My Life as a Toriphile

As much as I truly loathe admitting it, I don’t think I’d be who I am today if I wasn’t a Tori Amos fan. I was a teenage Toriphile. Go ahead, laugh. Today, Tori releases Piano: The Collection, a career spanning five CD box set. A box set, that’s a pretty big deal. It’s 15 years of this woman’s work, a huge chunk of her life. But it’s also a huge chunk of my life, as a fan...

Happy Workers
The first time I ever heard a Tori Amos song I didn’t even know it was a Tori Amos song. I’d never even heard of Tori Amos and I wouldn’t for at least another four years. It was 1992, I was 10 years old, and my mom took me to see the Robin Williams movie Toys. In one of the opening scenes, where you see how cute and fun the toy factory is, and how much the workers love their jobs, there was a weird, up-beat, but somehow ominous song playing. A woman was singing in a creepy, strained monotone. I loved it. I was singing the song for weeks, and I think I even asked for the soundtrack that Christmas. The song was "Happy Workers". The woman singing was Tori Amos. But I didn’t know that until years later.

Unplugged
1996. My CD collection consists of the Cranberries, the My So-called Life soundtrack, Janet Jackson’s The Velvet Rope, and whatever random pop songs I’ve heard on the radio this week. It’s a school night. I’m flipping channels and just happen to catch the beginning of MTV’s latest episode of Unplugged. Tori Amos. I recognize the name. It’s the woman who wrote the introduction to Neil Gaiman’s Death: The High Cost of Living, my favorite comic book. I’m intrigued. I watch this 36-year-old redhead grind her piano bench, sing songs about sex and God and the void between. I watch her play pop music on the harpsichord. I don’t think I’ll ever be the same.

The first Tori Amos album I buy is Boys for Pele, probably her most difficult and inaccessible work. But I love it. It’s like nothing I’ve ever heard before. I quickly buy her first two albums, Little Earthquakes and Under the Pink, and I listen to them constantly. I buy Tori Amos biographies; I hunt for import singles and bootlegs in the few indie music shops in my hometown; I check fan websites daily for news on TV appearances, magazine articles, her latest releases. I know almost everything there is to know about Tori Amos and I talk about her constantly.

More importantly, though, I relate to what I’m hearing in her music. I’m 14 and I’m just starting to think about the world around me. I’m thinking about my Catholic upbringing. I’m thinking about the fact that I’m queer. I’m thinking about what I’ve been told about sex and what I actually feel. I’m thinking about art and music and literature and their ability to inspire and provoke. I’m thinking about science and psychology, about Carl Sagan and Carl Jung. I’m reading Alice Walker and starting to understand racism, sexism, globalization. I’m starting to realize how important it is to know what’s going on in the world. I’m writing. I’m writing really really bad poetry, but I’m still writing.

Plugged
I saw my first Tori Amos concert a week before my 16th birthday, on her Plugged ’98 tour. My friends and I skipped school to drive to Charlotte, NC, just a few miles from where Tori was born. We got amazingly stoned on the way. The concert was like a religious experience. It was the first time she’d ever toured with a full band and the things they did with some of the older songs blew me away.

I saw her twice on that tour. The second time was in Raleigh, NC. After the show, my friend and I were waiting for my parents to come pick us up. The crowds had pretty much disappeared when my dad came strolling toward us from the parking lot. He said there was a small crowd of people near where he’d parked and they said that Tori was coming out to do a meet and greet. I thought he was bullshitting me, but the crowd was there. I squeezed my way through and managed to catch a glimpse of her: wet hair, small, Nike running shoes. She signed my tour program. I think my parents – who were pretty indifferent about Tori Amos – were almost as excited as I was.

Since then I’ve been to almost a dozen Tori concerts, but that tour was my favorite. To this day, seeing Tori play live, especially with the band, is one of the most awesome things I have ever beheld.

Venus
When To Venus and Back came out in 1999 I was a senior in high school and I was madly in love with a bisexual boy. He ended up falling for my best friend, Christina, and they were together for about three years. It devastated me. I think it’s the first time my heart was ever actually broken and it felt like my world had fallen apart. I listened to Venus everyday for that entire year.

