The First Time I put on my mothers lipstick – age 24 . First I put on her overcoat, it was black blue and exactly what the French would call a vest. It trailed down to just above my knees and had no buttons, making it distinctly for women. Inside it I felt warm, for it was winter and because it was my mother’s. Her hairs were on, many of them and I brushed them off. In one of the pockets I found tissues – she always has them for blowing her nose, a roll of zambuck herbal lip balm, a splinter of chewing gum with three or four gums remaining and a un-capped lipstick. I could not resist and so I put some one as I admired myself in the mirror. I puckered my lips afterwards as I had seen her and other women do so many times. The lips in the mirror resembled Tutankhamen’s but a violet pink. I wondered whether it would be noticeable, whether I would be beaten in the street – as I always walk on foot – or whether my brother or anyone would notice. I then took a tissue and wiped the pink away and it quickly came off to smudge the white tissue in my hand. It would not be complete if I had not done that – had I not removed then and there while I was looking in the mirror. That is part of growing up gay – the excitement of being intrepid, but then covering your tracks afterwards.
After writing this, the lipstick putting event has already happened. It is part of my past and so that feeling of it being novel, it being new is gone. I now question whether this was the first time, or is it just what I think.
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