Can’t wait to get back to California. I’m way, way too white right now. I need sun and fresh…something. And of course there’s my homophobic president to contend with. ‘Change I can believe in’? But I already knew black men hated queers. That might never change.
Oy.
Oh, and holiday suggestion number 236: Watch The Thing. It’s great. The 1981 version of course, with HOT Kurt Russell, where some guy gets his head eaten. Delicious.
xx
Gay Times
January 2009
The enormous popularity of rhinoplasty indicates that pretty much everyone hates their own nose. Add to mine a bit of scar tissue left over from a staff infection in my left nostril, proving rimming is actually dirty, and I’m left with what feels like a bruised, broken big toe hanging from the center of my face. My childhood was rushed, and I’ve never had the patience for flaws. Ass holes I can lick, but I throw away holed socks and chipped plates; naturally, and perhaps “because gay men are filthy”, to quote my psychiatrist, I crave facial repair.
A visit to a California plastic surgeon was both inspiring and alarming. Dr. Hoover proudly showed me a photo of his five daughters.
“Lovely girls,” I said, as I handed it back.
“And their noses?”
I looked again. They had identical noses.
“When I did the first, I knew I’d have to do all five. Or else people know.”
He transferred my digital image onto his computer, creating a three dimensional revolving me. And as my cranium spun, slowly, he enthusiastically revealed all he could do to improve my nose. He wanted to break my bridge, and make my nose, in effect, larger, to sit better on my large head.
“I have a large head?”
“Look at it!” He wore a bow tie and was gray and slender. “It barely fits on my screen!”
I winced.
“Don’t squint. Your nose looks smaller.”
He also wanted to push down the tip of my beak, and make my nostrils the same size and shape. I trembled with excitement. It was as if he’d read my mind. These were the exact adjustments I’d always imagined doing, yet never attempted, lacking the professional expertise and sterilized instruments. Naturally whist stoned and crying in front of my bathroom mirror I’d pinched and pulled my nose into the image he’d created. It looked wonderful, like a doll’s nose, or a pig’s snout. Still, I wasn’t sure I deserved such permanent magnificence.
“For $6,000, I could just slice open your septum and scrape out the twisted cartilage, but what price perfection?”
$2,000 more, apparently. I was practically writing out the check for 8,000 big ones when I saw a photo of Faye Dunaway over the doctor’s desk.
“I did her. Her nose, I mean.”
She looked like an old cat. I paused.
“Don’t worry,” the doctor assured me, “she’s past her prime. But nobody will ever know you’ve been changed. They’ll think you’ve been on vacation. Or on a diet.”
Still, I settled for the cheaper choice. A young nose doesn’t look good on an older face, no matter how many Oscar nominations you’ve accrued.
We set a surgery date for January, and after having my nipples tortured in the October sun at the Folsom Street Fair, I returned to London.
Following a performance in Leicester Square, I made the mistake of telling friends who’d stayed for a drink that I was looking forward to a new year with a new nose. An actor, eyebrows plucked into submission and clothed ten years too young because he’s a gay asked me “Why would you alter the one thing that makes your face unique?”
“Would you fuck me?” I asked, because I really wanted to know. He has soft hands.
“No, but not because of your nose. Because of your age.”
I’d forgotten he’s a pedophile.
Then Pete, a really large filmmaker on steroids who’s also a very good friend, piped in.
“Clearly you don’t love yourself enough.”
“You’re right. I’ve got a fucked up nose.”
“No.” His shoulders are so large he was practically exploding out of his jacket. “This is about your choices. Like that boyfriend of yours.”
Pete doesn’t think the Brazilian is right for me. He thinks I’m a catch – “A difficult, complicated catch” – and I can do better. But when? With whom? Until recently, I’ve been single for six goddamn years. Whilst Pete has rejected a hot Persian architect, several British nerds and two delicious Germans, merely because they fell in love with him, I’ve been on the sidelines, playing the ugly stepsister and nursing my swollen muzzle. He’s changed occupations, bought a gorgeous flat in South London. I see him less and less, and he wants me to stay the same. Maybe I remind him of his youth. I’m his constant. His consistent broken wing. And for that reason, I’ll always need him, whether or not he needs me.
And that’s why I’m joining a gym.