Now, when I listen to that CD, I’m right back there. I feel everything all over again: the loneliness, the betrayal, the sickening ache. I even smell my car, my school, his cologne. Possibly more than any other song or album, To Venus and Back is bound up with a really painful time in my life.

Scarlet
Scarlet’s Walk was the beginning of the end. I was in college. I don’t know what I was listening to, but it wasn’t Tori Amos. I guess I was just sort of growing out of it: the angst, the faux religious scholarship. I wanted to hear about politics; Tori was still writing about religion. And Scarlet’s Walk, despite an interesting concept (a scathing look at post-9/11 America through the eyes of a Cherokee descendant), was just really boring, musically. It was softer. It was so...adult contempo. I didn't want to be one of those crazy, unquestioningly loyal fans. I started to get why so many people found Tori annoying. I stopped listening.

When The Beekeeper was released last year, I didn’t buy it. I didn’t go see Tori on her tour that summer either.

Renaissance
In an airport in Portland, Oregon. My flight has been delayed. I walk to a magazine shop and there it is: the new paperback version of Tori Amos’s autobiography. I’ve flipped through it before, started reading the first chapter and got really annoyed with all the metaphorical, spiritual mumbo-jumbo about archetypes. But today, for some reason I buy the book. And I read the whole thing on the flight to New York.

The next day, I put a bunch of Tori Amos songs back on my iPod. And the next time I see my friend Dave, I ask to borrow his copy of The Beekeeper. I put that on my iPod, too. I read somewhere that Tori is back in the studio, that she’s working on material that’s drastically different from anything she’s done in the past few years, that now that her daughter is older, she’s not holding back anymore.

I’m starting to get excited about her music again. I’ll probably never be the fanatic I was in high school – thank God. But I’ll always keep my Tori Amos CDs. I’ll always go see her when she tours. When I have kids, I’ll sing them "Black Dove (January)" for their lullaby. Maybe at my funeral, they’ll play a sweet, sad Tori Amos song, maybe "Hey Jupiter". And that will be my life, as a Tori Amos fan.

Ass Shot

A few weeks ago at mr. Black I had my photo taken with the Ass. He's really adorable in person. The photos are from his blog, Ass Shot.

My friend Benji got rowdy and partially naked and got his photo taken as well. Isn't Benji the cutest damn thing you've ever seen? Picture, if you will, Jay McCarroll and two inexplicably cute boys on a red leather sofa engrossed in some kind of three-way smooch-fest, 'cause that's what was going on just to the right of the Ass in this photo. Jay kept pulling his enormous hood over his face to keep people from recognizing him, as if anyone A) didn't know what he was doing, or B) cared.

Bathroom Interview: Joanna Angel

In twenty years I think people will look at Joanna Angel the same way they look at Ron Jeremy now. She's already well on her way to icon status in the porn industry. She's undoubtably one of the smartest women in the business. She's ridden the alt-porn wave and carved out her own little niche within the niche. Her website, BurningAngel.com, is not just a porn site, it's a community where tattooed models write blogs and get naked. Her latest DVD with VCA, Joanna Angel's Guide to Humping, premeires tonight at Theo and Michael T's Rated X. I caught Joanna in the bathroom at Tristan Taormino's DVD release party way back in February. Maybe I sat on this interview a little too long...

What first drew you to work with Tristan Taormino?
I think she’s the most amazing woman to walk the earth. I used to stalk her, kind of. I used to read her books and go see her speak. I tried to interview her for my [college] paper. I’d never really had, like, an idol and I just thought she was amazing. Two years later she came up to me at AVN and was like, “You’re Joanna. You’ve been doing an amazing job.”

What is feminist porn to you?
You know, it’s hard, because I really don’t think it means anything. I think that a feminist…is a feminist. And someone who’s not a feminist is not a feminist. I think it has a lot more to do with the porn you make than the porn you watch.

When are we going to see Joanna Angel strap on a dildo and fuck a guy?
I don’t know! As much as I love being in control and being the leader of a movement, when it comes to sex I’m submissive. I like to be roughed up, whether it’s a guy or a girl. It’s almost an empowering feeling for me when someone can just throw me around and call me a whore and just fuckin’ beat the shit out of me. And to be honest, the desire to fuck a guy with a strap-on…it doesn’t really turn me on. I’d like to put another girl doing it to a guy in one of my movies.

