Running Out Of Orgasm

Ladies, cross dressers, start your engines. It is time to buy new make-up.

My eyeliner has been ground down to a mini shank. I’m scraping the bottom of my Orgasm.

Orgasm is the name of my blush, perverts.

For some of you the prospect of buying new make-up might bring up feelings of excitement, and possibly even a rush of pre-consumerism joy.

The brightly lit aisles and thousands of tubes of gloss and face cream lining the shelves of Sephora may make your heart pound with possibility.

For me, it makes me tinkle a little with anxiety.

The thought of having to purchase new makeup is about as thrilling to me as the thought of going into Nordstrom for a bra fitting.

Turn around! Now jiggle jiggle jiggle those jugs into this metal lined contraption!

Some of my friends (okay, one of my friends) would argue: You don’t need make-up! What about character, that weird way you can cross your eyes, the way you can balance a small animal on your ample bosom?

Yeah, yeah, yeah. But have you seen what I look like without make-up?

Oh, it’s bad, people. B-A-D. Not as bad as the ring of unmentionableness doing a swing your partner round and round, grab that flesh and a do-si-do around my middle (thankyouverymuchthreecsecions).

As an experiment I went au natural for a day. I heard: You look exhausted! And: Are you coming down with a virus?

When I looked in the mirror I saw dark circles under my eyes, the large red zit on the side of my nose, and a general look of alopecia where there should have been eyelashes.

What I want is to look fresh and natural (who sounds like a douche commercial now?). I don’t want to look like a hooker or like I’m trying to be all Emo-like.

I really loved Dove’s Campaign for Beauty. I think media, advertisements and the fashion industry have made it impossible for women to feel good about themselves. We are trying to attain something that isn’t even real. We’ve been duped, ladies.

So I know that I must meet my own definition of beauty and not expect to look like a model.   I’m good with that. After all, I’m forty-one. I don’t have delusions about some model scout stopping me on the street and saying, “I’ve been wanting a middle-aged 5’3″ puffy Jewish lady to be the next big thing!”

I just want to feel good about what I see looking back at me in the mirror.

Rather than starting at Nordstrom (tinkle) I went to Target for a little do-it-yourself make up shopping.

I came home with a bag filled with concealer, eyeliner, mascara, under eye fixits, and firming cream for my giblet.

The problem with buying make-up at Target is that you can’t try it on when you’re there, so you have to take it home, see if it works, and return it if it doesn’t. We all know how much fun the return process at Target is.


The concealer I picked out made me look like Morticia Addams.

Image by Mallory Milke

The mascara made me look like Tammy Faye. Every time I blinked I felt like my eyeballs were being blugeoned.

Clearly I needed help. I doubled up on my grandma panties, tucked them under the too-low waist of my ill fitting jeans and headed into Nordstrom.

The first thing I saw was the Mac make-up counter. It looked like a mosh pit. Girls were swarming all around and I couldn’t tell who was working the counter. No one really looked human. There were feathers, glitter, Viva this, and transwhat? that.

I make love to you with my green eyelashes

I was about to slink away and leave only a small puddle of urine in my wake to show for my time at Mac when a make-up artist approached me. She was wearing an apronish fannypack-like get-up filled with any overwhelming array of brushes. Her face was made up to look, well, like a kitten. She guided me through the crowd to a seat and was suddenly wiping me down with wet cottonballs.

Before I knew it I was armed with Pervette lipstick, Naked Lunch, Phloof!, and Aquadisiac eyeshadows, Fever blush (to replace my Orgasm with something more viral), Haute & Naughty Lash (great for those of you who have horny eyelashes), and a couple of items from Mac’s new Glamour Gourmet line.

All so I can bring home the bacon and fry it up like a robothooker.