#also the thrift stores only had a lot of femme clothes and that’s not what I wanted but the denim jacket was a bit fly

[nymphacae]

A LEGEND in the Rymin fic community loves my fics?? I’m gonna cry /lh /gen

Also might I ask what your headcanons for the silly lil guys are? It’s always interesting to hear how other people interpret these lovable music dweebs.

ahhh i have a LOT of headcanons and it feels like a lot of them vary based on which AU/story i'm working with, hc's are a lot like trying on clothes at thrift stores for me — sometimes you just wanna try a new one out for size and think 'hm!' @ the mirror, it's what makes community engagement so much fun imo !

but i will ATTEMPT to narrow down some of the constants i find when working with rymin and ones that aren't, yknow, confined to specific AUs — although i'm sure if you're familiar with paper trails, you know some of these already lmao

RYAN

HE LOVES REPTILES. You HAVE to know this about me by now but i push ryan lizard propaganda like my life DEPENDS on it!!! He loves bearded dragons in particular – his favorite girl is named Spitfire and she’s a proud lesbian (min in the bg telling ryan to stop pushing a sexuality on her, but he’s ignored). But he loves snakes too, and spiders and lizards…I imagine he names them all after musicians for funsies, spitfire just happened to break that code for me bc i liked the name too much lol

Second thing people probably know about me is how hard i push anti-beatles ryan akagi bc it’s true

He picked up a habit of smoking on the road and he’s since then quit – going cold turkey after getting abducted by a train will tend to break that habit

His sibling’s names, in order, are Alexa, Miya, Ethan, and Eikoh. Both his sisters kinda had to mother him; though he’s closest to Miya (who’s an interior design/textiles major, also engaged) bc Alexa had a severe case of eldest daughter syndrome and it made her pretty snippy – she also fled the nest the second she could and only really calls to yell into the receiver about her job and secret girlfriend

Ryan’s a Schrodinger’s Gender situation for me, so it fluctuates often just based on what story i’m telling. In the AUs/stories where he’s transmasc, ryan names himself after a homeless guy named Ryan who’d sit outside his family’s local supermarket and play a sick riff. One day baby ryan spotted him throw a banana peel at a police officer was chasing him (for dignity’s sake, he always tells friends he was just inspired by ryan roxie, the guitarist)

(also in these AUs, he has insanely intense cycles due to the cursed cocktail of anemia/endometriosis, which leads to minor complications when he’s on the road and can’t afford T/birth control anymore. It’s a whole Thing, he had to be hospitalized for it at age 13 and the doctors basically shrugged, as doctors do. I’ve wanted to explore this caveat before but never found the time, oh well)

also shoutout to prism who engraved 'pt ryan transfem' into my brain you were so real for that

his specific mental diagnosis is also a roulette wheel based on what story im working with, shrug. idk who said that min is adhd in an autistic way and ryan is autistic in an adhd way, but whoever said that changed my life so ty and you're right!! i also lean towards him having/on the watchlist for forming bpd - looking back on pt i believe he showed signs of bipolar disorder

Tulip and Ryan are bffs. I’m not budging on this. They make friendship bracelets and play mario kart and sing karaoke and ryan does her hair bc lake won’t do Femme Things™ with her anymore and they love each other SO Much

Ryan’s acespec; I touch on this whenever I can, but this plays a Big role in his relationship with the music industry. Sex Drugs And Rock N’ Roll is a subculture he could never fit into for a plethora of reasons, and it was another way he felt isolated while going solo due to all the aggressive expectations. He’s sex-POSITIVE, bc it’s important to me to shed the stupid ‘asexuals are all sex-repulsed puritans’ agenda i see being spread sometimes. He thinks it’s fun, and with the right person it is!

He's the one who gets carsick/boatsick and is terrified of flying

He's really into boozy cocktails but he'll pretend he isn’t — he likes tequila and vodka which is funny bc i picture his favorite drink to be like a hurricane or sex on the beach

He's lost a lot of friends by reviewing their mixtapes

He really gets into making pastries and desserts farther down the line! Depending on the timeline this could be a hobby encouraged by a therapist or just an interest he picks up naturally, with min always finding comfort in food and cooking himself

MIN-GI

His mom’s name is Soo-yeon and his dad is Tae-hyun. He visits Jeju-si in the summer since his mom has two sisters living there

Min loves helping his mom around the kitchen/folding laundry. His parents have a huge garden out back with flowers and some veggies, and he likes harvesting from there when his mom lets him (she’s very picky about who touches her flowers!)

Plants are min’s comfort item; they’re basically to him what reptiles are to ryan! He’d cover the entire van/flat with them if he could, he loves succulents in particular and he likes to sing to them

He’s a HUGE dog person!! Whenever he’d come visit the Akagi’s he’d make an IMMEDIATE beeline for the family dog; however when his mom bought a Pomeranian to cure her empty nest syndrome, he despises it (for comedic purposes he only addresses his mother's dog as The Dog)

He leans more on the side of whiskey in drinks; he also likes gin. His taste in alcohol is definitely WAY stronger than ryan’s, less diluted with flavors, but both have the same level of tolerance. he enjoys a good sazerac

He’s a dark chocolate kinda guy

He won the spelling bee in grade four

Once he travels with Ryan and becomes more comfortable with his identity, I think he'd experiment with gender and appearance. while i enjoy seeing gender hc's for My Lads, for me and my writing it's nice to work with a min-gi who embarks on a gender journey and comes back deciding he likes being a cis guy just fine. not that this affects him playing with makeup or clothes lol, also if he were to wear skirts at all they'd be long and loose

Wherever I can apply it, Simon and Min are always gonna be roommates who are stuck in a perpetual loop of basically reenacting that always sunny ‘mac and dennis move to the suburbs’ episode

He looks up to Grace a lot; she’s kinda The Mentor Friend who intimidates you just enough for you to get your shit together, and outside of Kez he'd consider Jesse his closest friend

He loves cooking! He likes making hearty meals for his friends, and he especially enjoys teaching them how to cook if they’re curious

Big ol ADHD mess over here, an icon

He’s the one that most comfortable with his identity, which is very funny to me seeing how he’s the one that casually accepts ‘queer’ as his label while Ryan keeps picking terms out of a hat and then furiously stomping on the slip of paper lmao. Mins just chillin, he likes who he is and he’s not about to challenge that 🤷‍♀️

FOR BOTH:

-ryan's got the cold hands and min's got the warm hands

-they’re both qpps with kez bc it’s important

-min's the one who chugs down coffee like it's water, and ryan likes fancy coffees, but he's more of a tea person lmao (lots of sugar though)

-they both have bad tattoos

-in modern era, they’d do the neurodivergent Thing of assigning everyone they know pokemon teams – they’d be HUGE pokemon fans and would trade cards/art all the time (to discuss their pokemon teams with me would initiate an entirely different conversation……..)

-i've gotten into Agree To Disagree disputes with mutuals over this but i stand by 'min's the one with the 13-in-1 wash and ryan has 12 different hair care products' bc Neurodivergence(tm)

-they both smoke weed and will ruthlessly roast your spotify playlists

I’m hosting a friend rn so uhhh hopefully this suffices

#min gi park #ryan akagi #ask #there are CERTAINLY more but i had to mull over this question for a couple days so i could remember everything i could LOL #im good with having specific scenarios and hcs though which i take pride in. catch me at the right time and ill go in depth for hourrrrs #also lmk if i need to tag anything since i briefly touch on like. weed n transmasc menstruation #rymin

[pointlesstrashyexistence]

More Sam headcanons

Sam is the one who makes sure Jack knows how to take care of his hair. Dean has had the same hairstyle for the last 15 years and, as much as I love this man, I truly do believe he’s the type to use the sin that is 3-in-1 body wash, shampoo, and conditioner. Sam is the one who has to be like “No, those are completely different things, don’t listen to Dean. He’s still performing masculinity.” Cas usually just makes himself clean automatically so the intricacies of hair care and hygiene are a little lost on him.

We already know Sam is a theater kid and I truly do believe that they find the best quality bootlegs of broadway and off broadway shows that they can, and saves them to their laptop to watch later, often with the rest of Team Free Will. Jack especially enjoys the Disney ones although Sam thinks the Disney ones are the most obvious somewhat lifeless cash-grabs (the only exception to this is Lion King on Broadway which is still amazing), but has a soft spot for Frozen. Sam loves Cabaret. Cas appreciates musical theater as a modern reiteration of Ancient Greek theater and opera and favors Hadestown despite its creative liberties. Dean tries to appear uninterested but gets teary-eyed about Dear Evan Hansen.

Sam learns more American sign language through Cas. Cas is an ancient eldritch being who knows basically every language in the world and I believe is fluent in all forms of sign language. They mostly focus on learning ASL so Sam can sign with Eileen.

Sam can sleep with lights on and loud noise all around them. Youngest siblings are just kind of used to noise being all around them so we get used to learning how to do that.

Freshman year at Stanford, a lot of Sam’s clothes were hand me downs from Dean they didn’t want to get rid of. Because he felt safe enough to start experimenting, they would thrift through women’s sections of thrift stores and cut up and sew clothes to make new outfits for themselves. Sam was still comfortable with their masculinity and presenting as masc but enjoys how colorful and free clothes that make them more femme presenting are.

Because of this and Sam’s theater nerd background, I think Sam watches a lot of YouTube videos on sewing, fashion, fashion history, and costuming. Enjoys how fun and bizarre Micarah Towers is and the analysis of fashion trends and costumes by Mina Le and ModernGurlz

Because Sam is good at empathizing with people, he is also good at understanding what makes them tick and their deep insecurities. They can manipulate the shit out of anyone if they want to but choose not to (except with Jack because I’m sorry and I love Sam so much but Dean was kind of right when he called out Sam for claiming to care about Jack when he was also using Jack to try and find a way to open the portal). This also means that Sam can immediately devastate anyone by pointing out the thing they hate most about themselves like that John Mulaney skit about 13-year-olds

Often fine being left alone for long periods of time but will start little petty shit just because he’s bored like that scene from Parks and Rec where Ron asks who broke the coffee pot and everyone starts blaming each other and in the end Ron broke it but felt like everyone was getting too chummy. Sam in my mind is like the cat who you’re trying to find in the house and when you do its looks you in the eye while calmly pushing a glass cup off the table.

Sam is very interested in learning more about witchcraft and magic but realizes they are white and doesn’t really ascribe to any religion anymore since God turns out be just some guy who was a shitty absent father and later turns out to be an evil universe destroying tyrant and other gods are real. So he tries to be more moral and ethical in learning magic from other religious, ethnic, and racial groups and when encountering a closed practice respectfully leaves the practitioners and magic alone.

Sam and Jack’s father-son relationship is different from Jack’s with Dean or Cas. Sam understands Jack not quite feeling like he has a place in the world and being seen as dangerous and being so terrified of your power knowing it comes from this thing that is dark and evil but recognizing it is your power and up to you to learn how to control it and what you want to do with it. Taking care of Jack has also given Sam more perspective on how Dean raised him and furthers his respect for Dean and his understanding that part of why Dean continues to treat him like a child is because Dean was basically his father.

#Supernatural #supernatural #SPN #spn #Sam Winchester #sam winchester #enby sam winchester #Enby Sam Winchester #nonbinary sam winchester #Nonbinary Sam Wincheste #he/they sam winchester #He/They Sam Winchester #sam winchester headcanon #sam Winchester headcanons #Sam Winchester Headcanon #Sam Winchester Headcanons #safe sam winchester #safe sam content #w*ncesties dni #w*ncesties do not interact

[m2fjourney]

I’m Out

I told her this evening. It was better than I could have hoped. She was happy for me, more concerned that I was making a change to be who I wanted to be than about herself. She wants to see me through and stay with me. We talked in detail about what I am convinced I am and what I want and I told her that I was attracted to her still because I am. We went for a walk and she held my hand and squeezed it a lot. I think she's excited to help me with clothes although she has refined taste that leans towards sharp and clean women's clothing and I want skirts that go spinny. We may go to the thrift store this weekend.

There’s so much to work out. I need medical professionals and aestheticians. I need to grow out my hair without coming out to my stylist just yet. We found a “mod” haircut together that I can tell the stylist I want which will require growing it out. I’m not ready to go full speed and tell everyone. I am out to the only person who matters right now and she has accepted me. 

She’s going to help me do my nails when they are long enough. She has this cool powder stuff that looks amazing when she does her’s. She ordered me shoes. Men’s but a femme style with a cuban heel, we talked about a slow slide into public presentation and privately trying out the spinny skirts for now. This was my choice. I know I have to present at some point, but now that the weight it off, I am ok with the time it will take. 

If I had done this 30 years ago, it might have been different. That was 1990. I didn’t know any trans people. I only knew OF one trans person (that I recall), Christine Jorgensen. I read her autobiography in the library without checking it out as a teen ager. It all seemed so impossibly far away. I also spent years just wishing to be someone else. I never connected the dysphoria with something I could do to change myself. I don’t know why I couldn’t make that jump to changing the things about myself that I hated so much. Lots of lost time, but also I guess I am in a better position now. It’s never too late and I have years left to get to know myself. It feels so strange to just be free of the loathing and doubt. Maybe it will come back, maybe I will develop other dysphoria, but right now I feel good. Over 40 years of repressing something and suddenly it’s gone. I couldn’t sleep last night thinking about telling her and tonight I can’t sleep thinking about the future. Hopefully this is not a new feature of my new life. I like sleeping. 

Names. I have no idea. I wrote a bunch down. I have names I like but I haven’t really found the one that speaks to me, that I think describes me. My wife will help me with it, I want one that she likes too. It’s almost like naming a new child for both of us. We both have to live with it and we get to choose. 

The discussion started almost like I proposed. We ate dinner and there was a slight lull and I just said it. “I am certain now that I am trans and that I want to pursue becoming who I know I really am.” She had questions like how far I was going to go. I said I didn’t know for sure, but everything was likely. She wanted to stay with me. I reminded her of something she said offhand 20 some years ago that she wasn’t attracted to women. She didn’t remember saying it, the fact I remember it says something about what was in my head all those years ago. She suspected. There were signs. There were things she didn’t know about. Nothing bad, but I had experimented with clothes and makeup before. The IPL rig I ordered before I told her was a big tip off, but she also would have just trusted me to live the life I wanted if I never said anything. For all the built up anxiety about this decision and telling her, it was really painless. There will be more painful discussions with other people in the future, but for now I am content. 

#mtf transgender #transbian #egghatched #transgender

[ohblackdiamond]

something blue (ace/paul, nc-17)

The ramifications of the glam shit, the femme, androgynous shit, all that was for someone like Gene to analyze. Decide if they really were breaking down the foundations of society and dragging themselves down to a well-deserved hell by putting on heels and blouses. Paul requests drag for his 25th birthday party, and his bandmates deliver.

The ramifications of the glam shit, the femme, androgynous shit, all that was for someone like Gene to analyze. Decide if they really were breaking down the foundations of society and dragging themselves down to a well-deserved hell by putting on heels and blouses. Paul just liked wearing them. Even in junior high and high school, he’d been the lonely kid wearing outlandish outfits, the long-haired kid that people thought might be cool until he opened his mouth. It had taken years—it had taken KISS—before he could halfway manage to pair looking cool with being cool. Feeling cool, well. That was a lost cause.

The other guys ribbed him about it some, his tendency to go over the top with his clothes. It was hard to feel too bothered by it most of the time. Knowing the other three were going to spend the evening’s concert wearing nothing but BDSM gear, same as him, really curtailed the burn of any comments. Plus, for all the teasing, he knew that, ultimately, his bandmates got it, understood it. Would dress up themselves some even when they weren’t onstage.

They’d even been down for dressing in drag for his birthday party today.

So down. Maybe too down. Ace and Gene in particular had committed. He’d watched in their hotel room, not sure whether to be horrified or just amused, as they got out a couple of boxes of waxing strips and promptly deforested their legs. The whining during and afterward had been so minimal Paul wanted to ask if it wasn’t their first time. Meanwhile, Peter had just grabbed the first frock off the thrift store rack that fit him and called it good.