What’s happening with BurningBoys.com?
Oh god! It’s an idea we had a long time ago, and we want to launch it. But it’s very hard because Burning Angel is a small company where me and one other person have to do everything. When it’s at the point that Burning Angel runs by itself, we can take on another project. I don’t want to do Burning Boys unless we really do it right and we can throw all our energy into it.

What is the perfect porno soundtrack for you?
Well, in Joanna’s Angels Rancid was on the soundtrack and so was Death By Stereo. I really want to get Turbo Negro to sing in one of my movies because all their songs are about, like, fucking and having fun and giving head and going to parties and being crazy. And that’s what my porn is all about.

Do you have trouble getting bands to lend their songs to pornos?
No, because I grew up in the music scene. The people I grew up with in the music scene, they really care about me, they really support me, and they’re really into other people who are being creative. I don’t think they’d give music to most other porn that’s being made, but they’ll give music to me.

Last question: What is Joanna Angel drinkin’ tonight?
A Kamikaze. It’s always Kamikazes. If you see Joanna Angel out on the town, you buy her a Kamikaze. She will be your best friend.

PREF: Not Doin' It

The September/October issue of PREF is out. My friend Ryan has a bunch of photos in this issue as well. You can get PREF in New York at Dina Magazines, 270 Park Ave. South, between 21st and 22nd.

Not Doin' It

For some reason, people think New York is all about sex. They think Manhattanites are running around doing it all the time, hopping into bed with someone new whenever they go out. And maybe they’re right. But honestly, I can think of so many reasons not to have sex in New York: the stifling, stinking summer heat; a stupefying array of potential sexually transmitted diseases; the bedbug epidemic.

I’ve been celibate for a few months now. I like telling people I’m celibate. It sounds so serious, so drastic, like a very important, grown-up life decision that should be respected.

“So, what? You just can’t get laid?”

I get that reaction a lot. People just can’t seem to understand why someone would choose not to have sex. So I give them a withering look and explain that, yes, I could get laid if I wanted to. It’s just that casual sex has gotten so stupid and clumsy and boring that I’d just rather not deal with it. I’m tired of not knowing what my partner wants and him not knowing what I want and of wanting him out of my house five minutes after I come. I’m tired of not really connecting with someone during sex. I know it sounds obscenely sentimental, but I’m waiting for my one true love. Or at least someone I like a whole lot.

But, yeah, I could definitely get laid if I wanted to...

My Coke-mouthed Hero
Mr. DJ was the last guy I had sex with. But don’t think that his caresses were what drove me into the cool, tight embrace of celibacy. Mr. DJ is a more than competent lover. That final roll in the hay was merely coincidental.

He DJs some of my favorite parties, so we see each other almost every weekend. And, of course, I run into him at other events. I’m never quite sure what to expect from him. One night he’ll be all over me, another he’ll barely acknowledge my presence. The last time I saw him was at ‘Stache, the now defunct Thursday night queer rock ‘n’ roll party.

“Hey, are you mad at me?” I’d written something about one of his parties that I thought might have pissed him off.

“No. Baby, I’m never mad at you,” he said, and he kissed me.

He’s much taller than I am and a bit older. Standing next to him, I felt small and vulnerable, and I wanted him to put his arms around me and protect me from the world. He’s kind of my hero, and sometimes I think I should just let him protect me.

“We’re going to the Cock,” he said. “Come on.”

We took separate cabs. He went with his friends, I went with mine. When we got to the Cock, I headed for the bar, but Mr. DJ pulled me into the private bathroom. The one with the door you could lock.

“You know I adore you,” he said.

“Fuck you. You probably say that to at least five boys every weekend.”

“No. Really? Is that what you think?” He looked a little perplexed, like he was trying to figure something out, so I just started kissing him. He tasted bitter and hard and numb. Like aspirin or gun metal.

“Dude, you totally have coke-mouth.”

“Lets got to my place.” He put his hand down my pants.

“I can’t.” I pulled away.

“You’re such a tease.”

The Hand Model
Tuesday night at Happy Valley, Susanne Bartsche’s glammer-than-thou comeback party. My friend Justin and I are waiting for drinks at the bar. To my right I notice a cute boy. Slight, but muscular, dark hair, bright eyes. And full, red lips framing the widest smile I’ve ever seen. And he’s smiling at me.

