Sasha Selavie on transgender performance art!
Is being a tranny hooker a type of performance art? You bet! It’s a notion explored with brilliantly trashy aplomb in the pages of Mr.Madam, a now unjustly obscure memoir by Kenneth Marlowe first published in 1964. More steamy, overheated and fluttering in metaphorical false eyelashes than the worst excesses of Tennessee Williams and Bette Davis, it’s the ultimate, drag hustler’s Bible. See, decades before Heidi Fleiss was sensationally convicted for supplying prostitutes to Hollywood stars, our Kenny ran a stable of hot, gay slaves for A-listers. Sadly, no names are given, but who could possibly resist imagining Clark Gable being viciously porked by a tranny with a strap-on? Or, better yet, a pot-bellied John Wayne mincing in Bo Peep drag and drinking the seriously delicious dick of Errol Flynn?
But those tantalising, unknowable escapades are just the tip of the iceberg for Kenny, our homosexual Cinderella par excellence. In staccato, breathlessly narrated chapters that read like the author’s literally fainting from his divine adoration of spunk, the revelations come like click-bait heaven. As a teenager, he’s cosseted by a sugar daddy, then – as a gay drag stripper – kept in financial bondage by the Mafia! More shockingly, he’s raped by 14 men when drafted by the Army, then becomes a top hair stylist to famous women. Finally – continuing a thoroughly queer, unlikely career – he establishes a string of gay call-boy establishments with himself as the infamous ‘Mister Madam!’
Still, if successful, Kenny was living on a knife-edge, constantly risking jail for facilitating then-illegal gay sex in a viciously homophobic USA. Not that you’d know it from the book’s breezy, flippant tone, but unintentionally, Mr. Madam reveals itself as the most self-deluded drag memoir ever written.
How come? Well, let’s be blunt – facially, our Kenny’s a dog of dogs, and as a drag queen, he’s a horse-faced Sarah Jessica Parker with a lantern jaw on steroids. But – and it’s a hugely necessary but – in his imagination, Kenny was a killer, kitten-heeled Cleopatra, and completely irresistible to every penis possible!
And ultimately, it’s that applied imagination that links performance artists, theatre actors and tranny hookers. Intrigued? Good – let’s examine the parallels more closely. So let’s leave Kenny behind with his cosy, dozy, hopelessly innocent delusions and confront the hard-edged realities of performance-art hooking today.
First, as an actor, artist or whore, you’ve got to create a strong, strikingly provocative image. For female hormone-enhanced whores, that’s no problem – few straight guys can resist a body with boobs and a dick! Secondly, and much more importantly, it’s essential to have a space where you can do the business, in both senses. Forget IKEA minimalism – it’s an instant kiss of death to sexual mystique and wilts even the most stubborn hard-ons. Who, frankly, wants to fuck on pitiless, Swedish flat-packs? Not me!
Instead, what’s needed is a classic, tart’s boudoir that reeks of sex, with tons of fake-fur in hot, penis-palette colours; throbbing scarlet and pumping purple. And just like theatre or art, how a boudoir’s staged directly influences a punter’s reactions. Keep it luxurious to relish leisurely sessions with hot punters, or jack the heating uncomfortably high to make unappealing tricks leave early – after paying the full fee!
But beyond the obvious, sexually engaging clichés – slag-drag and maybe, dildo wallpaper? – performance-art hookers have to master Method acting, professional empathy and counselling expertise. See, each punter’s receiving bespoke intimacy, a one-on-one erotic theatre performance, and it’s vital to treat punter confessions as holy disclosures, not tedious, interchangeable drivel. By mastering fake empathy and validating your client’s dumb but lucrative desires, you’re building and guaranteeing repeat business. And isn’t that what all the best performances always do – leave the goons wanting more?
Finally, there’s one other parallel for any performer whose chosen medium is paid orgasms – stage-fright. Always check punters through a peep-hole or camera, because no performance ever deserves killing criticism. That, my dears, is the ultimate bad review, a five-star, fatal bow!
Got any surgically-urgent theatre news, views or comments? Email mistermadam@hotmail.com
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