Paul didn’t mind. It was for the hell of it, anyway. Every damn day bled into the next while they were on tour. Even holidays didn’t have a draw to them anymore. Hanukkah got the prerequisite long-distance call to his parents, a litany of “yeah, Mom”’s while Gene stood over him with his hand out, waiting on the phone. Christmas got Peter grumbling around jewelry stores for Lydia and Ace following him around, perkily picking out things for himself and Jeanette both. Peter’s birthday was usually a drug fiasco; Paul’s… well, Paul’s was usually a little boring. The cake, the beer, the roadies. Play for a few thousand people, have a party with less than fifteen in some room backstage at the auditorium. He’d thought drag might liven things up a little. Give them all something to laugh at.

So Paul hadn’t put a whole lot of effort in, himself. He’d shaved his legs, but he hadn’t gotten rid of his five o’clock shadow. The dress was one he’d bought from some trendy boutique, floral print on black with a matching choker, and bell sleeves that weren’t quite enough of a distraction from the wideness of his shoulders. Maybe after the party he’d lob it off to the costume girl and have her cut it down into a top for him. Beyond that, well, he’d gotten a pair of black heels, stuffed a bra one of his groupies had left behind, and been done with it. He hadn’t even bought panties for the occasion, although Gene, in a rare moment of exhibitionism, had flipped up his skirt to show Paul his. Ace had done the same, albeit hesitantly, inching up the hem like he was trying to be coy, only showing one leg and a bony hip and half the underwear. But that brief look was enough. God, Ace had even matched the panties to the powder blue of his dress.

“You didn’t have to go that far, you know.” Even though Ace had dropped the hem after less than half a second, the image was already emblazoned in Paul’s head. The ruffles and lace looked like icing swirls on a tiered cake, no distraction at all from how poorly they contained Ace’s cock and balls. He must’ve been dying in that. A couple million sperm being strangled all for the sake of his party. Paul guessed it might save Ace some paternity lawsuits down the road.

“What kinda girl doesn’t match her underwear to her dress, Paulie?”

“You don’t even match your socks half the time.”

“It’s a special occasion! Hey, you only turn twenty-five once.” Ace said it as if it were something mystical, reaching over to flick Paul right in one breast. The tissues crumpled up inside his bra kept him from feeling anything, but he still rolled his eyes in response. “Thought you would’ve gone a little bigger with your tits there, though. I mean, you stuff your pants pretty good—”

“I do not stuff my pants.”

“Bullshit, I’ve roomed with you.” Ace started cackling, popping open a can of beer and taking a few long gulps before continuing. “You don’t gotta have a complex just ’cause of me and Peter—”

“I don’t! Shit, man.” Paul grabbed another piece of cake and a fork, scraping off the frosting and pushing it into a glob on the plate before scooping it into his mouth. Two sweet swallows of vanilla. Then the chocolate icing up the side from when they’d run out of the white.

“You want the rest of that?” Ace pointed to the bare piece of cake.

“I usually give it to Gene.”

“I’ll eat it. He’s had three already.”

Paul turned his head, catching sight of Gene across the room—he was talking to Lydia, just as casually as if he weren’t in a dress and strappy heels, holding a couple of empty plastic plates. Ace’s eyes followed his, and he snorted, cupping his hands over his forehead like he was a mariner searching for shore. He didn’t put his hands down until Paul looked back at him.

“What do you do that for?”

“Do what?”

“Look for Gene. What’s he gonna do, tell you no?”

“I don’t—”

“Fucking apron strings. You’re even like that in interviews! Shit, how’d he do that to you?”

“Do you want the cake or not?”

“You ain’t his little brother here, Paulie. You don’t need his permission for anything.” The corners of Ace’s mouth tilted up faintly. “Especially not giving away your own birthday cake.”

It wasn’t worth explaining. Ace probably wasn’t drunk yet, but Paul didn’t think he’d understand it even if he were sober. Ace wasn’t the type to admire anyone. But Gene just—had what Paul didn’t. Security. Self-importance. Intellectualism. When he’d first met him, it had pissed him off. When he’d started playing with him, he’d realized just what a boon it was. Ace and Peter could pop off all they wanted, but Paul knew damn well that Gene’s dogged promotion was what had secured their contract with Casablanca. He wasn’t going to forget that just because of KISS’ success. If it made him come off like Gene’s bitch to the other guys, well, that was too bad.

None of that mattered when Ace was still standing there with his hand out, waiting on the cake. Paul shrugged and handed over the plate. Ace didn’t bother with the fork, just took the cake in his hands and shoved it in his mouth. It was gone in two bites at best.

Ace wandered off after that, like a stray dog who’d gotten a couple scraps, leaving Paul alone at the dessert table. Paul didn’t really mind. He chatted with the roadies a bit, posed for a couple pictures beside the mangled cake for Lydia. He asked her if she planned on taking any group shots of the band, and almost started laughing at her shudder.

“Not with the way Peter looks. You can see the bra through his dress.”

“You can see his dick, too!” Ace piped up from a couple feet away. Lydia took a candid of Ace in retaliation, but he just snickered and hiked his skirt, managing a wobbly curtsy before the bulb flashed. Peter had to grab him to keep him from falling forward in the process. So much for thinking the man was still sober.

Paul wasn’t doing much thinking himself. Just watching everyone but him and Gene slowly get wasted. Terribly shy at his own fucking party, hanging around the refreshment table like a girl who’d gone stag to senior prom. The beer and frosting scrapings he’d had weren’t helping his nerves. It wasn’t tonight’s show that was worrying him—the shows never worried him. It wasn’t even his birthday getting to him. Like it could. Twenty-five was nowhere near the downhill slope. He felt great. He was great. He was living his dream. Sure, it’d fall apart eventually, but eventually was a dim speck that only a lonesome night could ever turn into more. As long as someone was with him, whether bandmates or bedmates, anything painful, anything meaningful, could be shifted over to the side like so much cake on his plate.

No, it was petty, what was on his mind now. Pure rockstar excess. It wasn’t that he was upset about the hotel accommodations or the refreshment table or even the way the stars on his outfit didn’t reflect the stage lights as much as he wanted. No, he was upset about losing the silver garter he wore onstage. The most meaningless portion of his costume, the one thing nobody else cared about, and he had the gall to be upset about it. He’d even had the gall to enlist all the roadies that were willing to help in the search earlier today—all they’d found, in any of the hotel rooms, was Ace and Peter’s marijuana stashes (immediately consumed), several condoms, new and used, and some frankly disturbing groupie photos even Gene hadn’t wanted for his album. Paul was half-convinced that Gene had somehow both accidentally and soberly fucked the abominable snowman.

But the garter hadn’t turned up, and he was still ruminating over it as if it were important. He couldn’t explain it. He didn’t know why, but he really—really dug it when people reached up from the front row and snapped that garter. Didn’t matter if it was girls or drunk guys. He tried not to think too hard about what it meant, if he really was half-queer or if he was just so fucking desperate for affection that he’d accept it from anyone, male or female. He wasn’t sure which was worse.

The most pathetic thing about losing the garter was that it didn’t matter at all. Not to anyone but him. He had a couple back-ups at the ready, in case someone snapped the garter off, but it bothered him. He’d rather wear the same garter during the whole tour. Good luck, or maybe just comfortable routine. Maybe because it was tangible evidence of want, like Gene’s Polaroid collection. Something that stuck around long after the night’s groupies were gone. God knew how many fingerprints were on the thing. How much sweat, too.

Whatever. He shook his head, grabbing a Coke this time. He’d enjoy the rest of the party; they’d finish up, then get ready for the concert, back-up garter on, and—

“Ground control to Major Stannnnnley.”

Ace again. No, not just Ace. Peter was there, too, snagging another bottle of beer. And Gene, too, had apparently torn himself away from macking on a roadie’s girlfriend to come on over. It was kind of odd, them all bunched together like they were waiting on something.

“Yeah?”

“We got three hours before the show.”

“I know.”

“Means they’re gonna make us wrap this up soon.”

“Yeah, I know—” Paul paused. That vague feeling of dread was starting to crop up, making his skin prickle. The roadies seemed like they were heading towards the table now, too, none too subtle about it. Aucoin wasn’t looking their way, but he was smiling. Fantastic. Something was about to happen. Probably the guys had all chipped in to get him some obscene gag gift, like a giant dildo or a custom blow-up doll. Paul looked past the gathering crowd, hoping to spot someone carrying a box—with any luck, he could cut them off at the pass—but there was nothing. He cleared his throat. “Hey, you guys sang ‘Happy Birthday’ for me twice already. So what gives?”

“We heard you lost your garter.”

Gene’s face was set in such an impossibly straight line that Paul knew he had to be seconds from cracking up entirely. Paul threw him a suspicious look before answering.

“Yeah? It’s fine. I’ve got some extras—”

“Nah, you don’t need them.”

“Don’t tell me. You bought me a new garter.” Paul rubbed his forehead. “You spent a whole two bucks on me at the lingerie store. I’m so impressed.”

“You think that thing costs two bucks, Paul?” Gene again, his brow furrowed. “It’s custom. There aren’t that many girls with thighs as big as yours.”

“Shut up, Gene.” He could feel his face heating up as he took another survey of the room, staring at everybody in turn, trying to make sure he looked more annoyed than flustered. All right, so it wasn’t in a box, and wasn’t in anybody’s hands. That just left—“Okay, who’s wearing it?”

“Don’t look at me—”

“Peter, c’mon.”

“I swear I don’t have your fucking garter.”

Paul crooked his finger toward him. Peter started laughing.

“I swear to God, Paulie!”

“Up.”

“Y’know, I usually do this to music…” Peter trailed before hiking up his skirt. Each inch exposed just how seriously he’d taken the drag suggestion, coarse leg hair a wince-inducing contrast to the beige maxi dress. Paul cleared his throat once the dress cleared his knees with no garter in sight, but Peter ignored him. He just kept raising that skirt until he got to the goods, the plain Hanes panties that were huge enough to hold his dick in place, though the elastic above it was drooping. The roadies started clapping and snickering, while Peter preened. “You want more and I’ve gotta charge. We got a rate set up yet, Lydia?”

“Keep this up and you might be free,” Lydia muttered.

“Baby—”

“Okay, next,” Paul snapped, looking at Gene. Gene just raised his hands.

“You already got a peek.”

“That was twenty minutes ago.”

“Oh, now, don’t be greedy about it,” Gene said, smooth and enviably cool, as he set down his bottle of Coke and peeled up the skirt of his dress, earning a few more whoops from the crowd. The pleased grin plastered on his face made Paul want to shake him. He stopped mostly-short of the thong he was wearing, Paul regretting the bare glimpse he did get of the damn thing. No garter. Great. So that left the roadies, none of whom were dressed in drag, Aucoin, who saved any residual classlessness for gay bars, and the guy he probably should have suspected first.

“Ace.”

“Paulie.”

Ace was helping himself to another slice of cake. He’d done his makeup, Paul noticed belatedly. Not the greasepaint; just lipstick and mascara, maybe a little blush. It wasn’t heavyhanded. Back when they’d first started, back when they’d all tried for the New York Dolls look, Ace had been the only one who’d pulled it off. He’d looked like Shirley Maclaine—not glamorous, but cute, really cute—while the rest of the band looked like quarterbacks who’d lost a bet. Paul had been so disgusted with his own shots in particular. He could all but feel his own awkwardness emanating through each picture. Knew he’d been trying too hard, him and Gene and Peter, too, while Ace hadn’t been trying at all.

Right now, Ace still looked passably feminine. More than passably. Especially with his hair long, the black dye all but washed out, and the choker hiding his Adam’s apple and the light pink sheen to his lips. It was pretty disturbing, and Ace was only making it worse by staring innocently at Paul, licking a bit of frosting off his lips, taking some of the lipstick with it.

“You’ve got the garter.”

“I don’t, man. I already showed you, too.”

“Show me again.”

Ace didn’t wipe off his mouth before obliging, humming the beginning riff to “Parasite” as he raised the hem of his dress. Carefully. Again. Too carefully. Inching it up like he was revealing the Venus DeMilo to a crowd of perverts. He was getting the exact same view he had before, a view of a smooth leg and just the hint of a blue pair of panties. Paul narrowed his eyes.

“I’m only seeing one leg here.”

“You want all three or what?”

“I want my garter back.”

Ace snickered.

“At your service, sweetheart. Only ’cause it’s your birthday.”

And then he yanked the skirt all the way up. There it was, the silver fabric shimmering just slightly in the dim light. On Ace’s left leg, the one he hadn’t exposed earlier. Up almost to his crotch, the exact position Paul normally had it on himself. Aucoin had told him once no girl would’ve worn it that high, but Paul hadn’t cared—

“You caught me.” Ace was grinning. “Shit, I thought you would’ve figured it out faster! You overthink things, Paulie, you really do—”

“Give it here.”

“Nah. How about you take it off?”

“Ace, don’t be an ass—”

 “Go on. Take it off.” Ace was still holding up the hem of his dress. Dangling it like a clothesline in the wind. “Make me feel pretty.”

 Paul glanced at Gene, half-hating himself for doing it. Gene wasn’t coming to his rescue, anyway, offering just a shrug of his shoulders and a “you heard him.” Peter had stepped closer in to get a better look. Fine. Fine. He wasn’t going to prolong this. Paul headed to Ace and leaned over, reaching for the garter. He hadn’t so much as curled his fingers over the silver elastic before Ace snatched his hand, raising it up.

“Not like that, Paulie. You gotta do it proper.”

“Proper,” Paul repeated dully. Ace blinked, then laughed, letting go of Paul’s hand.

“Ain’t you ever been to a wedding?”

“I went to yours?”

“Aw, fuck, no wonder.” Ace shook his head. “You got teeth, don’t you?”

“Yeah—”

Ace hiked his dress a little higher, exposing himself all the way up to his navel. Paul’s face went crimson.

“Get under there, Paul.”

He could feel all of them staring at him. His bandmates, the handful of roadies, Aucoin. Not even fifteen people there, but it was still like a concert without amps. Just about terrifying. Just about terrifying, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it but bitch or whine or—or get under there.

He sunk to his knees in front of Ace, and felt Ace drop the skirt over his head, where it fell almost to his waist. The thin material was no barrier at all to the sounds of Peter whooping and Gene chuckling. Paul breathed in heavily, feeling his face flush darker and darker. God. God.

He’d tug down the garter and be done with it. Ten seconds at worst.

 Ace’s dick, barely encased in those ruffled panties, wasn’t as unpleasant a counterpoint to the garter as it should’ve been. Distractingly big, even though he was soft right now. Wasn’t even the first time Paul had gotten this close to it. Ace and Peter fooled around all the time in the dressing room, finding it funny as hell to drape their dicks on Paul’s shoulders like a pair of fleshy epaulettes while he was trying to put on his makeup. They did it to Gene, too, only Gene threatened to bite them. Paul would just push them off.

He leaned forward, his nose bumping up against the jut of Ace’s hip on accident. Ace didn’t even move. Every breath was brushing right up against Ace’s skin as his teeth closed around the garter, started to slip it down, slowly, slowly, not wanting to tear the fabric. Halfway down his thigh now.

“Jesus, he’s taking forever.” Peter, grousing as usual.

“Nah, nah, he’s doing fine.” Paul could almost see the lazy smile spreading on Ace’s face. He twitched as Ace felt around, finding the top of his head and patting it through the dress as if he were a dog. “Just being careful, right?”

 Paul’s face felt like an inferno. The garter between his teeth was slightly damp with spit and barely above Ace’s knee. For all that the spandex and leather costumes showed them off, he hadn’t ever noticed just how long Ace’s legs were until now. His mouth was a quarter-inch at best from a thin, pale scar that spanned from Ace’s kneecap to mid-shin. Ace had blamed it on a spaceship crash, but Paul was pretty damn sure one of his car accidents was the real cause. It wasn’t a bad scar, wasn’t even particularly noticeable if he weren’t right up on it.

He didn’t mind. It was a relief to see some kind of blemish on Ace. Something to mar the casual, messy perfection of his playing and the uncomfortable mesh of a too-pretty face and crude mannerisms. Something that made him seem a little less untouchable. Drop him down from that pedestal he only ever reserved for people that were comfortable, that knew who they were, that didn’t ever seem to be anything but perfectly at ease even when they were flat on their backs on the stagefloor.

Paul took a quick inhale. Ace’s hand sunk down against his head again, fingers curling, pushing his hair back blindly through the cloth.