“I’m Tyler,” he says. He asks me something about the tranny dancing in a cage above the bar. I tell him I don’t know her.

“What do you do, Tyler?”

“I’m a model,” he says.

“Really?” I laugh. “Are you a hand model?”

“No! I’m in GQ this month. I’m in an ad for Bally shoes. But only from the chest down.”

“Ok, so you’re not a hand model. You’re a foot model.”

He laughs and then his friends drag him off to the balcony where I imagine they’ll try to get someone more important than them to pay for bottle service. Justin and I stick around the stage and drink and watch some straight girl with a strap-on pretend to fuck her boyfriend while he pretends to play the guitar.

“Was that guy flirting with me? I can never tell.”

Justin shrugs. “Maybe,” he says.

Tyler spends the better part of the evening upstairs, and I’m busy with Justin and some of his model/designer/photographer friends. But around 2:30 a.m. I look around and Justin is nowhere in sight. And there’s Tyler, drunk and dancing. I saunter up to him and grab his hand.

“Your hands look so familiar. Are you a hand model?”

He laughs and puts his arms around my neck and kisses me with those beautiful lips. I take his hand and lead him to the bathroom – I do find myself making out in bathrooms an awful lot, don’t I? – where we manage to sneak past the bathroom attendant and into a stall. We’re kissing and he’s groping, putting his hands up my shirt, into my back pockets. I keep having to swat his hands away from my belt buckle. Then someone’s pounding on the door.

“One person per stall! Have some class!” the bathroom attendant shouts.

Outside Tyler and I exchange numbers and kisses. He looks at me, expecting something.

I hesitate. I linger. I look at him. I’d like to take him home. I’m definitely tempted. Maybe in another life I do take him home. But not in this life, not tonight.

Dirty Pen Pal
I’m totally, completely, desperately in love. Like, for real in love. He lives in Portland. Oregon, not Maine. I send him text messages and emails and love letters. I send him packages filled with chocolate kisses and mix CDs and stickers. I call him at 3 a.m., when I’m drunk and leaving the party alone. We visit each other, sometimes. And I write about him.

It’s like what Anaïs Nin said about Henry Miller: “I can find no other way of loving my Henry than filling pages with him when he is not here to be caressed and bitten.”

I send him letters, telling him how much I miss him, what I would do to him if he were here. I tell him I want him to fuck me standing up, in a doorway between rooms. I tell him about my body, how it feels like it’s stretched thin, pulling towards him, frustrated by the distance. I send him dirty emails about sucking his cock and the way I can feel myself loosening, opening up, just thinking about him. He prints my emails and carries them with him wherever he goes.

He’s the real reason I’m not having sex. I don’t want anyone else.

Spring '07! Project Runway

I haven't commented on the Project Runway show yet, and that's because I didn't see the photos until tonight. See, I wanted to wait until I'd had a chance catch up on the TV show, which I haven't seen in a few weeks. So, tonight I downloaded the past three episodes on iTunes, clicked through the pics on NewYorkMag.com, and here's what I think.

We'll start with Jeffrey, because let's face it, I kinda have a crush on him. He's so cute and moody! Anyway, his collection was nice. Quite toned down. I'm wondering if they'll pull the same shit they did with Santino and bully him for doing exactly what they told him to do, i.e. bring it down a notch. We'll see.

Laura. So fucking chic it hurts. So recognizable, so sophistocated, so stunning.

Now, I feel like Michael has been a favorite to win almost from the casting special. His stuff on the show was really good. But this collection was a little too gaudy, a little too Versace, a little too J.Lo. It's fun, but I don't know. Not my fave.

There is nothing about Uli's collection that I didn't like. She's another one with very recognizable style. How does she make those patterns work? It's truely amazing. I'm going to just say it, I think this one's the winner.

I'm not surprised at all to see that these are the four who made it. I think the judges made some huge mistakes this season. Vincent should have been auf'd long before he actually was, and I think Milan and Alison should have been kept on longer than they were. Plus, I'd really like to have seen what else Keith could have done. So many of the challenges are more about making costumes than fashion. I think that's where some of the designers slip up and that's really a shame. With that in mind, I do think the final four deserve their spot at Fashion Week. It's tough to tell which is the decoy and which are the actual final three.

