Word: sweatshirtings
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...Leary won’t ever get to be a professional ballerina. “But today I got a small glimpse,” she says, pulling a sweatshirt on over her leotard as she steps gracefully offstage...
...you’re conscious you’re wearing Harvard clothes leave ’em home. I have a sweatshirt I got freshman year that is still around 19 years later...
...clothes for the evening: baggy, double-kneed Carhartts hanging low, a raglan t-shirt, sneakers and a navy-blue hooded sweatshirt. To this get-up, I add a pair of plaid boxers, a tacky “Bahamas” baseball cap and an athletic bandage wrapped tightly around my chest. The latter compresses my breasts into uncomfortable beef patties. When I remove the bandage three hours later, red lines outline my stomach and sternum. In profile, though, I look convincingly breastless...
Half an hour later, I’m slouching by myself on a barstool at Cambridge Common, baseball cap pulled low and tucked under the dark hood of my sweatshirt. Amy, the cheerful bartender, asks for my ID and I hand over my California license, which bears a picture of me as a beatific, long-haired sixteen year-old girl. Amy looks back at me with an arched eyebrow and, remembering Starecheski’s advice, I bark, “Brooklyn Lager.” A sufficiently manly pint...
...queens and kings of Drag Bingo still play off familiar drag norms, and most are either swishy hypercamp males decked out in bedazzling sequins and Tammy Faye Baker/slaughterhouse makeup, or butchy chicks in a half-assed suits and ties. I’m still wearing the sweatshirt and baggy jeans configuration...