“Good girlie,” he said, out of nowhere. Paul heard Gene laugh somewhere behind him. “What? He is, Gene!”

“I think he likes it down there,” Peter said.

“Aw, ’m not gonna speak for Paul when he’s got his mouth full—"

He didn’t even think about it. Just a burst of awful inspiration, that was all, borne out of the need to shut Ace up, or get him nervy and embarrassed and fumbling the way he was. The way he always was. Awful inspiration that drove him to tug the garter between his teeth, stretching the elastic, and then let it go, watching it snap satisfyingly against Ace’s bare skin.

Ace’s knee twitched, his hand closing in a little tighter against his hair. But that was all. Paul knew that was all because he couldn’t hear anyone’s comments past the general din of the room itself. No one had said anything, so clearly, Ace hadn’t reacted. Still cool and casual as ever. Paul tried it again. No movement this time. Not even that unexpected shifting.

His arms, the lousy things, hanging stiffly by his sides, raised up. He heard an “uh-uh” from Ace, felt him back up just slightly when his hands closed over Ace’s smooth thigh instead of the garter beneath it. Paul’s heart rattled somewhere in his chest as he closed that last space between them and pressed his lips to Ace’s skin.

He felt it then. Ace starting to tilt forward, just a bit. Paul held his leg steady, breath hitching, expecting a curse he didn’t get.

“There you go, girlie… there you go…” If there was any teasing to Ace’s tone, Paul couldn’t hear it. Nothing but encouragement, encouragement that was sending awful spikes of warmth into Paul’s veins. He was trying to embarrass the hell out of him, and Ace was just eating it up. No way. Just no way. Paul’s breath hitched as he pressed another kiss to Ace’s thigh, and another, and another. Hoping for something. A wriggle, an awkward murmur. Something. Ace only coiled his fingers up against his hair through the fabric, up and down, smooth, gentle pets too approving to be believed.

 Paul shut his eyes, licking lightly against Ace’s skin, the faint taste of sweat on his tongue as his hands tightened around Ace’s leg. Finally, Ace was reacting again. Ace’s fingers were grasping at his head, not forcing, just tilting it up and over. Paul let him. He let him even as he realized Ace was turning his face directly towards the panties.

“Jesus, Paul, are you stuck? Should we put a canary under there?”

“He’s good! I told you, he’s just… just being real gentle…” Paul could hear the brief pauses between the words. Ace was testing him. Teasing him. Seeing if he’d go for it. Drawing this out until Paul hit his limit. Counting on Paul’s limit being way before his own, because it always had been. Because Paul would stop short where Ace would plow ahead. Because Paul was tied down to his own insecurities while Ace just didn’t give a damn. Because Paul would get ruffled at all sorts of shit that Ace would just let ride. It wasn’t going to be like that. Not tonight.

Paul’s teeth caught on the edge of Ace’s panties, right up against his hip. They were a lot thinner than the garter. Less resistance as he tugged them down by that single edge, leaving the panties lopsided, leaving Ace to deal with straightening them back out later. He managed to free Ace’s half-hard cock with just his mouth, murmuring against it, offering tentative licks that only got more determined as his hands moved from Ace’s leg to grasp at his hips, clutching them. He’d never done this before. Didn’t have the luxury of being drunk to cover up this insanity. Didn’t have the luxury of being alone with him, either, the crowd a presence the skirt didn’t cover up in the slightest from his senses. But he didn’t care as Ace’s hips bucked slightly against his fingers and his lips curled around his teeth like he’d seen a dozen girls do just this month alone. Paul’s mouth slid open easily, engulfing Ace’s cock inch by inch, spit laving the veiny surface. He heard a sharp inhale of breath, felt one of Ace’s legs start to wobble as he hissed.

“F-fuck, Paulie…” And then Ace’s grip tightened again, tugging him firmly away. Paul mumbled around his cock before letting it go, pressing one more teasing kiss against Ace’s thigh. Ace guided him insistently back towards the garter, Paul obliging, pulling it past his knee, down to his shin before unclasping it with his hands. Ace didn’t let go of his head until the garter was undone and back in his mouth, raising the skirt so Paul could crawl back out to the sound of applause from the guys.

He hadn’t expected Ace’s hand there to pull him up to his feet. Hadn’t expected Ace to be smiling through his hard-on just like he was onstage. But he was.

“Nice work, girlie.” Ace tugged lazily at the garter still in Paul’s mouth. Paul let him have it, against his own better judgment, but Ace only kissed the garter and handed it back, then turned to the group, holding up his arm like he was presenting the new heavyweight champion. “All right! All right, give ’im another hand, yeah!”

They did. Paul looked from one amused, drunken face to the next and couldn’t even feel himself flush. Mr. Sobriety was gulping down the rest of his Coke and shaking his head. Grinning. One of the other roadies came in a bit after, talking about the setup, the stage, and Uriah Heep’s supply of dope, and they all started to filter out. Somebody took what was left of the cake with them, probably bringing it back to the hotel. Paul hung back at first, watching the guys clean up before heading towards the door himself—now that he had the garter back, he might as well go to the dressing room and start getting ready—when Ace draped an arm over his shoulder from behind.

“Hey,” he said. “Hey, Paul.”

“Yeah?”

“You left me hanging, man.” Without even turning to face him, Paul could almost see Ace’s lazy smile. One more step and Paul could feel his hard-on through the dress, brushing against his thigh. Ace hadn’t had the shame to adjust his panties after. “Surprised me, y’know? Thought sure you’d flip out—”

“It’s not—I was only—” Goddamnit. He was actually confronting him about it. Paul forced himself to look Ace in the eyes, feeling his cheeks go warm again as he tried to explain. “I mean, I wanted to—”

“You wanted to?”

“No! It’s just—”  

“S’okay, Paulie. I wanted you to, too.” Ace laughed. “But fuck, man, you gotta make sure everybody’s a little more wasted before you suck a guy off in front of the whole damn crew.”

 “I wasn’t going to,” Paul started, feebly, watching Ace’s hand slide down from his shoulder to cup one tissue-stuffed breast. Squeeze it. Paul was pretty sure he couldn’t feel anything past the padding, but the sharp jolt of want singeing through his insides proved him wrong. “I just wanted to see you squirm.”

“Can’t see anything with that dress on over you.” Ace cackled. “But we got time now, if you really want a good look.”

“Ace—”

“Hell, I’ll return the favor. It’s your birthday, you’ve been a pretty good girl… ain’t knocked up too many chicks this year—”

“It’s January.”

“Exactly. What do you say, Paulie?”

Paul swallowed. His fingers found Ace’s hand, the one still cupping his chest. Tightened around it like he was about to yank Ace’s hand away. He could almost swear he still tasted Ace’s cock in his mouth, the heaviness of him. The way it had all felt for those few minutes, the way everything had stopped mattering except the feel of Ace’s hand on his head and his approving words. Girlie, he’d kept calling him girlie and he should’ve punched him in the nuts for it, concert or no, but he’d liked it, he’d liked it as much as he’d liked every little breathy hitch and every press of skin on skin, the feel of the lacy fabric against his tongue and teeth. Depraved and vulgar and exactly what he wanted.

He raised Ace’s hand up to his lips and started to suck on his forefinger, tongue sliding all the way down to his wedding ring, swiping away the faint traces of cake crumbs and frosting still there. Behind him, Ace stiffened slightly, and Paul glanced back, only to see those dark eyes all dilated, all amused, only to hear three more words.

“All right. C’mon.”

It wasn’t five minutes before Ace had Paul barricading both doors with a couple of tables turned sideways, and it wasn’t six before Ace’s hands were all over Paul, back to playing with his chest at first, then sliding down, squeezing his ass through the dress. Paul grunted—stupidly, he’d expected Ace would just want his hard-on taken care of, and not want any other touching—but he did. That was all right. Paul tilted his head to the side, leaning in to try to kiss Ace’s neck, what little the choker didn’t cover up, but Ace caught him first, lips pushing against his with an urgency he’d never expected. Ace’s lipstick was smearing all over his mouth with each wet kiss, claiming him better than any groupie, leaving him panting as their hips collided, barely able to think past his own insane need.

By the time he dropped to his knees, they were already starting to buckle, the thin stiletto heels somehow seeming like a pair of impossibilities he’d strapped on. He was surprised when Ace sank down to the floor, too, grabbing his arms and tugging Paul on top of him.

It was jarring, looking down at Ace like that. Could’ve almost been convinced he was a chick if his groans and hard-on didn’t give him away. It threw him off, but he dug it, somehow. There was a filthy pleasure there. He was into it, getting into it, cupping Ace’s smooth jaw and touching his lips to Ace’s ear like he was about to whisper something sweet, the way he used to with groupies before they just came with the room. The way he used to with girlfriends before even that term lost its meaning. Kissing him hard, muffling Ace’s grunts with his mouth.

Beneath him, Ace’s hips rocked insistently against his, the thin fabric of the dresses making the friction twice as satisfying, no comparison to the harsh rub of jeans or slacks against each other. Paul wasn’t sure if the spreading wetness against the fabric was his precum or Ace’s or both, and he didn’t care. Ace’s hand grazed Paul’s cheek before sliding back into his mussed curls, tugging through the tangles, the motion too tender to match the needy rutting, whispering against his neck—

“Get down there, Paulie.”

Paul did. He hiked Ace’s dress up before settling between his thighs. He tugged the panties down to his knees, planning to stop there, but a grunt from Ace made him slide them off all the way, the lacy fabric catching briefly on one of Ace’s heels.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ace mumbled, so Paul tossed the panties aside to the floor. From there it was easy enough. Less intimidating now to be anchoring his hands to Ace’s bony hips, to be leaning down, breathing hard through his nose as he started to lap against the full length of Ace’s cock. Almost no teasing—Paul didn’t know how. The chicks were always so overcome by just having him that they never dared.

He got as much of Ace’s dick in his mouth as he could before he started to suck in earnest. Ace’s hand found his head again, no more casual petting but grasps and tugs, urging Paul to start bobbing his head up and down his cock. Paul let him take the lead, trying hard to hum around the throatful, vaguely impressed he hadn’t yet choked. No letting Ace know he hadn’t done this before. No letting him know, but Paul guessed he might’ve known anyway, from the way he kept his hips fairly steady on the floor, the way he never outright yanked Paul by the hair to try and get him to fuck his mouth. Only toward the end did Ace start to get unraveled, really unraveled, grunting, whole body starting to tense and twitch, rejecting the pace he’d set. Paul drank in every response, every curse. Started fondling his balls as he laved attention on his dick, watching the look in Ace’s eyes get more heady and distant and too-close all at once. It sent a thrill through Paul that made his cock ache all the more, watching and feeling him tense up, building toward orgasm, almost there, he knew it, almost—

“Fuck, Paulie. Fuck, girlie, you got it, you got it…” Ace trailed, grip tightening on Paul’s curls. Paul watched Ace’s eyes slide shut, mouth slipping open into a low moan. “Been so good… I’m gonna, I’m gonna,” he warned, seconds before orgasm hit, leaving Paul still hopelessly unprepared. Half his come ended up splattered on Paul’s face. The rest he’d swallowed on accident, barely registering the taste on his tongue.

He raised his head up, almost dazed, lifting his sleeve towards his face. Ace sat up and grabbed it before he could start to wipe himself off, a slow smile easing itself across his face.

“Uh-uh. ’M not gonna let you mess up your birthday dress like that.”

“What, you don’t have a towel—”

“Don’t need one.” Ace’s dress rustled as he shifted to his knees, thighs splayed. He leaned in, resting his hands on Paul’s shoulders. Paul didn’t have time to question him before Ace’s tongue was tracing over the come on his face, licking it up without so much as a shudder. Each lap against his cheeks and nose and forehead tingled, making Paul want to squirm, but he didn’t, Ace pressing into him as he finished up, one hand diving beneath his bra, slipping past the tissues to squeeze each breast in turn.

“You got hard for me, girlie,” Ace said, then laughed. “Well, obviously, but…” and he twisted Paul’s nipple between his thumb and forefinger, chuckling as Paul took a sharp gasp for breath, “right here. ’S nice, ’s real nice… now why don’t you lay back down for me, there, yeah… sweet girlie, good girlie…”

Ace followed him down, dragging a few lazy kisses down the side of Paul’s damp face as he spoke. Paul’s hands were on the hem of his own dress before Ace could get there, tugging it up while Ace was still on top of him. Ace’s eyes glinted in sheer amusement at that, and for a second, Paul faltered, still holding onto the dress, sure that Ace was about to tease or try and deny him or something agonizing like that, but he only grinned.

“I’m getting there! C’mon, have a little faith, yeah?” But he was scooting down, the soft slide of dress against dress nothing short of sinful. He flipped up Paul’s dress the rest of the way, all the way up to just below the bra, exposing his plain black boxers, the fabric straining to hold his erection in place. “Oh, Paulie, that’s not very ladylike…”

“I wasn’t gonna strangle my dick for my own party.”

“Next time, then.” Ace yanked Paul’s boxers all the way down, tossing them aside, nudging Paul’s legs apart with his knee as if he needed to. Paul watched him sink down, watched him kiss and lick at the insides of his thighs, running his fingers against the soft flesh. His heart was racing far before Ace’s mouth met his dick, started to swallow him up, taking him on easily, eagerly. Ace’s hands were roving over his skin, dragging across his thighs and hips and rubbing against his hairy torso. It was bizarre just watching his own chest rise and fall, the contrast between it and the soft fabric and his bare, smooth legs jarring, as jarring as watching Ace work his cock while his dress fanned out underneath him. One of Ace’s legs was up, bent lazily, the strappy leather heel catching the dim fluorescent light—ankle twitching just a little as Ace’s head bobbed up and down his dick, flecks of spit there at the corners of his mouth.

Paul was crying out before long, wordlessly at first, then curses, then, finally, Ace’s name in a loud, ragged plea. Closer. Closer. No holding out, but he wanted something to latch onto, something in all this unreality, all this confusion. His hands clasped at Ace, touching his hair before finding his shoulders instead, rubbing and then clinging against them, nowhere near in time to Ace’s mouth or even his own twitching thrusts inside it. Not enough touch. Not enough to ground him. Paul grunted, shifted beneath Ace, hooking his ankle around Ace’s own, the one on the floor. Ace didn’t move, but Paul could’ve sworn his expression changed, softened, just for a second before Paul’s own vision whirled into a miasma in front of him and he screamed out his own orgasm with one last shudder.

Ace swallowed it all down. Paul just lay there for a few seconds, before letting go of Ace’s shoulders, unlocking his ankle from Ace’s. It almost felt like too much trouble to sit up, but he did, slowly, raising himself up on his forearms, dress starting to shift back down from the movement. Ace tugged it the rest of the way, and then Paul stumbled to his feet, wobbling slightly, breathing nowhere near normal yet.

“Ace,” he said. Ace looked up at him. Paul reached out his hand, tugging Ace up the way he’d done a dozen times or more, on and offstage. The makeup was gone now, swept away by kisses and sweat, the illusion starting to falter. But right now, that didn’t matter. Right now, that didn’t matter a bit. “Thanks, Ace.”

Paul didn’t know how to word it. If to word it. If to dare give voice to all kinds of weird, troublesome shit, and instead, he’d kept holding Ace’s hand. Longer than he should’ve. Squeezing it, even, feeling stupider every moment he did. He could imagine the look on his face right now, sated but wanting, desperately wanting, like that last idiot groupie in the Coop, nothing like the look Ace was giving him back. Couldn’t be. Just couldn’t.

He dropped his hold on Ace’s hand. Ace just smiled and took it again, palm hot against his own.

“Thanks for what, girlie?”

“For… for getting me off.”

“Hey. If you’re good, you get off every time.” Ace lifted Paul’s hand to his mouth, pressed a quick kiss to his wrist. Paul thought he might wink at him, or bow, or make some exaggerated curtsy, but he didn’t. Just let go of his hand. Just leaned in one last time to steal another kiss and another grope. Just that, and that was everything. “Happy birthday, Paulie.”