And while we're talking about Project Runway, check out Jay McCarroll's collection. I like that he did some menswear, though I think his personality gets lost a little. I like that his clothes have a sense of humour - clunky overalls, big buttons, huge accessories. Then you've got something like this ice blue and silver look, or the yellow and olive dress. They're totally cute, totally wearable, and still very Jay. Nice.

Spring '07! Part Three

Ok, let's start with L.A.M.B. This collection seemed a little - how do I put this - bipolar. It's like Gwen's teetering between that whole ghetto-fab thing she was workin' for a minute and a newer, more mature sensibility. These three are my favorite pieces. They're a nice blend of those two images. Fun, but not obnoxious. Stylish, but not boring.

Ah, Diesel. I have a special place in my heart for Diesel, because, well, I can afford Diesel. They are all about the white and gold lamé for spring, which I really like. But these looks were my favorites. Love that red dress with the deep purple print under it. And if I could rock a jumpsuit, this would be the one.

So, sifting through photos from all the shows, I came across a lot of designers I'd never heard of, and a couple of them stole my heart. Like Duckie Brown. I'm love love loveing these super low-cut t-shirts in these deep, moody colors.

Thom Browne is another one I'd never heard of. At first glance I was kind of put off. But the more I look at this stuff, the more I love it. It's so weird, so English - and these are some of the tamer pieces. It's the kind of collection you'd have to dismantle to make it work in real life. Like, I'd totally wear that dotted voile-covered jacket in the first photo with jeans.

It seems like everyone and his brother was doing some sort of dressed up shorts and jacket combo. It's a difficult look for guys to pull off, but I like it. Not for the office (duh!), but for running around the city, sure. You just gotta get the shoes right. Above: Rag and Bone, Thom Browne, John Bartlett.

Next: The Project Runway Shows!

Spring '07! Part Two

Tuesday was big. Lots and lots of menswear! Above: Cloak, Narciso Rodriguez, Heatherette, and Marc by Marc Jacobs.

So Marc by Marc Jacobs is adorable. It's got a sort of English, sort of schoolboy-ish look goin' on. Sort of. None of the models look like they're over 17. I want that sweater on the right.

Now, I wasn't really aware of Narciso Rodriguez until today, but I clicked on the photos from his show and...wow. I really think these are some of my favorites. I love these two jackets, and I love the way they're paired with the shorts. Not that I'd ever be caught dead in shorts that short.

And, of course, the day ended with Heatherette. These boys always put on a show: Amanda Lepore, Paris and Nicky Hilton, every club kid in New York. I'm sort of shocked at how wearable their collection looked. They're known for being really outlandish; playful almost to the point of being retarded. But these clothes are really cute, really Heatherette, and yet they look like they can be worn by people who don't get paid to host a night at Happy Valley.

Spring '07!

It’s Fashion Week! Ooooh, Fashion Week! My little heart’s all a-flutter. The tents, the shows, the parties! Not that I’m going to any of them. I mean, I could lurk around Bryant Park, celeb-spotting, trying to scam my way into the tents to get my hands on the free booze and some swag. I think the humiliation would be more than I could take. No, I’ll have to be content watching video of the shows on NewYorkMag.com.

So, I wasn’t really all that psyched on any of the shows this weekend, except DKNY. I really liked the blues and plaids in their Fall line and I’m loving all the bright solids against blacks and grays for Spring.

Monday was pretty big: Marc Jacobs and Proenza Schouler. I absolutely adore Proenza. I don't think there was anything not to like about these clothes. That striped skirt? Pure sex. The colors? Love 'em. The designers? Cutest boys on earth. Does anyone know if they're still a couple? And if not, can I have their numbers?

Marc Jacobs, on the other hand, left me a little cold. The clothes were cute. Super cute. Cute to a fault. They seemed a bit clown-ish to me, and shapeless. Apparently, we're trying to make this big, square balloon-dress thing happen this year, but is it really wearable if you're not Sophia Lamar? I like the two looks above, though. And I can't wait to see what's in the Marc by Marc Jacobs show.

Tomorrow: Betsey Johnson, Cloak, Marc by Marc, and Heatherette. Be still my heart!

Fag of the Week

“My name’s Kevin. I’m a submissive male. I don’t charge anything. I’ll come to your house and clean, do laundry, dishes. I just like being ordered around.”

