By Michael Montlack
From Elizabeth Taylor, Bette Midler, and Diana Ross to Queen Elizabeth I, Julia baby, and Princess Leia, those divas were sister, regulate ego, fairy godmother, or version for survival to homosexual males and the closeted boys they as soon as have been. And anyone—straight or homosexual, younger or previous, male or female—who ever wanted a muse, or discovered one, will see their very own longing reflected the following to boot. those witty and poignant brief essays discover purposes for diva-worship as different because the writers themselves. My Diva deals either intensity and glamour because it will pay tribute with pleasure, intelligence, and fierce, fierce love. Finalist, Lambda ebook Award for LGBT Anthology, Lambda Literary beginning
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Additional resources for My Diva: 65 Gay Men on the Women Who Inspire Them
We couldn’t tell when she stopped singing and the record began scratching in its perpetual groove. The two gritty, gravelly sounds seemed strangely alike. But at some point Mary would stand up, her thin arms in the air, too much lipstick on her puckered lips. ” she shouted, imitating the ﬂat, dull, unforgiving voice of Lenya’s unremitting but indispensable love. And then it was time to do homework. 42 Gloria Swanson Sunset Boulevard Edward Field I grew up during the era when the movie studios built up their movie stars into gods and goddesses—but especially, for me, the goddesses, ﬁgures like Bette Davis, Joan Crawford, Rita Hayworth, Ava Gardner, Ingrid Bergman, Greta Garbo, and of course, Judy—a pantheon that dominated the fantasy lives of the whole country.
There were small pots of powder and liquid in gold and violet, ecru and rose; tubes of lipstick in dark 33 Claude Cahun reds and pinks; and elaborate vials of perfume. And there was a mirror too, a tall one, which is where our gazes met. She was taped in a corner: Claude Cahun, alongside Garbo (I think), a pop star who made a good deal of noise at the time, and a couple of fashion images whose slick perfection meant nothing beside Cahun’s visage. She was blisteringly white, topped with an intricate coif; painted hearts ornamented her snowy cheekbones, and her lips were drawn together in a tight, dark moue.
As I found that new mode, the model I echoed, the chanteuse, as it were, whose stylings I imitated, was Sappho. Before you say a word, I am yours. Take without asking. Don’t explore; don’t discover. Make use—make me do it. In recent work, I’ve poked fun at my own Sapphic investiture—What about a good old-fashioned ich-du type poem, like the old days, Budweisers and brown paper bags, high school sweethearts and gym-class heartthrobs, the bad skin, bad teeth, never saying, always doing, the art of the locker room drive-by .
My Diva: 65 Gay Men on the Women Who Inspire Them by Michael Montlack