#kiss the band #kiss fanfiction #ace frehley #paul stanley #ace frehleyxpaulstanley #gene simmons #peter criss

[dippedanddripped]

One afternoon in 1999, when the designer Shayne Oliver was in the sixth grade, he came across a magazine ad for Dirty Denim, a line of “pre-soiled” jeans by Diesel. The ad featured a collage of faux paparazzi photographs documenting the meltdown of a fictional rock star. Oliver was struck by the campaign’s tagline: “The Luxury of Dirt.” “That blew my mind,” he told me recently. “Spending money on something that looks dirty? I was, like, ‘This is genius.’ ” He informed his mother, a schoolteacher from Trinidad named Anne-Marie, that he needed a pair immediately.

Oliver’s father had abandoned Anne-Marie before Shayne was born, and she had struggled to raise him on her own. They lived in a tiny apartment on Halsey Street, in Bedford-Stuyvesant. Oliver, who attended some rough schools—he witnessed knife fights in the halls—was highly intelligent, and Anne-Marie was determined to nurture his gifts. She stood up to people on the street who heckled him because he was effeminate, and fought with school officials who wrote him off as a rowdy black kid. She didn’t have the money for the jeans, which cost three hundred and seventy-five dollars, but she respected Shayne’s sense of urgency. “How are we going to afford Diesel clothes?” she asked herself. She soon began working evenings at the Diesel store at the corner of Sixtieth and Lexington. She got an employee discount, and her kid got his jeans.

Oliver began accompanying Anne-Marie on her shifts at Diesel, folding shirts, examining seams, and offering customers unsolicited style advice. Although his suggestions were impeccable, after a few weeks the management told him to stay home, noting that it was illegal for twelve-year-olds to work in retail. Undaunted, Oliver walked a few blocks to a Roberto Cavalli store. Employees there were so charmed that they offered him an unpaid internship. He didn’t take it, but he continued to visit the store—and pester the staff. “I would just be in the shop, hanging out all the time and talking shit,” he recalls. “It was fun.”

Oliver was a recent arrival in New York. He was born in 1987 in Minnesota, where Anne-Marie had immigrated to pursue a teaching degree, and he had spent his childhood shuttling among female relatives in St. Paul, St. Croix, and Trinidad, before settling with his mother in Brooklyn, in 1998. In St. Croix, at the age of five, he had begun making his own fashions out of scraps of fabric scavenged from his grandmother, a dressmaker. After moving to the United States, he started cutting up items in Anne-Marie’s wardrobe. In an effort to discourage this practice, she took him on regular trips to Jo-Ann Fabrics. He kept looting her closet.

When Anne-Marie rode the subway with Oliver, she noticed him staring at men who were wearing streetwear brands like Mecca and FUBU. “Why are you looking at all of these guys?” Anne-Marie asked him. “You’re all up in their Kool-Aid!” Oliver protested that he was inspecting them for their clothes, which was only half a lie. He began cutting up his jeans and ripping out the crotch, which made him a target at the Pentecostal church that he and his mother attended. “I was being expressive!” he recalls, adding that other parishioners expressed themselves by speaking in tongues. At thirteen, he quit the church.

That year, Anne-Marie sent Oliver to a public school in Long Island City which focusses on the arts. For weeks, he came to class wearing a head scarf, and was often mistaken for a Muslim girl. (“I should’ve played that up a little bit,” Oliver told me. “Muslim girls get a lot of attention.”) Shortly after he enrolled, Anne-Marie rented for him a videocassette of “Paris Is Burning,” the 1990 documentary about voguing competitions in New York. A year later, he became a member of the House of Ninja, one of the groups featured in the film. “The Ninja people were all offbeat and not glamour kids,” he recalls. They encouraged him to explore various looks, and in competitions, he said, he “swayed between ‘vogue femme’ and ‘runway.’ ”

As a teen-ager, Oliver began applying his ingenuity to his hair: “There was one point where I was mixing textures—it was, like, a mullet of dreads and then permed on the sides. I’m sorry, that hairstyle was so nasty! It was ridiculous. It was so good.” He went out most nights, commuting between the largely white electroclash scene centered on Club Luxx, in Williamsburg, and the mostly black and Latino scene on Christopher Street, where he liked to “smoke, go to the pier, and then vogue.”

Before entering the tenth grade, he transferred to Harvey Milk, the country’s first high school for L.G.B.T. youths. Many of the students there wore three outfits a day: one for their neighborhood, one for school, and one for going out. It could be dangerous to wear the wrong thing in the wrong place, so kids kept outré clothes in their backpacks and changed on the subway platform. Oliver, though, prided himself on assembling outfits that worked in all three environments: butch enough for Bed-Stuy, smart enough for school, glam enough for the club. He devised subtle, colorless ensembles, the drape and shape of which sent coded messages to the educated eye. “If you have on all-black, you can go unnoticed on the block,” Oliver explained. “Then you go intothe city, and someone who’s thinking about clothing in a different way notices all the cuts and layering.” Styling choices helped him adapt his look to different contexts. Oliver liked wearing tight poom-poom shorts, but on his way to school he pulled them low, so that they sagged “in a masculine way.”

At Harvey Milk, Oliver made friends with another boy who was obsessed with fashion, James Garland. Each was an only child, raised by an indulgent single mother who had given her son the master bedroom. They recorded television broadcasts of runway shows and pored over the designs. Garland liked the debonair luxury of Tom Ford; Oliver preferred the forbidding moodiness of Rick Owens. Before long, the boys began making clothes, conducting photo shoots in Fort Greene Park, and staging runway shows at school. They generated new pieces through collage, stitching together items from vintage shops, children’s jackets from thrift stores, and treasures from their mothers’ closets.

After creating their first line of T-shirts, named Ammo, and their first collection, Cazzy Calore, Garland and Oliver graduated from Harvey Milk and enrolled at the Fashion Institute of Technology. Garland flourished there, but Oliver chafed against the curricular constraints and dropped out in his freshman year. In 2006, he diverted the tuition money that Anne-Marie had saved for him, and launched a fashion line with his friend Raul López, who also hung out on Christopher Street. Oliver called the new line Hood By Air. The phrase suggested a style that was proudly ghetto and proudly élite (“putting on airs”). Within a few years, the label had become the most prominent high-fashion brand to have emerged authentically from street culture.

Oliver’s original mission with the label was to bring to fine menswear what he calls the “thug silhouette”: the shape created by a long T-shirt paired with saggy pants, as if the wearer had a very long torso and very short legs. He also believed that he could turn streetwear basics such as oversized hoodies and multipocketed jackets into high-concept luxury items.

By 2007, Hood By Air clothes had begun showing up in boutiques in downtown Manhattan. The collections cannily combined the audacious (trousers with a dozen pleats) and the accessible (silk-screened T-shirts). The first Hood By Air T-shirts featured bold graphics and slogans like “Back to the Hood.” Oliver and López had the shirts custom-made by Dominican tailors, and they were expensive: two hundred dollars apiece. From the start, they sold well.

In the aughts, Manhattan boutiques were awash in designer hoodies (many of them by Jeremy Scott and Raf Simons). Oliver judged their stitch too fine, their length too short, their colors too bright, their patterns too busy. He felt that designers who appropriated streetwear had a fascination with urban men but were also afraid of them—he considered their skittish engagement to be “peckish,” “gross,” and “disconnected from the real masculinity” driving street culture. He told me, “It’s, like, ‘I think that guy is really hot, but I don’t know how to approach him, so I’m going to put elements of myself in him.’ There’s a power play where you’re inspired by something but you don’t want to give it credit.” Turned off by these “fey” imitations of streetwear, Oliver made clothes that were aggressively harsh and masculine. The graphics on his T-shirts often played with urban-horror imagery: a panorama of a prison yard, red marks evoking blood spattered by gunfire. At the same time, instead of hinting at homoeroticism, he foregrounded it. The first Hood By Air editorial video, uploaded to YouTube in September, 2007, featured a model repeatedly grabbing his crotch.

Oliver also embarked on a conceptual exploration that he calls “formalizing sloppiness”—highlighting the transitional phases between dressed and undressed. “It’s like when someone is horny and in a T-shirt, and it’s dropping off the shoulder,” Oliver explained. He liked conjuring those alluringly awkward moments when an amorous couple still has a few items of clothing on: “The idea of that being so open and so vulnerable—it’s, like, ‘Where’s my pants? Where’s my underwear?’ ”

By the end of 2009, López and Oliver had put Hood By Air on hiatus. López founded his own clothing line, and Oliver focussed on hosting a new dance party called GHE20G0TH1K (Ghetto Gothic). Held in various spaces in Brooklyn and lower Manhattan, the gatherings united disparate musical tribes—urban, goth, queer, punk. Oliver ran GHE20G0TH1K with his friends Jazmin Soto (a pansexual Latina) and Daniel Fisher (a straight white Jew). Soto was in charge, but Oliver sometimes took a turn as d.j., and he favored a dark sound. “At the time, no one was playing Marilyn Manson, and I was playing records that resonated that way—the idea of, like, fear of the world,” he recalls. “I was prying into my past—all my history of being provoked.” Many of the party’s charismatic attendees wore Hood By Air T-shirts. Interest in the brand was so strong that Oliver decided to relaunch it.

This time, he had crucial help from Leilah Weinraub, a filmmaker who was working on a documentary about a lesbian strip club in South Central Los Angeles. (The film, which she plans to release in 2017, comes off as a female-focussed update of “Paris Is Burning.”) Weinraub, who was Soto’s girlfriend at the time, began doing projects with Oliver, and one day they shot a look book for the designer Telfar, a mutual friend. Oliver was among the people cast, and Weinraub was unafraid of challenging him. She recalls, “He was wearing the wrong piece—a shawl—and he refused to be styled. He said, ‘Style me like a lady’—he had on this I’m-a-demure-woman voice. I asked, ‘Can you stand a little more like a man?’ The room stopped.”

In 2012, Oliver asked Weinraub to work alongside him on the relaunch of Hood By Air. (The partnership with López was completely dissolved.) She said yes. Weinraub, who is eight years older than Oliver, told me that she felt protective of Hood By Air. “It was at the point where other people started seeing it as a success,” she said. “And at that point people start to rob you—blind. They start to trick you.” She was wary of mainstream cultural figures looking for a quick way to acquire edge—of invitations to, say, “work on Katy Perry’s team.” Shortly after Weinraub became Oliver’s partner, investors offered to buy Hood By Air and put Oliver and Weinraub on fixed salaries. She was appalled. “This isn’t fucking Motown!” she said. Hood By Air, she declared, would remain closed to outside investors while it was in its “incubation period.” (To date, the company hasn’t accepted any outside investments—an arrangement that is virtually unheard of in the fashion industry.)

In order for Hood By Air to maintain control of its intellectual property, Weinraub believed, it had to grow quickly and attract media attention. Otherwise, the company’s designs would be pirated by bigger labels, which treated avant-garde street culture as a resource to be plundered. In a 2013 article in the Times, Guy Trebay suggested that Riccardo Tisci, the creative director of Givenchy, had referenced Hood By Air designs “without crediting them.” (A spokesperson for Givenchy said, “Hood By Air has never been a reference for our brand.”)

Around the time that Weinraub joined Hood By Air, it presented a runway show at Milk Studios, on Fifteenth Street. One of the models cast for the show was the rapper A$AP Rocky, a friend of Oliver’s at the time. Rocky’s participation helped the brand reach a wider audience, affording it a measure of protection against fashion-world vultures. Rocky also boosted Hood By Air’s reputation by incorporating endorsements of the label into his lyrics. His devotion eventually cooled, though, and in 2014 he released a diss track that included criticisms of the brand. He gloated to a reporter, “I birthed it, so I can kill it.” But Rocky was too late. Hood By Air had established a cult following among affluent teen-agers, avant-garde adults, and pop stars like Rihanna, Justin Bieber, and Kanye West. The label was critically acclaimed, too, winning the Swarovski Award for Menswear, from the Council of Fashion Designers of America, and a six-figure prize from L.V.M.H. Although Hood By Air remained rigorously experimental, it also became profitable, as fans lined up to buy T-shirts with the H.B.A. logo, which cost as much as six hundred dollars each. According to Hood By Air, its sales have doubled every season since 2013. The brand’s reach remains unimpressive by Gucci standards, but business has been good enough to give Oliver “the ability to do whatever the hell I want” in the studio. (He still shares an apartment with his mother, in Prospect Heights.)

Last September, I visited a cramped office that Hood By Air was renting on Hester Street, on the Lower East Side. The space, crowded with garment racks, could have been mistaken for a costume shop, were it not for the giant poster boards propped against the walls, which were covered in mini-Polaroids of harsh, alluring faces. Attached to each photograph was a Post-it scrawled with a concept: “spanish hustlers,” “obscure fetish.”

A dozen men and women, including Leilah Weinraub, sat in a circle, with only one subtle sign of hierarchy: Oliver was the only person not taking notes. Since 2012, Hood By Air had grown into a small collective, and its members were meeting to finalize plans for the Spring/Summer 2016 runway show. They had been joined by an outsider, Rich Aybar, a freelance stylist. Born on the Upper West Side to Dominican parents, he looked like a cross between a Rastafarian and Rasputin.

Oliver was dressed in jeans, a black vest, and a Hood By Air necklace—a chunky chain and a padlock—that he never removes. “Ooooooh!” he said. He had just received a text. “Connie just got confirmed for the door.” He was referring to Connie Girl, a doorwoman who was famous for being impossible to get past and impossible to book. “Taste that,” he said. “Ta-a-a-aste.”

“What’s the lighting like at the space?” Akeem Smith, Hood By Air’s chief stylist, asked. His hair was in small braids gathered into pigtails, and he wore a T-shirt bearing the words “The Black Genius.”

“Bright,” Weinraub replied. “White-blue.”

“Clinical,” Oliver said, approvingly. The show was being held at Penn Plaza Pavilion, a cavernous, fluorescent-lit building, opposite Madison Square Garden, that was slated for demolition. Hood By Air shows are traditionally held in unglamorous spaces.

Several people got up to leave, and a smaller group began discussing the casting of models. Each season, labels compete to book them, and Cathy Horyn, a critic at large at New York, told me that Hood By Air had some of “the best casting of the season, and I mean anywhere.” The brand is known for “streetcasting”—enlisting people who aren’t professional models.

The group stood and went over to a casting board, which was crammed with photographs of prospects. “We have to edit,” Oliver declared, inspecting the images. “We have to be really hard right now.”

“I think your story up there is really strong,” Aybar said. “It’s, like, Undernourished Retards—in a beautiful way.” He liked the “living-under-the-bridge vibe.” Then Aybar started ripping photos off the board. One boy, a Ryan Lochte type, was deemed “too dopey—a white guy in the most boring way.” Oliver asked that another male model be removed for having a swishy walk that struck him as off-brand. “It’s gay-y-y-y-y,” he said. After thirty minutes, a dozen pictures had been taken off the board.

The designing of clothes follows a similar group dynamic. Paul Cupo, the brand’s fashion director, told me, “The top concept is Shayne’s concept, and there’s a very select group of people that are allowed to contribute to this concept. Shayne then comes up with some shapes and silhouettes he wants to show, and then I plug in fabrics and colors.”

Cupo, an Italian-American from Bensonhurst who favors loose tank tops and sneakers, showed me a creation for the upcoming show. “The basic idea is a bomber,” he said. Instead of using nylon for the shell, however, he had used taffeta—a material often fashioned into ball gowns and wedding dresses. It was a surprising choice, he acknowledged with a smile: “It’s sort of a weird fabric for ‘young edgy cool designers’ to be using.” A Hood By Air bomber jacket sells for nearly a thousand dollars.

few days later, at Penn Plaza Pavilion, Hood By Air sent a male model down the runway in a tight bun, a shirtdress, and black heels. The shirtdress, made with black silk, was divided into sections, which had been loosely lashed together with chainlike zippers. The bottom had a feminine band of ruffles, as one might find on a dress worn by Michelle Obama to a state dinner. The middle was a wraparound panel of fabric that, from a distance, resembled high-waisted athletic shorts. The top was a button-down shirt with a crisp collar and oversized chiffon sleeves. Like a chimera, the shirtdress was incongruous but beautiful.

