• Abstract and Figures
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Author’s Note Disclaimer: Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals. In these instances, original names have been replaced with Russian aliases because I’m obsessed with the Romanovs, thanks to the animated classic Anastasia. And don’t even get me started on Russian gymnastics. Sensitivity warning: While this book has hilarious fun moments, it also discusses tough issues. While there aren’t graphic details, if you’re a survivor of sexual abuse, or struggling with addiction, please utilize the resources pages in the back of this book. Dedication Imperfection is beautiful. To anyone who has ever felt broken beyond repair, this is for you. If you’ve ever been excluded, or told you were not enough, know that you are enough, and beautifully complete. Contents Cover Title Page Author’s Note Dedication Chapter 1: All the Parts Chapter 2: Jack Chapter 3: The Loyal Tea Chapter 4: Roundoff Back Handspring Full Chapter 5: Lovestarved Chapter 6: Chapter 7: Gutsy Queen Chapter 8: Mr. Clean Chapter 9: Jonathan and the No Good, Very Bad Summer Chapter 10: The Khaleesi Within* *Except That Whole Unfortunate Ending Chapter 11: Who is She? Epilogue: On the Ice Acknowledgments Resources About the Author Copyright About the Publisher Chapter 1 All the Parts YOU KNOW THOSE PLANTS THAT ARE ALWAYS TRYING TO FIND THE light? Maybe they were planted in a location that didn’t necessarily facilitate growth, but inexplicably they make a circuitous route to not only survive but bloom into a beautiful plant. That was me—my whole life. But extremely flamboyantly jubilant and oh so gay. Picture me in the seventh grade: a chubby, slightly snaggletoothed kid with a voluminous mop of frizzy curly hair that screamed through layers of gel for what I desperately wanted to be a Hanson-esque, smooth collarbone-length center-parted man- bob. I’d be cycling through several of my cutest looks, usually monochromatic jumpers with severe Doc Martens boots, just to go to the mall. It felt entirely possible that a talent scout would be there, in the nation’s smallest capital of Springfield, Illinois, on the off-weekend my family was there for a soccer tournament with my brothers, just waiting outside Claire’s to discover a kid like me and guide me to center stage. I’d practice ice-skating routines in my living room, trying to be like the Olympians I idolized, imagining how triumphant I’d be when I finally seized that gold medal. With a cute enough outfit and the right attitude (yet no ability to skate, flip, or sing), I could become a Michelle Kwan–, Dominique Dawes–, or Christina Aguilera–level hero. And maybe, just maybe, someday I’d get out of Quincy, Illinois. (And by “someday,” I meant: as soon as physically possible.) The years of fantasizing about reaching stratospheric fame through a local mall discovery had long since faded by 2017. I’d settled for much more attainable goals. I became a hairdresser, working in both LA and New York. I’d stumbled, very gratefully, into a side hustle in the form of a web series called Gay of Thrones. That spring I would move to Atlanta to shoot a dream project with four new friends. We had beaten out the collective gay world for these five coveted positions, and we all knew it was a monumental opportunity. Like Maya Angelou taught me, I was hoping for the best, but preparing for the worst, so that nothing could catch me off guard. I was just happy that I had completed my mission of escaping cornfield-small-town-only-gay-person infamy and was now free to live an authentic queer life in a gorgeous big city with a Trader Joe’s and nobody thinking twice about my leggings. A year later in February, Queer Eye had just come out, and I was on my way to a meeting at Town & Country. Do I know what you do at magazine meetings? Absolutely not! But I’ve seen enough America’s Next Top Model seasons to know how to nail a go-see. To my shock I arrived early, so I went to grab a coffee, and as I was walking in, this lady with the most gorgeous expertly done microbraids and giant glasses stopped me and bellowed, “Honey, this faggotry you are serving is giving me everything!” At first, I was confused. Did she just call me a fag? But the smile on her face and her extreme proximity seemed to suggest a loving and enamored person. I’m now doubly confused, I’m running ahead of schedule, and strangers are stopping me. Mind you, it’s still 8:15 a.m., my eyes still subtly perma-stoned from last night’s edible, and I hadn’t even had my coffee yet! So I said, “Thanks, queen,” and continued on my way. But then two steps later, two other girls stopped me. They said they were living for the show and asked if they could take selfies. Of course I said, “Yes, sweets!” and that caused a few more girls from outside the shop to come in for what was quickly becoming an impromptu meet-and-greet. My original encounter from the store got in line for her pic next, then became the photographer for the rest of the meet-and-greet. After thanking all my new friends, I left the coffee shop to head back to Town & Country with no coffee because I forgot. Well, that was fun. How much am I thriving right now? I thought. Crossing the street to go to my meeting, a very nice man stopped me and began playing twenty questions with me about my life, about the show, about everything. I obliged, because I’m eternally a people pleaser, and I didn’t want him to feel bad, but at that point my early arrival turned into being fully actually late to the meeting. I tried to explain that to him as I was frolicking away like a gorgeous gazelle toward the doors of the Hearst building. When I was filming Queer Eye in secrecy with the boys in Atlanta in 2017, sometimes producers, or people who were familiar with the show’s revival, would ask me, “Are you ready for your life to change?” I always said, “OMG, yes! So excited to not keep a secret, and I’ve definitely been stopped by fans for, like, three to seven selfies a day once a year when I go to Pride, so I’m totally ready!” How different would my day-to-day life really be? I’d been going about my life, just business as usual, the same way it had always been. But this morning, something shifted. People knew who I was, everywhere I went. There was a girl who stopped me on the corner of Twenty-Third and Park not long after the show came out. We made eye contact for a split second and it was like an invisible Jackie Chan punched her in the stomach. She doubled over. She took a dramatic step back. “Oh my God,” she yelled. “Oh my God! Oh my God!” I was so worried about her that I stopped right there and pulled her onto the curb. We sat for a while until she pulled herself together. It surprised me how often people would stop me, becoming deeply vulnerable about the way the show had changed their lives. Most of the time it would hit me in a really gorgeous place. But other times it would be painfully triggering to hear about their pain and what they were struggling with. Sometimes I was tempted to give people my phone number, and at times would until my mom impressed upon me how unwise this was. In therapy I had learned about “selective permeability” (a term that pertains to cellular membranes letting some, but not all, molecules enter the cell; the same can apply to interacting with people—not taking on the experiences or negativity of others, but staying open to accepting joy or gratitude) but although I had practiced that behind the chair at work as a hair stylist, I had never had to exercise those muscles so nimbly anywhere anytime with strangers so often. Learning to hold a safe space for people to share with me while maintaining my well-being is a delicate dance. When people had asked me whether I was ready for my life to change, I don’t think I really understood what they meant. It wasn’t just that strangers would know who I was. It was this other thing that started to happen to me: when I looked in their eyes, sometimes, there was a little voice in my head wondering, Would you still be so excited to meet me if you really knew who I was? If you knew all the things I’d done? If you could see all my parts? Sure, there’s a part of me that’s endlessly positive. But it’s just one part. It’s a beautiful part, a strong part, and an important part, but it’s not all of it. There are other parts I want to show, parts that are a little bit scarier to get into. Like the nagging, insecure part of me that worries my positivity is faker than the hair that covers the chalkboard scalp of Donald Trump. Or the part of me that’s had sex with a ton of people—a lot of whom I wish I hadn’t.

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