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I am about eight years old in this photo. The little boy I am towering over is about four. His name is Louis. The 1950’s love-bot next to poor, distraught, little Louis is, indeed, yours truly. For the record Louis did not want to be wearing that frilly dress and bonnet, but I can be very persuasive. Even as a child I had a thing for men in drag.
When I look at this picture I feel profound joy. I smile at those skinny legs, laugh at that proud expression, and am filled with a sense of pride and love for my silly little self. I want to hug me.
There was no adult help in the conception and preparation of this get-up. It was my own creation, my own vision, a vision of a sullen housewife, perhaps, or maybe a haughty hooker. I’m not sure. I have no idea what I was thinking, but I know I loved it. I loved that blond curly wig, those red prostitute heels, that green synthetic monstrosity, those strap-on, plastic, Dolly Parton tits with their enormous pronounced, engorged nipples. I remember the hilarity that ensued whenever I donned that outfit and slunk into a room of adults. I didn’t understand why it was funny, but I loved the reaction.
It sounds like an outrageous statement to make but I’m fairly sure that in the late 1970’s and early ’80’s I had the best dress-up collection of any child on planet Earth.
I was the only daughter of two creatives. A father who dressed like an urban cowboy in constant battle with his own inner Indian, and a mother who was a fashion designer, the founder of Brox Sox (the coolest hosiery company in New Zealand), and the proprietress of a vintage clothing store.
My dress up box was the envy of every girl who ever encountered it, the bane of many a small boy’s existence and the amusement of my mother’s friends. There was never any indication at her soirees that a 1920’s bride, or a clown, or a gorilla would suddenly waltz through the living room. Many a dinner party went happily awry at the unexpected arrival of a princess, bitch, tart, actress, or whatever other slinky little personality I decided to undertake.
The contents of my wardrobe included, but was not limited to:
-Multiple wigs
-Designer gowns dating from the twenties through to the seventies
-Scarves and beads and broaches and bangles
-A silk clown suit
-Many pairs of shoes
-Masks – both glamorous and terrifying
-A full body gorilla suit, including feet
-Hats, capes, cloaks
-Bridal dresses
-Furs and fur stoles, including one with the fox head still attached
-Veils, acres of lace and ribbons and silk
-Negligees, lingerie, slips and petticoats
-Hand-sewn beauties, everything from flowers to handkerchiefs
-A strap-on plastic bosom and matching dimpled ass.
I loved those tits and ass. I still do. I smile fondly as I remember the sense of excitement, daring and masquerade I felt as I tied on those gigantic breasts, donned that curly blond wig, and strapped on my four-inch red hooker-heels. I remember practicing my walk in those heels, a practice that came to serve me well several years later.
This picture is oddly prophetic.
I still love to dress up. I’ve even made a career out of it.
I still love bossing boys around.
I still adore men in drag.
I still love to wear hooker heels, wigs and naughty negligees whenever possible, even when vacuuming.
Not much has changed.
But the more I think about it the more I wonder if my love for dressing-up was somehow tied in to my desire to hasten the process of growing-up. I never liked being little. I never liked being kept in the dark or forbidden to do things because I was too young, too small, too… anything. Being young was prohibitive for me and being grown up seemed like such perfect freedom. Looking back, grown, I love the irony.
The child in this photo had more freedom than she knew.
[…] She had an interesting childhood. Her mother showered her with affection; her fun-loving father did, too, and then had one of the (ahem) harder wishes to fulfill in his Last Will and Testament. Her nanny was a trannie, which perhaps explains why she enjoyed making boys dress like girls. […]