The model, who had been spotted on Instagram, was a twenty-seven-year-old from West Harlem named Mello Santos. He had a thin mustache and a goatee, and as he walked down the runway he allowed the zippers holding the outfit together to start coming undone. Dark silk was peeling off his torso like a rotten-banana peel, and the garment threatened to self-destruct at any moment, revealing Santos’s many tattoos (and parts of his anatomy). From some angles, Santos looked like a cross-dressing gangster; from others, like a futuristic pop star.

Subsequent models showed off equally mongrel creations: bomber jackets recut into togas, backpacks made from tufted sofa pillows. Some models looked like bullies, others like prey. A recording of the Jamaican dancehall performer Buju Banton roared over glitchy speakers. “Circumstances made me what I am,” he sang. “Was I born a violent man?” For the finale, each model took a seat on a raised platform, as if posing for a class picture. Together, they looked scary but sexy, butch yet femme.

The collection was called Galvanize, and the idea for the runway show was to evoke the ramshackle school that Oliver briefly attended as a youth in Trinidad. To galvanize is to electrify—to shock and inspire. But it also means to coat scrap metal with a layer of zinc; it’s the poor man’s version of gilding. Galvanized steel is a common roofing material in Trinidad, and the show’s name suggested a duality about growing up in the West Indies: Oliver claimed that the education he received at the school was exceptional—“college-level English in fourth grade,” he said—but the building was decrepit. This duality extended to the students’ clothing. Oliver and his classmates modified tattered, hand-me-down uniforms so that they became fashionable looks. The Galvanize collection—manufactured in Italy from sumptuous materials but with roots in a Caribbean schoolyard—was gilded streetwear whose aim was to electrify the audience and inspire a new generation to carry the countercultural torch.

The show impressed many critics. Sally Singer, the creative digital director of Vogue, told me that Hood By Air had presented one of the season’s top collections. Cathy Horyn, the New York critic, who was seeing a Hood By Air show for the first time, wrote that the clothes represented a “shock from the future” and a “fist in your face.” She told me that Hood By Air’s startling designs were welcome mutations in an era in which high fashion is controlled by bland international conglomerates.

Several critics described the clothes in the Galvanize collection as “deconstructed.” Deconstruction—whether of a novel, a soufflé, or a shirt—means breaking down a concept into its constituent parts, often with an eye toward destabilizing our vision of the whole. In fashion, it’s traditionally associated with accentuating raw edges and functional elements like seams. Hood By Air’s collection, however, riffed on the modifications that wearersmake to those designs—details like slashing, cropping, and sagging, which typically define a look only after professionals have finished their work.

Galvanize was an homage to the expanding cohort of shoppers who use clothing to revise standard images of race and gender. (Weinraub calls such consumers “modern people.”) In blunt terms, a rich white woman can wear a Hood By Air garment and feel modern because it makes her look like a poor black man; a poor black man can wear it and feel modern because it makes him look like a rich white woman. Whereas other labels had merely broken down design, Hood By Air was breaking down identity.

A classic deconstructionist turns garments into sculptures and models into scaffolding; Martin Margiela often covered his models’ faces. In the show for the Galvanize collection, the models’ faces—adorned with splotchy, wraith-like makeup—were key visual elements. The splotches paid homage to YouTube makeup-contouring tutorials, evoking the moment just before blending tools transform a painted monster into a Kardashian.

Despite the show’s triumphant reception, it did not unfold without flaws. There was a monumental error in the execution of the choreography: the models failed to crisscross, as directed, along the venue’s multiple catwalks, with the result that much of the audience saw only half the collection. It was a mistake that might have sent a tyrant like Coco Chanel or Alexander McQueen into a rage. Oliver, though, was unfazed. After the show, he appeared briefly at a bar on the Lower East Side, and spent only fifteen seconds conferring with Weinraub about the mistake before moving on to a more vexing problem: someone had given Oliver’s mother the address of a rented penthouse where the Galvanize collection had been put together, and where a post-show gathering would be held. (The Hester Street office was too small to accommodate dozens of models.) Anne-Marie had just arrived at the penthouse with pink hair and an entourage of younger Afro-Caribbean women. Oliver was forlorn. “This is exactly the moment I want to turn up!” he moaned, rubbing his cherubic head, which was shaved, and clutching at a floor-length sweater-dress of his own design. “Now my mother is there with her friends!”

I happened to know the identity of the culprit who had supplied Anne-Marie with the party’s address. It was Weinraub, who enjoys seeing Anne-Marie at every runway show. Her own parents have never come to one.

In late March, items from the Galvanize collection began to arrive in stores. Barneys New York installed life-size silicon replicas of six Hood By Air models in its four windows on Madison Avenue. Two of the models were Hood By Air regulars named Chucky and Sunny—Angelenos whose bodies (and faces) are covered in tattoos. In the window, the fake Sunny wore a pleated pant-dress, and his mouth was held open by a guard typically used in dental surgery. Chucky wore a padlocked baby pacifier and a purple leather shroud that might look good on a Jedi. It was the first time that the windows had featured mannequins in menswear. When I stopped by to see the display, in April, crowds of tourists, joined by local one-per-centers, had gathered to gawk. Many observers reacted with baffled revulsion. Inside the store, meanwhile, none of the radical clothes worn by the mannequins were for sale. The Hood By Air racks were instead filled with logo tees. The runway pieces may have blown fashion critics’ minds, but it was the T-shirts that had changed the way people dressed.

Leilah Weinraub studied film as a graduate student at Bard. Before joining Hood By Air, she had no experience in business. Her official title is C.E.O., but she told me that the designation is “fictional.” She recoils at any suggestion that she is Oliver’s Pierre Bergé—the commanding executive who helped Yves Saint Laurent become an international brand. She took the title of C.E.O. in part so that she would be taken as seriously as a man would be: “If I were just Shayne’s friend, and a woman, and me, people would just be, like, ‘O.K., bitch, get the fuck out of the way.’ ”

As Hood By Air has expanded into a collective, she explained, everyone with authority is essentially a creative director—even if, like her, they don’t literally design clothes. The early phases of the label’s design process take place in group texts that unfurl over weeks. For the Galvanize collection, eight employees contributed to what she calls a “running personal diary.” In addition, the label has an iCloud folder for sharing found images—Hood By Air’s equivalent of a mood board. Weinraub wouldn’t let me examine the entire folder for the collection, but she sent me a selection of the materials. There were photographs of Ike and Tina Turner, a jpeg of Aunt Viv, from “The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air,” and a picture of a Chinese acupuncturist who stuck two thousand and eight needles in his head, in honor of the 2008 Summer Olympics. “It’s memes,” Paul Cupo, the fashion director, explained to me. “It’s never really literal—you’ll never see a jacket on our reference board.” In 2015, when Women’s Wear Dailyasked Hood By Air for an “inspiration photo,” the label sent back a screenshot of porn.

Weinraub is one of only a few lesbians in high fashion. (Others include Patricia Field and J. Crew’s Jenna Lyons.) She grew up in the Koreatown section of Los Angeles, the daughter of an African-American textile designer from Compton and a Jewish pediatrician from Fort Wayne, Indiana. She is small with squinty eyes, broad shoulders, and an almond-shaped face. The skin around her eyes is darker in tone; these raccoon-like circles are so formidable and stylish, and presented with such aplomb, that strangers often can’t decide whether the coloring is congenital or cosmetic.

Rebellious from the start, Weinraub ran away from home several times as a teen-ager. In response, she claims, her parents threatened to put her in foster care. (Her parents deny this.) As a compromise, Weinraub went to high school in Israel, through an exchange program.

After a year, Weinraub returned to L.A., legally emancipated herself, and looked for a job. Her uncle knew a buyer at Ron Herman, an upscale clothing store, and helped Weinraub secure a shopgirl position. “It was in Brentwood,” she recalls. “There would be kids shopping there that were my same age. I hated it.” She soon took a job at Maxfield, a boutique with a more progressive bent. Its owner asked her to help oversee the books section, where she befriended a regular who liked to linger in the store and discuss topics such as slavery, America, and Judaism. It was the director Tony Kaye, who had just made a film about a white supremacist, “American History X.”

One day, Weinraub saw Kaye’s face on the cover of a magazine. She read an interview inside and noticed something: many of Kaye’s answers borrowed language that she remembered using during their conversations at Maxfield. Weinraub sensed an opportunity. She called Kaye and said, “I want to do this for you full time. I’ll be your voice, I’ll answer all your questions, I’ll do your research.” There was a catch: Weinraub was feuding with her family again, and she needed money to pursue higher education. She told Kaye, “If you send me to college, I’ll be your professional student, and you can own all my papers.” Kaye agreed, and began paying her tuition when she enrolled at Antioch College, in Ohio. When Weinraub returned to L.A. for breaks, she assisted Kaye on commercial shoots and chauffeured him around the city. The arrangement lasted until Kaye got a girlfriend who demanded an end to the tuition payments.

Kaye famously lost control of “American History X” in the editing suite, when New Line Cinema allowed Ed Norton, the film’s lead actor, to do the final cut. (Kaye disavowed the version that was released.) The incident left a lasting impression on Weinraub: if you don’t control celebrities, they’ll end up controlling you. She was happy to leave people like A$AP Rocky behind. As she put it, she preferred to go it alone and make Hood By Air’s “own world happen.” She was adamant that she would not temper the label’s provocations. “People are into high concepts and respond well to them,” she assured me. “People want drama. They love it.”

The penthouse that Hood By Air rented in the weeks before the Galvanize show had cathedral ceilings, a vast terrace, and an eight-person hot tub overlooking the Lower East Side. An apparent extravagance, the penthouse was leased in order to save money on hotel rooms by providing a live-and-work space for collaborators flying to New York. This frugal-luxury strategy would succeed, though, only if the palatial digs survived the week intact. (The label has a history of losing hotel damage deposits.) To keep the proceedings professional, alcohol was banned from the penthouse until the work was finished.

Five days before the Penn Plaza Pavilion show, I visited the penthouse, which was fragrant with expensive leathers and gleaming with racks of lustrous silks. Models began to arrive, lining up like supplicants to be dressed by the label’s clergy. Hirakish, a twenty-two-year-old African-American artist and musician from New Orleans, was one of the season’s most charismatic new models. He was walleyed and skeletal—you could see every bone in his cranium. For the show, he was to be dressed in a slashed wedding gown and accessorized with a strip of gauze affixed to his forehead, as if he had just survived a street fight. He was in drag, but the effect wasn’t campy: he looked mutilated but threatening, like a zombie. Hirakish had moved to New York a month earlier, after breaking up with his girlfriend, and this was his first fashion show. “This is what I dreamed of,” he confided, gazing at the penthouse’s occupants, who included several d.j.s whom he followed on Instagram. “This is the modern-day Andy Warhol.” (I never heard the principals of Hood By Air compare their workplace to the Factory. Instead, they referred to the label as a “family company.”)

As evening fell, I spoke with Ian Isiah, Hood By Air’s “global brand ambassador” and an in-house muse. Isiah can pull off the label’s clothes with confidence—or, as Oliver puts it, with “a lot of swag.” Isiah wears the brand exclusively, and between runway shows one of his responsibilities is to attend events where he will be photographed. He also coaches celebrities on how to wear Hood By Air properly. Six feet tall, he shaves slits in his eyebrows and styles his hair in tendril-like dreads.

Isiah went out to the terrace. Disrobing and getting into the hot tub, he said, “Now, this is a fashion interview.”

Isiah had been helping to recruit other models for the Galvanize show. The label, he said, had sought to create a unique tableau: “Black doll-babies. Transgender babies. Little skater boyish-boys. Boys with rashes on their face—less albino, more scabs everywhere. Braces! There’s a braces girl on the board.”

Isiah told me that the more established fashion brands were trying to keep current by copying Hood By Air’s streetcasting (and, sometimes, by poaching models with the promise of more money). But he wasn’t worried about the competition. “All the grannies of the ten-year anniversaries”—he was disparaging Alexander Wang, who was celebrating his label’s decennial—“are trying to latch on to what’s happening now, which you can’t do by getting a random model. You need a culture behind it.”

Oliver appeared, and Isiah urged him to get in the tub.

“What, you want me to do Mariah?” Oliver asked, alluding to Mariah Carey’s passion for swimming fully clothed.

“Yas!” Isiah squealed. “We got a dryer.”

Oliver decided to forgo clothes. A casting associate named Walter Pearce walked onto the terrace. A frenetic twenty-year-old with sixteen thousand Instagram followers, Pearce looked like a member of the cast of “Kids,” but he had come to the Lower East Side by way of Chappaqua, where he graduated from Horace Greeley High School. Like Oliver, he had dropped out of F.I.T.

“I started interning for Shayne when I was fifteen,” Pearce said. “They literally raised me.” A gifted streetcaster, Pearce was responsible for bringing on Hirakish, the New Orleans model. “He’s a legend,” Pearce declared. “And it’s not only because his look is unreal; it’s because he lives the life—he’s a maniac.”

Oliver confirmed that Hirakish was “extremely H.B.A.” He grabbed a towel and took a seat on a nearby bench. “I have conversations with him, and I’m, like, ‘Whoa, his mind is so insane—I want to work with this person.’ ” Hirakish’s mind was so insane that, later that night, he urinated inside the penthouse elevator. The mishap panicked Oliver until he discovered that there were no security cameras to record the violation. Oliver admired Hirakish’s uninhibited spirit, and felt a duty to place people like him under Hood By Air’s wing: “It’s almost, like, not orphanage-y, but I want to see these energies succeed.” (Later, he added, “New energy is very intimidating—it rewrites what has been created. We all get jaded by experiences in life, but I try to create environments for younger kids.”)

Pearce, who is gaunt and pale, got into the hot tub, and Isiah cooed, “Oooh, we got trade in the water.”

Cupo and Akeem Smith, the stylist, joined the group, along with several interns. Weinraub eventually got in, too. Many of the people in the hot tub, if viewed from behind, would be hard to identify in terms of race and gender. Oliver and Weinraub had complained to me that fashion critics often described their work with terms like “unisex” and “gender-fluid,” which evoked shapeless androgynes. Oliver hated “unisex,” because the word was unsexy. Weinraub had a similar problem with “gender-fluid”—in her estimation, it was “not hot.” She had come up with a syntactical solution, though. “You can say it differently, and it could be hot,” she said. “Like, ‘Wait, I smell gender fluid.’ ‘I’d like a little gender for my coffee.’ ”

By now, more than a dozen Hood By Air employees were in the hot tub, and the gathering looked at once absurd and utopian: creative directors splashing and laughing alongside their junior associates. At one point, Weinraub spoke ruefully of how Hood By Air was perceived by outsiders. She said, “People are, like, ‘The super-gender-bending, nonconforming, all-day-all-night party that’s coming at you so windy! Who’s a boy? Who’s a girl?’ Then you’re embarrassed by your own life.” ♦

#hood by air #streetwear blog #fashion blog #urbanwear blog

[freddieseyeliner]

30 questions challenge

Rules: Tag the person who tagged you, answer the questions and tag 20 people (I will do no such thing,,,)

Tagged by @deacyshairbuns <3

1. How tall are you? 5’9′’ babay!!

2. What color and style is your hair? dark red,, and a long bob with a fringe sort of a deal,,

3. What color are your eyes? light green

4. Do you wear glasses? oh ye,, I’m a bat babayyy,,, I usually wear contacts tho,, bc the rain is always getting on my glasses and fucking shit up

5. Do you wear braces? no, I was blessed with perfect (yet oddly pointy) teeth

6. What is your fashion style? velvet leggings, mismatched socks,, flowy weirdly printed blouses, cozy jumpers, ugly ass 80s jeans, vintage band ts from ebay, scarves, lots of jewelry, wool peplum tops,, cardigans,, basically I look like a walking thrift store with a fringe,, its all quite chaotic

7. Full name? who are you?? the police? my first name is delaney and that’s that on that,,

8. When were you born? i’m a pisces ,, you don’t need to know the date,

9. Where are you from and where do you live now? western canada babay,,, but I live in manchester now bc canada is chilly and I couldnt be fucked to buy a parka

10. What school do you go to? seriously?? is the point of this to steal someone’s identity,,

11. What kind of student are you? A NERD,,, I’m a perfectionist and will have an entire fit if I get less than 95% on anything

12. Do you like school? oh ye,,,, I mean I’m tired all the time and want to burn something and my profs have dumb ass opinions but,, I’m generally for learning, yes

13. What are your favourite school subjects? history, english lit, fine art, politics

14. Favorite TV shows? x-files, B99, taskmaster, I also love docs and forensic files,,

16. Favorite books? girl meets boy by ali smith,, how to be both by ali smith, good omens, warlock of love by marc bolan, all jane austen, and Im a sucker for all cheesy sci-fi books and dumb romantic poetry,,

17. Favourite past-time? writing in a cafe, walking in parks, chilling at the seaside, getting tipsy and dancing around my room to the beegees

18. Do you have any regrets? we simply do NOT have the time to delve into them

19. Dream job? writing novels babayyy,,

20. Would you like to get married? ye,,, this binch a romantic,, cannot wait to refer to someone as MY WIFE

21. Would you like to have kids someday?  maybe, right now I’m a selfish bitch and could never

22. How many? id like twins or something,, (I’m a triplet so I stan multiples yall)

23. Do you like shopping? Im a slut for shopping,,, the high femme really jumps out,, perfume, clothes, books, makeup, records,,, I love it all

24. What countries have you visited? not many,, but I’m from canada so its very expensive to travel,, uk, germany, and america

25. What’s the scariest nightmare you’ve ever had? im not sure this is the platform to get into my deepest fears ladios

26. Do you have any enemies? I have exactly 7 people who hate me,, but I couldn’t care less abt them,, so not really enemies then

27. Do you have a s/o? this stands for Some One to love,, correct?? no :(

28. Do you believe in miracles? no

i tag @jondeacon @rulingqueenarts98 @glamrockinspace @only-one-hysterical-queen @polska-tankietka and @starlight-and-moonshine <3

[four-pages-zine-blog]

Issue 1: Tass

How long have you had your store: I started officially selling clothes after I finished college in 2013 and moved back home to the suburban midwest, so I guess 5 years now! I was working at the local newspaper at the time but was looking for an extra way to kill time, not necessarily even to make money. I started with Poshmark and loved connecting with other people who liked similar clothes, which was actually kind of rare for where I lived. I loved being able to see people showcase their own style in the form of their own closets and let people “shop their closet”. I also became really interested in clothes trading, which I like doing with my irl friends, so the fact a lot of people were willing to trade items was also really cool to me and something I hadn’t seen before.