I kind of want to tell him to go buy me a pack of gum, but that would probably encourage him. I want him to know I totally get and respect his lifestyle choice. I don’t want to shame him, but god, I want him to go away.

Ryan’s the Fag of the Week at Fag Machine this week. I’m blowing off a bathroom interview to be part of his entourage. Ryan doesn’t even like the gays. He gets complimentary bottle service. He’s not even drinking.

I tell Kevin thanks, and that if I think of anything for him to do I’ll let him know.

“I think you’re really cute. Can I at least get your number?”

There’s something really wrong and obscene about someone Kevin’s age – like, 48? – calling you cute.

“No, I’m sorry. I don’t give anyone my number. I don’t even have a phone.” I realize I’m actually holding my phone in my hand as I’m saying this and try to hide it.

This is my punishment, I think. This is what you get for liking too many boys – the doorman, the bartender – who don’t ever remember you, and for ignoring the boys who do like you.

“When am I going to be fag of the week?” I ask.

“When you do something to deserve it,” says the DJ.

This is what you get for being cruel. This is what you get for trying to play both sides against the middle. Eventually, both sides end up playing against you. And you end up with guys like Kevin.

R.I.P. Willi

Yesterday, I overheard some woman on her cell phone say that Willi Ninja had died. My jaw dropped. Willi Ninja. Mother of the House of Ninja. The legend. The man who taught Madonna how to vogue.

“You know, I like to think he’s in Heaven,” my friend Jimmy said when I told him what I’d heard. “Whatever hustlin’ he had to do, I think he’s forgiven. He probably saved a lot of 17-year-old T-girls from the street.”

I remember watching Paris is Burning in college and being in awe. You cannot be a queer in NYC and go out and expect to be taken seriously if you’ve never seen this film. Rent the DVD, learn your history, learn something about the world, and remember Willi, one of the last legends.

All Very New Friends

Sunday night was a night for new friends and for old ones to slip away or get mad. None of us wanted to deal with Motherfucker, so I missed one of the only chances I may ever have to see the Cramps play. Instead, we went to The Park. Upstairs, there were boys in the hot tub. Tommy Hottpants was running around mostly naked and dripping wet. I stopped him to say hi, but he just said, “I have to find my clothes!” and ran off.

Dave and I got into a little fight over a boy named Nathan. We’d both been talking to him and I think Dave wanted to call dibs, but you can’t do that with me. You can’t tell me not to flirt with someone. The minute you tell me no, I want it more. And it gets me in the mood to be mean. So I followed Nathan to the bathroom, lost him, and found him again on the stairs. Dave called me twice in the 10 minutes we were gone, and then he kept asking me if Nathan and I had made out. I wouldn’t answer him. I just smiled and drank and he kept on asking. Finally, I told him, no, I hadn’t made out with Nathan. He looked skeptical, so I leaned in close and whispered, “But that doesn’t mean I’m not gonna.” Dave left shortly after that.

There were four of us now: Me, Nathan, Nathan’s friend Ben, and Ben’s friend Glen. Ben and Glen were both short-ish and looked like they should be boyfriends or brothers. For some reason I kept talking about all of us having a potluck dinner. I felt really tall amongst these three not-quite-short guys, sort of awkward and out of place, like a beanpole teenager who hit his growth spurt too soon.

We were all flirting with each other and I don’t think anyone was quite sure who would pair up or in what combinations. I thought it would fun if we all hopped in bed together and it seemed like they might all be thinking the same thing. We walked to a diner, the four of us, all very new friends, but feeling like it was really important that we all stay together. We laughed a lot.

At the diner, I caught my reflection in the mirror behind the counter. It looked like a sloppy caricature; something hacked into white stone, immobile: tiny mouth, too high cheekbones, beady eyes. It didn’t look anything like what I see when I look at myself in the mirror.

I got home at 6 a.m. and crawled into bed feeling worn out, bruised, stretched thin. But I couldn’t sleep. I kicked back the knotted sheets and grabbed my parts and it just left me – the whole night, the day before, the twisted, gnarled feeling in my muscles, the whirl inside my head – it shot out of me in a few quick, merciful spasms.

I woke up the next day, at 1:45 p.m., thinking that everyone I knew was mad at me.