  ALMOND MANICURE

  Sleek and sexy. Not for the faint of heart. Tapered to a rounded point, long but short enough for everyday wear, with a little practice. She can still type with these nails, but it is doubtful she works as a secretary. She is likely a woman who is in charge of something in her career. She is not afraid of challenges and wears bold colors like red or black on her nails. No-nonsense.

  STILETTO MANICURE

  My personal favorite. Leaves an impression on everyone they come across. Longer than the traditional manicure, they are filed more severely and meet their end in a fine point, like tiny teeth or claws. Pin-up painter Alberto Vargas made them famous in the 1940s. They are the quintessential nails of the lady who does not lift a finger to do anything. She can’t! You better save for LASIK, because you can forget about putting contacts in with them. Men have to open doors for you. They are best for a dignified, refined lady who is made to be admired. I keep mine in red.

  After Mom died, instead of feeling despair, I felt a burst of strength. Mom had spent her life trapped inside her own mind. I refused to let that happen to me. For the first time I realized I had sold myself short with my marriage.

  I knew I had to run away from my husband.

  Over the next year, I scrimped together as much money as I could, and hid it away in the one hatbox of Mom’s I had held on to. When Michael gave me cash for clothes or food, I would pinch the pennies and hide the rest. I sold all the jewelry I owned. I did nails for parties, I sold G-strings to the girls I’d see at my plastic surgeon’s office. I called Keni Valenti and begged him to sneak me work while I was at Dr. Reinhorn’s office. Hustler Alex would sit and sew with me as quickly as we could before I had to catch my bus. The receptionist/bouncer would shake his head at us. “You’re crazy, girl,” he’d say. He liked me. The whole staff did. I was like the office pet.

  Alex’s offer was still good: I could sleep on his couch when I ran away.

  A year to the day after my mother’s death, there was a light snow, but I was ready to go. I packed up all the belongings I could fit into my suitcase and hid it behind a bush outside my house.

  “I’m going out for Chinese,” I told Michael.

  “No, I don’t want Chinese,” he said. “Just make me a sandwich.”

  “Oh. Well, I’m going to take a bath.” I locked myself in my washroom, turned on the water, and looked at my reflection in the mirror. I thought of what I’d be giving up—the hormones, injections, touch-ups . . . keeping up the beauty routine I had started was expensive, and my father-in-law had been footing the bill. If I left, it would be my responsibility. Was it worth it to give all that up?

  I opened the bathroom window. Cold air struck me in the face, but the snow had stopped. Out the first-story window I went, and rolled down the snow that had piled against the house all winter.

  My suitcase in hand, I walked to the bus stop, where three cabdrivers were huddled together smoking cigarettes, waiting for fares. The sky was clear and what was supposed to be a nasty storm had turned into a quiet, whitewashed night. They saw me walking toward them, tears in my eyes, wearing black-heeled boots, two coats, and a dark red pillbox hat with black veil that had belonged to my mother.

  “Are you okay?” one of them asked. “Have you been hurt?”

  “I’m running away from my husband. He hit me and I have to get to New York.”

  The men each flicked away their cigarettes and came to help the damsel in distress. They told me how stupid a man must be to hit a woman as beautiful as I was. They asked if I’d like them to go beat up the lousy asshole. I said no, I just wanted a ride.

  My driver placed my luggage in the trunk and turned his heat all the way up. As we drove off, I sat back and watched New Jersey slowly pass by. The strip malls, the cemeteries, the turnpike. Hardly anyone was on the road because of the snow. As we crossed the George Washington Bridge, I put down my window and let the freezing-cold air numb my face. I was alone in the world, but I was not scared. I knew Mom was looking out for me and that everything would work out.

  “Miss Hollywood,” Mom used to call me. Miss Hollywood I would become.

  Chapter 7

  MONKEY BUSINESS

  A couple of weeks living in New York and I was gagging about money. I had saved about $3,000 before running away, which seemed like more than enough, but
I quickly realized I needed a job and my own room. Sleeping on Alex’s couch was okay for the short term, but every time he had a john over I had to find somewhere else to be. It was hard to get more than a couple hours sleep at a time.

  I started doing nails, which was fun and I was good at it, but I was only making around sixty dollars a day, nowhere near enough to get my own place and pay for my beauty routine.

  Feeling desperate, I asked Alex what hustling was like. I really hated the thought of doing it. I thought I could handle all the sex, but it bummed me out thinking about how I’d be playing right into the stereotype of a tranny hooker.

  “You don’t have to be a hooker, though,” Alex said. “You could work at a dominatrix dungeon. There’s no sex, just role-play. But you do have to be able to deal with crazy people and weird fetishes.”

  “I’ve dealt with crazy people my whole life. I think I’ll be okay.”

  “You ever been tied up?” I hadn’t. “Try it first. If you don’t mind it, I’ll introduce you to this bull dyke that runs a dungeon called the Key.”

  “I don’t know anyone who would tie me up.”

  “I’m sure I can find you someone.”

  The next day Alex introduced me to this gorgeous black guy named Mitch, a former marine who lived across the street from us. Mitch showed me the ropes and pounded me out. I wasn’t such a fan of being tied down, but it wasn’t that bad. I could handle it.

  I was ready to see this dungeon. As we walked over, Alex told me Mitch had sucked his dick in exchange for setting up my trial run.

  “He’s gay? He didn’t seem gay.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Alex said. “Sexuality isn’t all black-and-white. You of all people should know that.”

  “Now that you mention it,” I said, “he did really love fucking me in the ass.”