How would you describe your shop? I think the clothes I sell are kind of more one-off like something that would be worn as a funny statement piece - I love a bright color and bold pattern, power clashing, and anything rainbow, glittery or that can incorporate faux fur in a tasteful way. It’s pretty reflective of my midwestern lifestyle and probably the clothes I consistently have the most of are windbreakers and winter coats, the main way we can express ourselves here for half of the year or more… There are a few sticker art projects I have in my store that I started doing around 2012 out of boredom when I was still in school, the most prominent one probably being the 6 foot tall Britney Spears poster that’s completely covered in (vintage) Lisa Frank stickers but never intended to actually finish or take seriously. Over the years I used sticker collaging as a way to keep my mind off things and have it be a means to add color and vibrancy to otherwise more plain posters/art.

When I first opened my shop in 2013, I made a holographic wall out of posterboards to hang my clothes on and that was my first store display on Poshmark and Etsy and always tried to have unique ways to show my clothes ever since, and to change the look of my store at least once a year. I’ve wavered between thinking having consistent “branding” is best and thinking it’s best to change as my ideas change, and have ended up going with the latter at whatever expense that has had, resulting in my store bio now being “Hi I’m Crazy Branding” lmao. The last time I re-did my store I got a mannequin from the city off Craigslist that I painted hot pink and move around my yard or put against different backdrops/bright colored walls to model the clothes. At one point I put velcro on the back of all my stuffed animals plushies and trolls and stuck them to a white wall in my apartment I was living to use as the background. I used to love to bring around solo holographic poster boards to my friends’ houses before we went out so that we could all take pictures behind them as the backdrop, portable aesthetic is essential.

What era or year is your favorite in fashion? My favorite looks are early 90s minimalistic grunge but not too minimal - Black jeans, velvet dresses, and plain tees, all of that, but then on the flip side I love the super excessive part of those eras of fashion too, like rainbow everything and floating glitter inside plastic holographic accessories. My favorite outfit of all time is something my aunt gave me from her 80s closet, it’s a long elastic teal leopard mermaid-style skirt with a matching teal leopard flowy button down shirt, all cotton and polyester. I love outfits that are completely matching like that and have been seeing that lately in brands that I follow, so I hope that sticks.

What item of clothing in the world are you lusting after or saving up for?

One of those new robot dresses that react to your moods or whatever lmao but if I’m being more realistic there is a designer who I really love that I found on Instagram who knits beaded sweaters using like thousands of different colored beads and completely covers them. They’re works of art and I would love to have one some day and be able to support an artist too! I’m definitely always lusting after new pairs of plain black pleather platform (but not too high anymore) shoes. I love the brand Hot Lava and I guess if I'm saving up for one thing it would be their "Barbed" rainbow matching bralette/pants combo.

Favorite clothing brand/brands and why? Since I usually only buy thrift for myself these days, my favorite brands are probably just based on design only but I love Discount Universe and other sequins-covered clothes or otherwise outlandish/tacky patterns, especially if they’re owned/designed/produced by women - Wacky Wacko, I have the Tabloid Dress they made a few years ago and it’s one of my favorite of all time even though I never wear it I also LOVE everything from Big Bud Press and YardSale666 in general.

What music do you like, does it play a role in your personal style? The music I listen to most now is probably "experimental pop" and growing up I loved pop punk. Both of those have affected my style and stayed with me to this day, I still wear skinny jeans and slip on Van-style shoes most often no matter what else I’ve layered on top of it. I used to like to purposely wear edgy clothes and do my hair to provoke a reaction out of people when I was younger - my brother would pass down band shirts to me that said things like “What the F*** are you looking at?” (lol) and I would cut them off into a crop top and wear it with a super long high-waisted thrifted pink and purple plaid skirt. That was definitely my go-to outfit for like an entire summer straight. I’ve always liked clothes that makes a statement even if it’s in a literal way with words, clothes with a lot of text on them, and I really like the new wave of DIY embroidery, especially on thrifted or up cycled clothes. Band tee shirts were also just like a huge part of growing up for me, buying them at shows and collecting them and wearing them all the time. Also in my shop I have a guitar that I completely stickered/bejeweled which was one of my longest running projects that I really want to make more of. It was one of my brother's old acoustic guitars that he let me completely deck out and it perfectly combines the femme pop elements I love with an actual instrument. Music and fashion are so intertwined all the time I think, and clothes/accessories are something that always stuck out to me about singers and bands too! I love how fashion plays a role in music today too and can make or break an entire aesthetic or era.

Does living in your city/state inspire you? Where are you most creative? Yes lmao living in rural suburban Illinois actually inspires me a lot and I’m probably the most happily creative here. When I lived in the city, things were a lot more stressful so it made me work on a lot of projects to distract myself, but I eventually burned out from that pretty bad. I get inspired by midwestern people but mostly in a way that most people find cringey, I mocked it more when I was younger but now try to tastefully incorporate it into my looks. State Fair Chic is inspiring to me. My mom has a lot of handpainted and iron-on sweatshirts for different holidays that are staples of my closet. Living in the midwest and being bored definitely made me thrift more and imo makes the thrifting better, it made me always be working on craft projects, and always changing my hair and style.

What things do you love to create? I think my favorite things to create are entire rooms and looks, I like to make different aesthetics through combining colors, furniture and fabrics that all feel familiar even if it’s a little chaotic. My long term project with my bedroom was turning my walls of thrifted art (with 20-30 framed pictures) into matching colored frames that fit the whole look of the room, so I guess just really getting at the details of design. I think I’m pretty tacky so I like to stick to things that embody that and will always love stickering huge projects, painting everything plain into bright colors and incorporating anything I find thrifting or in the garbage into larger art aesthetics. My favorite thing to do is thrift and upcycle clothes, furniture, wall art, lamps, etc. anything that I see “potential” in lol.

Who are some of your favorite artists?: There are a ton of artists I follow that inspire me every day, definitely just “regular” people or like more lowkey artists. People who thrift or collect and refurbish toys are amazing to me and I love the doll community on IG. Witches or people I’ve met through astrology who are creating more spiritual art inspire me every day with their words and presentations. I also love comedians and movies, I love John Early and Kate Berlant and recently saw they collaborated with Peggy Noland and Seth Bogart of Wacky Wacko so that was iconic to me.

I collaborate a lot with my brother who has done a lot of graphic design stuff for me over the years. He makes resin toys of his own and designs t-shirts. He’s great at painting and drawing, two skills I never was good at that I really appreciate in him that he is always willing to lend a hand to me. He is two years older than me and went to school for advertising so exchanging ideas and doing projects with him is something I like to do too. He also has more of a background in music production so we recently started trying to make music together. We both love combining fashion and music!

What album do you recommend to pick up ASAP? Hayley Kiyoko - Expectations, hands down the vibe for summer

Follow Tass on Depop!

Depop.com/trashbitch 

#fashion #depop #zine #thrift #vintage #vintage clothing

[easyhairstylesbest]

How the Costumes and Makeup of 'Promising Young Woman' Shape Perception

Mild spoilers for Promising Young Woman below.

If the pen is mightier than the sword, then in Promising Young Woman, the ink’s been replaced by lipstick. As Cassie (Carey Mulligan) channels her anger, grief, and guilt over the death of her best friend into a one-woman mission to punish men (and women) complicit in rape culture, the gulf between appearance and motivation is vast. In contrast to a spy who dresses to blend in, Cassie’s undercover attire is a flashing beacon that lures in her prey, and her ability to shapeshift through the local nightlife scene is made possible by the clothes, makeup, and hairstyles she adopts to appeal to her targets. Each undone button and crinkle is part of the overall ruse, and Cassie’s revolving closet is as purposeful as her imperfectly applied eyeliner.

Courtesy

Costume and makeup are essential to every production, but writer-director Emerald Fennell’s debut feature puts a premium on surface-level perceptions that a so-called “hot mess” projects. From the first pulpy poster image—which featured an illustrated Mulligan lying in an oversized mouth, lip color dripping like blood—the emphasis is placed on the trappings of femininity. Cassie is counting on superficial snap judgments as she walks a very dangerous path with little protection beyond a strapless bodycon dress and high heels.

ELLE.com spoke to costume designer Nancy Steiner (The Virgin Suicides, Twin Peaks: The Return) and makeup department head Angie Wells (Sylvie’s Love, Mudbound) about creating distinctive looks to support Fennell’s vision. “The makeup itself [and] these disguises were their own character,” Wells says. “[Cassie’s] using it in a way that’s very controlled.”

Business Casual

Brian Valenzuela/Courtesy

“She is dressed as a business chick,” Steiner explains of the movie’s opening scene, which sees Cassie slumped in a red booth, feigning intoxication to attract the attention of businessmen gathered for post-work drinks. Fennell specified each location for Cassie’s hunt in the script, which provided Steiner with a wealth of costume inspiration. It’s notable that we only see Cassie wear each “disguise” once: Steiner estimates Mulligan had approximately 35 changes in total.

On the makeup side, smudges and a clammy complexion all point to Cassie’s “inebriated” state. “I love doing imperfect things like that,” says Wells. Using techniques we try to avoid IRL, the makeup artist made Mulligan apply the mascara herself. “While it was wet, I said, ‘please close your eyes really tightly,’ which makes a mess.” Wells used a damp brush to smear the mascara around her eyes. To get the flushed, blotchy skin effect, she changed her brush technique: “I stippled the blush on in a spotty way, so it’s not this smooth-skin look.”

Daytime Cassie

Brian Valenzuela/Courtesy

When not hunting her prey, Cassie masks her pain in saccharine pastels. Steiner’s own resume is filled with girlish references that suggest a happy facade while concealing the film’s major themes; in an interview with Little White Lies, Fennell referenced Steiner’s “beguiling” work in The Virgin Suicides and the daytime aesthetic she envisioned for her own heroine: “Cassie’s clothes are very tactile: soft; pink; inviting.” For Steiner, “It was a lot about the color palette of that pastel. A little bit of contemporary shopping, costume house, a little thrift, and then put it together.” Even though the story is contemporary, Steiner mixed and matched influences from the 1960s onward for Cassie’s daytime wardrobe. Her collection of cheery gingham, floral, and delicate prints are a disguise. “It’s her, ‘I’m happy, don’t look at me’ [look],” Steiner says. “It’s a barrier as well.”

And her makeup is much more subtle. “I wanted there to be a real difference between Cassie in her regular, everyday life and who she became when she would go out and do these disguises,” Wells says. With a “very natural, very clean” face, the artist didn’t want viewers to notice the makeup. This blank canvas offered plenty of room for experimentation with the bold nighttime looks.

“Homemade Kardashian”

Brian Valenzuela/Courtesy

“I call it the ‘Douchey Eurotrash’ look, and that is the strapless dress and high heels where she transforms into somebody really different,” Steiner says of this particular nightclub attire. The “Homemade Kardashian” nickname came about as Wells read the script: she immediately thought of the famous family’s signature contouring. “I didn’t want it to look like a professional makeup artist had done it,” she says. “I wanted it to look like she had done it herself, so I didn’t blend the contour perfectly.”

The Smeared Lipstick

Cassie’s application of her cosmetic war paint follows a relatable endeavor: turning to the internet for techniques. Watching a “blowjob lips” tutorial—Fennell cameos as the beauty vlogger—Cassie nails the bold look before dramatically smearing the dark shade across her face. This was a “collaboration between props and makeup,” Wells explains, recalling that Mulligan’s purposeful makeup misapplication took two or three takes. The film was shot in just 23 days, and time constraints meant there was a limited window for resetting the scene.

In the following scene, Fennell depicts the encounter with “nice guy” Neil (Christopher Mintz-Plasse) at his apartment rather than the trendy bar where he met Cassie. This particular costume is not in focus—Steiner points out that “you don’t really see much of what she’s wearing there”—and the makeup choice is darker than the opening scene, a reflection of Cassie’s state of mind. “She’s starting to spiral down a little bit: she’s getting sadder, she’s getting heavier, it’s getting deeper,” Wells says. “The look was getting a little bit dark.” The deeper red isn’t the only cosmetic choice for this underlying despair. “I even turned her eyeliner down to kind of pull her eyes down,” Wells says.

The Candy-Colored Mani

Regardless of time of day or activity, Cassie is always wearing the same eye-catching manicure. This was a direct request from the director. “Emerald was very specific with the nail look she wanted,” recalls Wells. “And she wanted that to carry throughout.” Changing nail art can be a logistical nightmare, Wells says, so she was grateful the look remained the same throughout the film. “We were able to do them with gels, and they could stay on for a couple of weeks, and then Carey would go and get them redone.”

This striking nail polish choice is the unifying factor between the makeup and costume color palettes, complementing both Cassie’s daytime barista attire and all her disheveled drunk personas. Early in the process, Wells sent Fennell inspiration images, then connected with Steiner, looking at the color and shapes of each costume to coordinate the individual makeup looks. Wells also brought hair department head Daniel Curet onto the film. “It was a group effort to create [Cassie’s entire] look,” Wells says.

Drugstore Dance

Brian Valenzuela/Courtesy

Frequently switching sartorial personas means Cassie’s authentic style is hard to pin down, but Steiner explains one costume captures her essence more than any other: the “cute vintage pieces” which feature in the Paris Hilton “Stars Are Blind” sing-along. As Cassie dances down the aisles with Ryan (Bo Burnham), Promising Young Woman briefly turns into a rom-com. “That little number in the pharmacy is more her,” Steiner explains. “It’s not pastel, it’s a brighter color. I really love the little cardigan. It’s not saying anything necessarily, but it’s different from everything else.”

The thrifted knitwear also ties to Steiner’s earlier work designing for music videos during the glory days of MTV, including Nirvana’s “Come as You Are,” which features Kurt Cobain in an iconic green cardigan. But Steiner is quick to note she didn’t invent that look: “Everybody was wearing thrift store cardigans,” and Cobain “had a lot of cardigans.” While Cassie’s moment of levity in the drugstore does have a pop video sensibility, Steiner says, “I can’t say anything specifically informed me from video days” when conceiving this scene. “I think my aesthetic from my life has informed my choices.”

