It’s 2 p.m.–and right now, Miss RuPaul is just another brother with a 5 o’clock shadow and a serious cookie jones.
If it is cookies he wants, then it is cookies he must have. And so, the man who makes a living looking outrageous and urging supermodels “You better work!” glides down Michigan Avenue in search of what his heart craves.
And no one pays him any mind.
This is a very good thing. In fact, he says, “It’s fabulous.” Not being recognized as a man lets him melt into the landscape–a distinct advantage when you are a phenomenon with an M.A.C. cosmetics contract (the first ever awarded a drag queen), three movies (“Wigstock,” “The Brady Bunch Movie” and “To Wong Foo, Love Julie Newmar”) and a brand-new book, “Lettin It All Hang Out” (Hyperion).
This afternoon, he’s “working a male realness drag.” Translation: He’s dressed like an ordinary guy–a slightly hip and very freckled ordinary guy–in funky overalls and a white biker’s cap. A pair of horn-rimmed glasses (minus their lenses and held together on one side with a safety pin), disguise the fact that his eyebrows, like his head, have been shaved.
Tonight, he’ll be making an appearance as Miss RuPaul, the world’s first superstar drag queen. It’s a persona that has earned him fame, a hit record, rides on the Concorde and a video with Elton John. And if he has to emasculate himself to get his message out–namely, love and the New Age belief that we’re all children of the universe–so be it.
“I’m not the greatest actor, singer or even drag queen,” RuPaul says. “I knew my biggest asset was my personality, but people couldn’t see me just as I am. The truth is that I’m a man; the illusion is that I’m a woman. But of the two, the illusion is truer.
– – –
The cookies have been obtained. RuPaul is a happy man.
Someone spots him.
She approaches him stealthily, loathe to interrupt the conversation. But she must.
“Excuse me?” she asks.
“Yes?”
“Uh, I was wondering if you could watch my bags for a minute.”
“Sure!” RuPaul tells her.
“We’ll rifle through your things.”
– – –
Growing up in a house full of women, life wasn’t always so easy. Born almost 35 years ago in San Diego as RuPaul Andre Charles, he knew he was “different” from the start. Others did too. His mother, “Mean Miss Charles,” a woman who minced affection, but not words, called him a “punk.” He just knew that he liked boys–and makeup.
When Ru was 7, his father moved out for good. His mother had a nervous breakdown. As a teen, he moved with his sister to Atlanta, where he attended, but did not graduate from, the Northside High School for the Performing Arts. In Atlanta, he discovered punk drag. For RuPaul and his band of queens, drag was political satire, snubbing a society where they didn’t fit in.
Over the years, he developed his alter ego, Starrbooty, a supermodel turned secret agent. As Starrbooty, he acted in campy, pseudo-porn flicks and recorded a slew of 12-inch singles. He moved to New York, where he was crowned “Queen of Manhattan.”
By 28, he was homeless, broke and blue. His depression sparked a spiritual overhaul that included soul-searching, self-help books and watching Oprah and movies (such as “Night of the Iguana,” where Deborah Kerr encourages a suicidal Richard Burton that life is worth living).
When he re-emerged, RuPaul the Supermodel was born.
The experience made him a man uniquely comfortable in his own drag. And make no mistake about it, he is a man.
“I am representative of the black male experience,” RuPaul says. “Because that’s what I am.
“Some people say I’ve sold out. I turned my persona into a cartoon character so that I can appeal to more people. I wear blond hair on brown skin. I’m always happy and smiling. And I present serious issues in a palatable way.”
– – –
Behind closed doors, a three-hour transformation takes place that no one but RuPaul can see.
His tools: corsets, pancake makeup, laceup wigs, size 13 platform shoes, cheap pantyhose and, let us not forget, tucking panties.
If you are a man, you do not want to know what tucking panties are.
There are books to be signed. Fans to make happy. And money to be made. RuPaul bursts through the hotel, resplendent in a tight red mini dress, flirting with an aging bellman as she sashays into the waiting limo.
– – –
Gone is the 5 o’clock shadow, replaced with layers of mocha foundation, contour blush, glossy lipstick, windshield wiper lashes and, oh, yes, the Wig–a magnificent blond creation that, combined with her six-inch patent leather pumps, adds a foot to her 6-foot-4-inch height.
Inside the limo, she pops in a “Sounds of Blackness” CD and pulls out a huge can of hairspray.
Lyrics that attest to RuPaul’s spiritual philosophy–“miracles and dreams realized through faith”–pump through the car.
“I believe,” she chants, singing and spraying, singing and spraying. “Oh, yes, indeed, I do.”
She is tense. The tension becomes palpable when she realizes a car is following the limo.
The tension reaches its peak as the limo nears Unabridged Books on Broadway, where a mob of fans is congregating, anxious to meet their Diva. A contingent of burly men in over-the-top drag–The She-Devils–link hands, forming a line to keep the unruly crowd at bay.
RuPaul steps out of the limo, a megawatt smile splayed across her face, her arm stretched to the sky. The crowd roars.
Inside the bookstore, the heat is stifling. Someone dashes across the street to buy a fan.
“You all look gorgeous!” RuPaul booms through the mike. “You make me so proud to be a queen.”
The lovefest has begun.
Outside, the line snakes onto the sidewalk and down the street. Down the block, a bar is serving RuPaul shots.
Hundreds of fans have come to see their idol. Aging queens and young wannabes. Mothers pushing strollers. Suburban gay kids. Street kids. Punk rockers with magenta hair. Couples of all persuasions. Church ladies.
They came for a brush with celebrity. They came to get their RuPaul books signed. One came to serenade her. But mostly, they came to be validated.
And one by one, they are.
Babies are kissed. Drag makeup is complimented–“Give her a big round of applause–she’s working lower lashes.” The buff, the beautiful, the balding and the tattooed are flattered and stroked. All are beautiful in RuPaul’s eyes.
“Everyone’s gonna get a little piece of Mama,” she coos. “And ooooooh,” pointing at a blond, “I want a little piece of that.”
As the night moves on, emotions overflow. Sobs one fan of indeterminate gender: “You are flawless! You are flawless! Oh girlfriend, we’re not worthy!”
Many have already read “Lettin It All Hang Out.” LeMarr Williams, 16, of the western suburbs, read it twice: “When I was down and out and depressed, seeing him made me realize there are role models out there for gay teens.”
After the books are all signed, RuPaul tiptoes out for a “union break”–to powder her nose and fluff her Wig.
The night is still young. The books may be signed, but–ah,yes–there are pictures still to be taken.