A Nurse’s Disguise

Brian Valenzuela/Courtesy

Cassie’s most extreme costume is, without a doubt, the stylized nursing attire that ties together her medical student past and present vengeance vocation. “We knew we wanted a hot, sexy nurse costume and I did a little research online,” says Steiner. Production needed multiple versions of the garment, so Steiner custom-built it to her exacting specifications, from the sleeve and skirt lengths to the zippered front

For Wells, rather than match the crimson hard-to-walk-in stilettos (Mulligan’s socked feet were protected with moleskin fabric for navigating the long driveway), she used the pastel wig and candy nails as inspiration. “Red is always the color if you think of femme fatale,” she says of Cassie’s edgy, sexy lipstick. “I wanted pink because red is so expected.” The makeup artist opted for an intense pink using MAC’s “Royally Flushed” pencil shade that has since been discontinued, but MAC told her a near-substitute is the lip pencil Beet. “[I] totally filled her lips in with the pencil, and then we put a little bit of lipstick [MAC’s All Fired Up] on top of it to solidify the look.”

“Once I looked at the outfit, and I realized what she was going to be doing in that scene, I thought of a blow-up doll,” Wells recalls. Dialing into the big eyes and full mouth concept, Wells exaggerated the size of Mulligan’s eyes using several techniques. “I purposely went below Carey’s natural eye-line to make her eyes look huge, then I filled in on the waterline with a flesh-colored pencil, which makes the whites of your eye appear larger,” she says. “We put lashes beneath the waterline so everything was designed with this big eye, strong lip look—because eyes and lips are the places where people look.” Cassie is nearly unrecognizable. Wells captured the transformation via makeup on a timelapse video: “As it starts out, she has such a sweet face. At the end of the video, it’s like, ‘Wow! It’s a whole different person.’”

Emma Fraser Emma Fraser is a freelance culture writer with a focus on TV, movies, and costume design.

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How the Costumes and Makeup of 'Promising Young Woman' Shape Perception

[chambergambit]

remember in fight club when edward norton beat the shit outta jared leto bc he was getting too buddy-buddy with edward norton’s best friend/alternate personality brad pitt, and then justifies it by saying he “wanted to destroy something beautiful.”

at that moment in the film, you’re not supposed know that edward norton and brad pitt are the same person.thus, the implication the incident gives is that edward norton’s jealousy is sexual. this is supported by the way he’s also jealous of helena bonham carter after she sleeps with brad pitt. he’s shitty to her about it, although he's not (iirc) violent with her. 

He’s attracted to HBC, but he’s not jealous of brad pitt, he’s jealous of HBC. This implies that he’s attracted to brad pitt as well. (and jared leto bc he called him beautiful).

except brad pitt isn’t a real person. he’s a projection of everything edward norton wants to look/sound/act like. however, his reactions to HBC and jared leto imply that brad pitt is also a projection of what edward nortan wants.

meanwhile, HBC and jared leto are left confused as fuck bc they see edward nortorn and brad pitt as the same guy. For HBC, edward norton saved her from an apparent suicide attempt, then they had sex, and in the morning, he’s bitchy and withholding. for jared leto, he thinks the leader of the fucking terrorist group he joins really likes him, only for said leader to beat the shit outta him for no apparent reason.

i feel like this is whole thing is supposed to be internalized queerphobia. brad pitt tells edward norton not to talk to HBC about him (to prevent them from finding out about the alternate personality thing), but he and ed don’t really talk about HBC either, and they DEFINITELY don’t talk about jared leto.

the creation of brad pitt is arguably influenced by HBC:

She’s bold, reckless, self-destructive, and takes no shit. She also has a flamboyant fashion sense, although it’s very “thrift store goth femme,” with lots of dark, second-hand (and possibly stolen) clothes that are almost falling apart.

brad pitt is also a bold, reckless, self-destructive, take-no-shit person with a flamboyant fashion sense. But instead of “thrift store goth” it’s “colorful high-masc high-fashion.” His clothes, like the bright red leather suit, all look brand new. It seems to me that edward norton’s mind incorporated that he liked about HBC into the brad pitt personality.

edward norton’s internalized queerphobia and attraction to his own alternate personality kinda goes out the window once he realizes just what that personality has been up to, though, so it’s never addressed directly.

and before anyone’s like “ugh why do you have to read gay stuff into a manly movie,” I’d like to point out that Chuck Palahniuk is gay.

apparently there are sequel comics. idk how i feel about it.

[totoroses]

i found this lesbian survey and decided to fill it out!

Femme or butch? is this what do i prefer or which i am? im a femme and i have no preference in dating, i’ve been wildly attracted to both and any in between

Do you have a “type”? If so, describe it. the only nearly completely common denominator though my exes are having brown eyes? i have dated only one person who did not have brown eyes. i always feel safer looking into brown eyes then blue. i woudl say i have often gone after the romantic artsy type with good music taste and some kind of signature style about them, ironically none of which drew me to my current girlfriend who i believe is probably defintiely the love of my life

Plaid button-ups or leather jackets? leather jackets! i will swoon over smartly dressed gals in button downs as well as a chill gal in some plaid unbuttoned flannel but the two together make me think of a lumberjack

Describe your style. i usually go for one of two styles- softly dressed forest wanderer, or slightly sassy soft grunge. both include my doc martens, but one is more natural colours and old fashioned dresses and the other is sassy tshirts and 90sish thrift store finds like denim and dark florals

Describe your aesthetic.pressed flowers between the pages of a book on forest spirits, rose milk tea, silver rainy downpours, curly baby hairs, white peaches, a cat sleeping in a library, custard pastries, a circle of mushrooms in moss, opals and furry moths

Favorite article of clothing? my one forever 21 dress ive had since like junior year that i can wear without a bra and it has like a cool cross back i just looooveee ittt, then also my embroidered minty 1930s style qipao sort of dress

Favorite pair of shoes? my doc martens and green chinese embroidered lace up slippers

Current haircut? currently blonde (ugh) and currently my hair falls just past my breasts, the goal is to grow it to my bellybutton!

Any haircut goals for the future? i really wanna get on the thick fluffy bangs bandwagon but i dont think i have the stamina to put up with growing them out again smh

Describe the best date you’ve been on. there was this one date i went on with one of my high school girlfriends where we went to a bookstore and hung out and then stuck googly eyes all over my city on random monuments and street signs, and we also ate thai food and listened to music and it was still one of the most lovely dates. BUT my girlfriend recently visited me in taiwan and we went in a glass bottom gondola ride up a mountain and drank from coconuts and wandered through old streets and had the most amazing tea food with a spectacular view and it was heaven

Describe the worst date you’ve been on. probably the one where i went on a picnic with my first girlfriend who then broke up with me that same day and even though our entire relationship was so awkward and not what is should have been it still hurt so bad

Single? Taken? taken!

If taken, talk about your girlfriend/wife! where do i begin! my girlfriend is a slightly shorter than me girl named lynn who loved korean variety shows, drinking coca cola, listening to cheesy love songs, and playing tricks on people (especially me). she used to be a major tomboy in middle and high school and date all the girls and get slapped a lot, as well as mess with teachers and play pranks on them and steal things from their lunchboxes. more than half of her birthchart including sun, rising, and venus are scorpio, and she wants to start her own streetstyle online brand but has not yet found a catchy brand name!

If single, what are you looking for in a potential girlfriend/wife? :)

Describe your dream wedding my girlfriend says if we get married we need two, a traditional chinese wedding (she is from china) and a western one with a priest since i am catholic, and i couldnt agree more. my dream wedding includes just very close friends and family, extravagant lights and flowers and a reception party playlist chosen by me, catered by the teahouse we went to in taiwan. i know its so silly and superficial but i want the dreamiest dress that i design, wisteria everywhere, and most of all i just want lynn at the end of the alter looking stunning in whatever it is she decides to wear

Do you want kids? YES me and lynn talk about this a lot because we both love kids and both agree on at least 4, no more than 8. and we will share who carries the kids so not just one of us is having our uteruses worn out

If you could live anywhere in the world, where would you live? guilin, china. but its a fantasy. guilin is real and beautiful but chinese laws make it so that even if we settle down there and build a house it cant truly belong to us, and in china you cant have a private business and it jsut sucks because the drema is to live in the quiet countryside with a simple life and beautiful scenery to explore together and with our children

Favorite lesbian movie? i love so many but im gonna go with the handmaiden!

Favorite lesbian novel/story? i havent read nearly enough, but  adore all things by malinda lo and julie anne peters! ash by malinda lo is probably my favourite. i have to still read sarah waters though, i hear she reigns supreme

Favorite lesbian song? don’t pull away by milosh ft jviews (the music video is gay at least, i also love hayley kiyoko)

Favorite lesbian musician? hayley kiyoko probably

What lesbian stereotypes do you fit into, if any? mmmm i dont like softball so that doesnt work...i read a lot of sappho though! and i have short nails? and love buffy? are these stereotypes?

Ever been assumed to be nothing more than a gal pal? ugh yes

If a woman wanted to woo you, what would a surefire way to accomplish that? write me a love letter or make me a mixtape about your feleings something cheesy

Be positive! What do you like most about being a lesbian? girls!!!!

Are you more of a cat person or a dog person? cat but i also love pups!

Turn ons? a musical wonderful voice i could listen to and listen to, easy and stimulating conversations, passion for something that lights up their eyes

Turn offs? rudeness in any shape or form, indecisiveness or feigning indecisiveness because you think i want to make the decisions, despicable movie and music taste, smell

Do you usually ask other women out or do you wait for them to ask you? mmmm in the past it has been pretty even. i have learned though that with women it really is a waiting game more than with guys so with my current girlfriend the tension was killing me so much i had to straight up ask her if something was going on and when she said yes she did like me too i was so relieved because she admitted to having not dated anyone since high school (5 years ago for her) and not asking anyone out while at college so if i had kept waiting for her who knows if we would have gotten together!

What is your dream career? i want to be a stay at home mom and author and perhaps an art teacher or preschool teacher on the side if the books dont pa the bills!

Talk about your interests or hobbies! writing and reading and drawing and singing and hiking and listening to music and watching korean dramas and making lists and studying languages

What is the most attractive quality a woman can have? passion, not necessarily in the sexual wya, but passion for something in general. like if she is an actress you see her on the stage and see how into it she is, and offstage she talks about it in a way that shows she is capable of truly loving something so much and seeing wonder in life. or a girl who seems quiet but then when she starts to show you the music she likes she closes her eyes and knows every lyric and has this expression of true passion and love for the music, i am captivated by women who are captivated by the purest elements of life from music to dance to nature

Do you love easily or does it take time for you to warm up to someone? for women, i fall in infatuation quite easily. i was always more cautious with men of course and now i avoid them altogether. but love is something i’ve been becoming more conservative of somehow. i think because i was so hurt by someone before and gave and gave without receiving and im scared of that happening again. i have to be receiving love to give it, thats something i finally can control my impulses over and protect myself from.

Ever fallen for your best-friend? HA

Ever fallen for a straight girl? HAHA

The L-Word: yes or no? (love it or hate it?) heck to the no i couldnt make it past two episodes 

Favorite comfort food? macaroni and cheese

Coffee or tea? tea

Vegetarian? Vegan? None of the above? none but i have tried vegetarian before

Do you have any pets? a chinchilla and a cat!

Early-riser or night-owl? night owl 

What is your sign? gemini sun, sag moon, sag rising

What is your Myers-Briggs type? INFP

Who was your first lesbian crush? my first serious lesbian crush was on a girl at my middle school who dressed to the nines every day in vintage dresses and sweaters and she flirted with practically everyone just joking around and always had a boyfriend but was just charming in every way. my whoel day would eb ruined if i couldn’t just see her or say hello once, and i thought i was just obsessed until i was like ‘wait what if she kissed me’ and BAM i knew it was a real life crush

At what age did you know you were a lesbian? im not really sure. i identified as bi/pan from freshman year to junior year i think, but then was realizing i definitely had a preference and didn’t want to be with guys in a relationship at all to be honest but even up until last summer i was really questioning if i was asexual, so its been a journey but i think i finally fully realized i am a happy happy lesbian after meeting lynn

At what age did you come out (if you have)? i was 14 when i first told my parents i was bi, 18 when i said im a lesbian 

Are you crushing on anyone at the moment (celebrity or otherwise)? just my girly friend

Talk about how your day went i worked this morning 7-11 after only sleeping 4 hours since i got hooked on ‘tipping the velvet’ the bbc miniseries, said goodbye to a friend, had school and did a presentation on how to make rosemilk bubble tea, i ate at a moomin cafe with my coworker, and now am working on homework and doing this survey and putting off my night cleaning duties eheh

Talk about your dreams/aspirations for the future  i just want to have a family and to have my books published, thats all i really need. a loving wife, my sister still by my side as my partner in crime, so many children, so many stories finally told that people are reading. i really want to build a lovely house for my family like my grandparents did once upon a time, with secret rooms and unique hiding places, a house they can pass down as they grow up and it can have our lineage. i want to live by the mountains and trees and water, i want to be able to speak mandarin, cantonese, korean, japanese, icelandic, italian, arabic, and polish fluently

[briellebouquet]

i’m sick and i don’t know what it means. what with. how to fix it. i guess i haven’t tried hard enough. going to doctors a bunch over the last year doesn’t make up for the fact that i ended up cutting off of meds cold turkey. and then ruining christmas.

trying first to explain to my younger brother B how hip hop isn’t actually dumb or bad. he used to love hip hop. it was confusing and difficult to understand. shortly after mental health came up. he used the word ‘pussification.’ i tried to explain that it isn’t something that can just be controlled. turned off, or gone around even. turns out he’s as stubborn as i am. pussification. i couldn’t even communicate the latent sexism. and the fact that i was trying to sort out my own, uh, pussification. in the sense of weighing the how-to, pros, and cons inherent in transitioning. that i had only within the preceding few months even solidly accepted that i was into guys, and would be pursuing what at the time would’ve been a gay relationship. it stung, hearing what felt like an assault on my emergent trans identity, sexuality, and mental health struggles all at once. but i held on tight.

i broke later. discussing something related to capitalism, wages if i recall initially though it branched out, with my aunt. then my brother A jumped into it. and my dad. and B again. and from the periphery my other aunt. me against the world. it was polite enough at first but ultimately, i ended up so buried trying to communicate disclaimers and softening my arguments so as not to offend anyone, that the people arguing against me would interrupt me before i’d even gotten to the point i was trying to make. the interruptions at a certain point got aggressive. i was passionate, but i didn’t get heated until right before i broke down. i got flustered and panicky and said “i need to stop” and hurried past everyone from the back corner of the room over to the stairs, then down into the basement. i sobbed and cried. my dad came down and apologized and cried too. he often does. it means alot that he cares enough to regret these things. but it doesn’t stop them from happening.

strung out on meds after being denied long term disability by insurance (Sun Life) on the grounds of it being a pre-existing condition. I was under a month (might have been just a week but i can’t remember for sure) from the ‘pre-existing condition’ clause no longer applying. i went off of work for having panic attacks and breakdowns. hyperventilating in the bathroom. crying on shift. picking beard hair out of my face to the point of it leaving patches and having to shave. they paid me short term disability, then denied me long term after leading me to believe it was just a matter of paperwork going through. which left me out of money and out of work. no money, no meds, i thought. i mean, while waiting for their decision, i had lost upwards of 30 pounds. unable to afford food. going a day or two at a time on an apple poached from the fruit dish upstairs. then caving and stealing eggs and making them while my dad and his wife were at work when i got so hungry i stopped being able to move. that was my life. i stayed on meds through a bunch of that, but when they turned off my income, i lashed out and immediately dumped by remaining meds, shortly before the christmas shitshow. a couple of weeks prior i think. if i didn’t have an income, i didn’t owe it to anyone to keep taking them. they weren’t working. and i wouldn’t even be able to afford a co-pay for renewal. might as well get withdrawal over with, i thought. i stopped going to therapy after the third appointment where she shrugged and told me change how i think about things. it wasn’t working. i wasn’t having success. and it got so awkward and uncomfortable trying to explain why the treatment wasn’t making sense to me, and having her respond the same way, that i couldn’t get over the threshold when the next appointment came. i canceled via email and made up an excuse and said i’d reach out again to reschedule if that was okay. knowing i never would.

losing my income, i sold both of my guitars, still a bit before christmas. got nickel-and-dimed pretty bad. got like $800 which i paid $400 to dad for rent, and the rest, i used for groceries and fast food dopamine chasing. i didn’t have much in my life. giving in and irresponsibly getting a sub for $8 honestly kept me going. especially after losing my guitars. i still love singing, and occasionally write bad poetry, but music was my capital O Outlet. i miss it so much. i miss having ideas and being able to fumble my way through the process of trying to pull it out of my head. i don’t know when i’ll be able to get a guitar again. in this time period, i continued losing weight and struggling to find food. especially once the guitar money ran out. it didn’t last terribly long. somewhere in january i went to social services and now i’m receiving a small monthly stipend that i usually burn through by the 15th or 20th. sometimes i burn it at bars. i go to bars to read. i can be at a bar and feel like i’m socializing even when i’m not. when i’m there alone. shallow pleasantries with a server. chatter all around me. it helped. coffee shops too, but most of them close early, and i stay up all night so i don’t have to be awake while my dad is home and active. coffee shops don’t work as well. but alcohol and pub food is extremely expensive when you’re dead broke. so, like i said, i run out by the 15th or 20th. between a few pub trips, coffee shop runs, fast food weakness, and groceries.

i went the long way around, but it’s been a few months on social security payments and weeks at a time being pinned in the bedroom with dad and his wife periodically expressing frustration with me for being here. it’s led to me trying to be invisible. but i also run out of money and ultimately poach food from the fridge. when there’s cans of pop i break down and take them sometimes. i hate myself for it. i try to replace them when i do have money, but then i drink those too. i get panicky to the extent that i haven’t been able to refill my water when they’re awake and home, let alone use the stove. even when i have food. even going to the bathroom i try to time out so i only have to leave the room when they’re in bed or not home. i know this is messed up. they’re not being directly cruel. it’s more passive aggressive. and apparent in how they speak to me, when we’re in situations where we speak. situations that are occurring less and less frequently as i back away, and they back away too. i can feel the frustration. sometimes dad lets comments slip i think by accident. it’s clear that i’m not welcome here. and i get it. i’d want my place to be my own place too. but it’s also been a terrifying experience for me, trying to cope with being unwanted. it’s been just about a year now, here. not for one second has it been good. it’s humiliating. i’m 33. i just want to live on my own and not starve. god i want to live on my own and not starve so bad. so that’s where i’m at.

i’ve been reading lately about autism. i’ve been diagnosed with cluster B BPD which shares symptoms with autism. and there are some autism indicators that i at least don’t think i share. but also lots of accounts from autistic people that i’ve experienced directly day to day. or have figured prominently in the leadup to gruesome lifequakes (i’ve had 4 or 5 at least.) so now i’m thinking, am i autistic? or have i created confirmation bias as i desperately search for a diagnosis that will lead to effective treatments? i had told my therapist and my psychiatrist and my parents and my MD that i think if i had a safe, private place to live, and enough money for food, that i could at least do a better job working on treatment recommendations. i think that would go a long way. maybe the BPD treatments and meds, thus far completely ineffective by any tangible noticeable measure, would work better if i weren’t breaking down at work, or freaking out about not making rent. the System couldn’t make that happen i guess. so now i’m living in an immensely unhealthy environment, eating poorly for 10-15 days every month, too afraid of people to even socialize let alone go jobhunting again, and trying to diagnose myself with something that will get me help. real help. i’m suicidal. i’m fucked up. i’m hoping i can get on EI disability soon, but even that only lasts for a few months so it’s a bandaid.

i have a doctor’s appointment re: HRT for transition and i’m going to cut my food budget so i can buy makeup and a wig in the meantime. femme clothes will have to wait unfortunately. i’m fighting back suicidal ideation by imagining my future as a woman, planning to volunteer at Pride (god i hope i can make a friend or two, being alone hurts so much i can’t stop crying about it) and hoping that i can get a referral to a new psychiatrist soon. One that’s trans friendly. i had a rough experience with the last one when i came out to him. a new therapist too probably. i can’t see myself getting over the discomfort and trying to get back in to see my old one. my visits with her were limited by the province anyhow - her job isn’t to have permanent patients.

if i can get EI disability, move out into my own place without a roommate - a bachelor suite that’s safe and comfortable would be enough, - buy some thrift store femme clothes, start learning makeup, and get on HRT + a referral to a good psychiatrist and therapist... if i can have some of those things work out, even. maybe it’ll start getting better. maybe i’ll be able to look in the mirror again. maybe i’ll be comfortable going out in public. maybe i’ll make a friend or two through volunteer work. maybe this year, i’ll be able to at least conceive of a way to buy a decent electric guitar. but i mean, all of this stuff, even making and keeping friends, requires money. and i’d very sincerely rather die than get the customer service work i’m ‘qualified’ for right now. i’ve been to the ER after screaming about suicide and bawling at work twice in the last couple years. i can’t honestly say i’d go to the hospital again if things got that intense. stabilize first, then work.

i guess all of this depends on whether or not the canadian safety net is strong enough to keep me afloat. applying for EI has taken forever and will only last i think 4 months. the government absorbed my tax refund into my outstanding student loan debt. social security doesn’t pay enough to cover rent literally anywhere. housing assistance may or may not approve me - i can’t even apply usefully until i have EI income, since housing assistance does not = free rent and i sure as hell don’t have a damage deposit saved up.

things don’t look good. i don’t know what i’m sick with. i have no money. and i’m living in hell. this isn’t coherent or well written, i know. it serves no functional purpose. but it feels better to dump it on the internet than it did to scrawl it in my diary in apoplectic fits as it was all happening. maybe some day i’ll try to tell a real story. to tell a story, usefully. to some end other than weakly grasping at small measures of catharsis. i hope some day i can. for now, it’s enough to scream “i’m hurting” and walk away. so now i’m gonna go outside into the violent wind, and walk away.

goodnight. if you read, or even skimmed this, thanks. it’s bad and heavy, i know. so thanks. goodnight :)

[smartshopperteam]

What We Wore To The Women's March On Washington

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Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Today’s Women’s March on Washington was one of the largest demonstrations in American history (and we’re not even counting all the people who attended the sister marches in other cities all over the world). The sheer size of the march makes sense when you consider that its main mission — to promote and defend women’s rights — speaks to America’s single largest “minority” group. Women make up 51% of the American population, and a large part of the fight means showing those in power that this constituency and its needs will be impossible to ignore. It makes sense, then, that we dressed to be seen.

We wore pantsuits and Pussyhats and clear backpacks and puffer coats. We wore saris and hijabs and wigs and weaves. Some of us wore what we wear every day, and some of us wore our nicest things out, but all of us came with the intention to be recognized for our womanhood. The people who attended represent the wide cross-section of the myriad backgrounds, cultures, and ideologies, and the things we picked to wear showcase that variety.

Ahead, we’re showing the women who joined us (and you! and her!) at the march today, and the outfits they chose for it.

Raquel Willis

“I wanted to wear something that was unabashedly feminine, but also powerful. Something that shows that I’m okay being cute, but I will still kick your ass.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Lindsay Arakawa

“I just feel powerful in these clothes in general. This tee is an Alpha Female tee from @SparkleDiva69, and some big pants. My hat is from Korea.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

“My jean jacket is from a thrift store in San Francisco with some pins I got at Refinery29.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Jeni Tanner Jordan

“A friend of mine who is the head escort at one of the independent abortion clinics in Montgomery, Alabama made these earrings. She couldn’t be here, and she wanted me to wear them for her. And my pussy hat; no march is complete without it. My friend made it for me, too — she couldn’t make the trip, either, so that was her way to contribute and be a part of it. I’m a secular feminist who’s disabled in the South. I feel like if people see me, and they see I’m outspoken, they might think they don’t have to be ashamed or afraid.

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

“I’m the legislative liaison for The Greater Birmingham National Organization for Women; I served as president the two previous years. Trump got elected, and our first meeting after was full of people who wanted to make a difference, who were ready to take action now, and I think that’s what’s important. This is the first time since Trump won the electoral college that I have felt hope. Coming here and seeing all these pink pussy hats — I know we’re all going to go back and take action and things are going to start changing, because we see right now just how terrible it is.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Annie Rose

“Oh, this old thing? This was painted on me lovingly by my friend. It says, My fierce, powerful body. My choice.’ I just feel really passionate about not struggling for simply hanging out. We’re fighting for more than just equality. We’re fighting for liberation for all people. I feel beautiful, magical, and strong.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Aurora James

“I’ve had this sweater for a long time, and it says ‘Panther Power’ on it. What I’m wearing actually was my last thought! I’m here because I think it’s so important that we all get out and stand up for what we believe in. We’ve been a little bit of a passive society, and I think we need to actually motivate ourselves to go and support what needs supporting.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

“I designed my purse — it’s Brother Vellies. I think it’s important to carry and wear things I felt my most comfortable in.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Aurora Linnea and Crystal Dyer

“We’re in mourning clothing.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Aurora Linnea

“I really want to be in solidarity with women in this moment. I feel like there are so many threats to all people with this administration, but the threats to women in particular are very real and very harrowing. And I just want to be women right now and feel good about it.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Crystal Dyer

“I’m really inspired by older feminists. I wanted my veil to reference nuns and sisters — my hat is Masonic. On so many levels I’m upset by Trump’s presidency. Like, racially, even economically — I’m pretty much against him in every way.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Betsy Fiory-McCoy

“I’m wearing pink because we think Trump needs to understand that a ‘pussy’ is only intended to be a small cat or a term of love between people who like each other. It’s not something to be grabbed on women he’s never met before.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Paloma Elsesser

“I wanted to look like I’m a SWAT, because I’m here to fight. I’m ready and braced for that.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Marion Zaniello

“I have a business named Marz Denim, and I make painted jeans. This is a Martin Luther King, Jr. quote on front: ‘Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.’ The back has a Rupi Kaur quote, who’s a more contemporary female poet. It says, ‘We all move forward when we recognize how resilient and striking the women around us are.’”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Tenzin

“These are the robes of the Buddha that we wear in our particular tradition. They help us uphold our vows, keep us strong in terms of our being committed to social justice. Our practice is for the benefit of all beings. That includes women, doesn’t it?”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Adama Sow

“I’m from Dakar, Senegal, and I’m American. I got these overalls from a vintage store in Amsterdam, and everything else was my mom’s.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

“I’m here because I couldn’t not be here. Everything else just didn’t feel like it was worth my energy. This is where I want to be, and this is where I need to be.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Amy Hood

“We wanted to represent red, white, blue, and pink — so this femme-patriotic. This is how we dress every day. Everyone thinks we’re wearing a costume, but this is what we wear.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Pussyhat Project caps in action.

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Rachael Wang

“I’m wearing a lot of vintage today, but I had to wear a beret just to throw it back and pay homage to all the movements that have come before us. I’ve got a really good Marilyn Minter button on my beret. It says, ‘Don’t fuck with us, don’t fuck without us.’”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Siobhan Buckley and Jadyn Kist

“We went to the mall yesterday and we wanted to get anything pink there was. It’s a feminist color. We had talked to Code Pink before, and then I was working for The Feminist Majority Foundation, and both use pink.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Nora Mahmoud

“I’m wearing purple for the suffragettes, because that’s the color that they used to wear. And I’m wearing a leather jacket because they’re badass. My purple hijab says freedom and power to me — freedom to determine how others see me, and how I move through the world. We’re here to march and to support everyone who is oppressed and who don’t feel safe, because everyone deserves to feel safe in this country.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Halle Bryant

“I’m wearing this shirt, which I got from my grandma. I’m Native, and it says, ‘Homeland Security, Fighting Against Terrorism since 1492.’ And it has a picture of a bunch of renowned chiefs.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Jessica

“I wanted something with red, white, and blue. And then, my Black Flag shirt for reasons that are obvious. This hat is a Beyoncé lyric. I wanted to be protected — to be warm, safe from pepper spray, and ready to fight. Yeah — fuck this. There are so many reasons to be here.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Susanna

“Donald Trump tries to fight Muslims, and Mexicans, people of all colors and religions. I’m here to support each person that comes here for this rally. The sign says ‘No racism, no hate. Yes for love and peace’ to show that that’s our religion and Islam is peace.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Harriet Sokmensuer

“All my clothes are secondhand, so it’s just kind of roll with the punches. I usually stick with black, because it’s easy — and that’s pretty empowering. This is my most comfortable, badass outfit — it’s vintage Levi’s, my oldest Vans, a comfortable leather jacket, and this little clutch.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

“My back patch is made from a pillowcase.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Danielle Jackson

“This is very warm — I can layer it up.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

“The coat has deep pockets, and I have a fanny pack. You want to be hands-free out here! You want to be able to shout and cheer.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Collette Williams

“My hair shrinks in this kind of weather, so I decided to just tie it. Also, too, I grabbed it should it get risky, and they start firing off the smoky stuff. It’s good to have something to cover your face. It’s [my daughter’s] generation, and her children, if they come after. We hope that this is something they won’t have to do. But if they have to, their mother’s prepared.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Ketchell

“I don’t own pants, and I thought it’d be cold!

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Val Norman

“We gotta make it known that the Blackness and your natural heritage is a beautiful thing, instead of just only white things being beautiful.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Alicia Smith

“I think I feel like my most true self. My hair wrap is activism. I’m trying to brush off stereotypes and what people expect me to be.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Julia Arnsten

“Doctors tend to be listened to, and we have a lot of things to say. We want to take care of everybody — health care is a human right. We believe in the Affordable Care Act.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Dawn Goldworm

“These jackets came partly embellished, and then we added it onto it. We wanted to do a sort of revolutionary military thing, but soften it with love and happiness.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Dawn Goldworm and Katrina Blandino

“We’re matching on purpose! We’re best friends. I think, in a way, all the women here match. They’re trying to divide us, and we have to come together, because we’re all the same.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Nadya Rockefeller

“We wanted to honor all the famous suffrage acts.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Karin Tanabe

“We both attended Vassar College, and Vassar has a history of supporting women’s rights. We wanted to honor that.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Cora Cofield

“I’ve been wearing this shirt at work a lot, because I feel like I’m surrounded by a lot of men. It makes a statement all day long. In my opinion, this is assertiveness — I take a stand.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

“I’m an electrician, so I wear pants all the time. So on Saturdays, I wear a dress.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Zarah Soria, Brittany Carmon, Alicia Castro, and Hazel Diaz

“We weren’t originally dressed like this, and then we saw a vendor with Black Lives Matter hoodies that had the names of all the victims. We were like ‘That is dope, and we need to wear that.’”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Hazel Diaz

“We wanted to make sure women of color were represented here in the march today. Our sign says ‘Not Whores, Not Saints, Just Women,’ in Spanish. My 11- and 9-year-old made this for us. We want to make sure that people understand that women aren’t here to battle each other and compete with each other to the top. Empowering each other is like essential. Like, we do that in our friendships and our relationships with each other, and we show that to our children and our family members, and in our community. We definitely wanted to make sure that there was something that represented the work that we all do together.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Christine

“My clothes don’t symbolize anything. I just wanted to be comfortable. I’m protesting Trump. He’s a menace. When George Bush was elected, we didn’t like it, but we didn’t take to the streets like this. This is trouble. People don’t realize it. He’s duped a lot of people.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Solange Franklin Reed

“Turtlenecks reference Black Panthers. I’m here for intersectional feminism, environmental justice, to be an ally for non-heteronormative and non-racist, and non-homophobic values.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Rachel Manning

“They were giving out Bing Bang pins, so I put them on my hat. I also got a bunch of pins from my grandmother and my mother that I wanted to wear.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

“I also wore all pink, because obviously.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Irisa, Patty Patton, Marie Antoinette, Samy, Kareema, Lorenzo

Kareema:

“Pink represents women, and is synonymous with women. We just wanted something that spoke to power, unity, and something that would represent a collective whole — so we wore berets. The black leather jackets are just a necessity, because it’s cold! We match because that’s strength. We’re all family and we wanted to unite for this cause.”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

Samy

“I trained my kids to be activists since they were knee-high. My first protest was in New York. I was a transit advocate. I was called ‘The Mad Lady of the A Train.’”

Photographed by Michelle Groskopf

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