How Prada Made Me Realize I’m Bad at Being a Gay Stereotype

Last week I accompanied a friend to the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s annual post-Pride gala, which happened to coincide with the museum’s current Prada (as in The Devil Wears Prada) exhibition. Apparently fashion is art. I’m not sure when this happened exactly, as I was probably too busy going to grad school to allow myself to walk by a retail display window and think, “Wow, that shoe is so deep. It should be in a museum.”

Two things:

  1. I’ve never really thought of myself as the type of person who’d show up to a fancy gay gala and high-end fashion exhibit wearing an Old Navy shirt and brown shoes with a black belt… but it seems that I am that type of person, and I might be okay with that.
  2. I’m also the type of person who unabashedly takes pictures in high-end fashion exhibits with my phone, and for that, you’re welcome, because those pictures will be featured here to tell the story of how I’m a repressed dominatrix trapped in a Mennonite’s body. Or something. (This may or may not make sense later.)

Given the above, I was of course judged by many a pretentious gay man throughout the evening. However, I was having way too much fun abusing the open bar to really take issue with such trivialities. I was also busy trying to figure out a way to approach Wilson Cruz, who was in attendance, and let him know that I loved him in the season one Christmas episode of Ally McBeal where he portrayed a down-on-her-luck transvestite prostitute.

Wilson and I never connected, mainly because I kept losing him. Between the drinking and the abundance of people, my stalking abilities (which are typically beyond reproach) were challenged.

                            Army of gays invades the Met, Prada to blame.

Eventually, we finished our cocktails and meandered into the Prada exhibit just before it closed for the evening.

If you were thinking that a museum exhibit of Prada fashion would simply look like a bunch of clothes on mannequins, then you would be correct. That is exactly what it looked like. However, some additional details helped to vaguely legitimatize the whole thing:

  • The mannequins had bizarre Lucha Libre-style wrestling masks covering their faces. It was both creepy and awesome.
  • Moody lighting.
  • There were little descriptions of the clothing on fancy plates that used seemingly big words like “subvert” and “harbinger.”

Naturally, I started trying to figure out which Prada mannequin most represented who I am on the inside. The answer came to me when I found one wearing a kick-ass mask and a super-sexy black dress with a plunging neckline.

                                  I’m feisty and will dominate you in bed.

This mannequin, I thought, is in the driver’s seat of her life. She knows what she wants, and she’s not afraid to take it. Wear a crazy mask that makes it look like I might sexually assault my doorman when I get home just because it’s Tuesday? Don’t mind if I fucking do. And I’ll do it with my fake mannequin boobs all up in your face, too! Because I can.

Me relating to this possibly-criminal minx of a mannequin probably lasted for about thirty more seconds until I discovered the more likely representation of my true self:

                            Don’t say the word “sex” around me, I might melt.

Yep. I am any one of these super conservative wives of Republican men who golf. Or if I’m not one of them, then they are for sure my bitches. We definitely have at least, like, ninety-seven things in common — starting with early bedtimes, an appreciation for perfect vacuum streaks, and the crippling need for a husband. The presence of these women was supremely ironic, as they, like me, could clearly give a shit about fashion. They probably showed up just to fuck with people and laugh later, and I admire them for that.

As I stood in amazement of my mannequin soul mates, a well-dressed young man approached from behind and said, “Ah, brilliant! All of the pleating is an illusion. Oh, Prada!

I wanted to respond meaningfully, but all I could think about was how desperately I wished I could sip martinis with my mannequin bitches while having a roundtable discussion about how hilarious his statement was.

Moments later, my real-life friend with whom I came to the event retrieved me and we proceeded to leave. As we escorted ourselves out, I caught a glimpse of myself in one of the Met’s mirrors. I saw the reflection of a snobby fashion-hater who’s marginally attractive but could probably be way hotter if dressed in nice clothes and given a dramatic facial makeover — much like Anne Hathaway’s character during the entire first half of The Devil Wears Prada. I apparently am that type of person as well.

And I might be okay with that.



  1. I didn’t get into “fashion” until I dated a guy who was an ex-fasion editor. Now, when I want to be, I can pull out the snooty card. But it’s kind of a dick move, and all my designer brand things are hand-me-downs with secret moth holes that I disguise with street-vendor scarves and stuff. So yeah, I guess I’m that kind of person?

    Oh, and new episode of my web series is up on my blog. I hope you keep watching 🙂

    • That is such an awesome type of person, that really this post should have taken into account. P.S. I’m so excited that y’all have a new episode. I’m a freaking die-hard fan – HILARIOUS. Will be sure to blast out to all my co-workers with good senses of humor, as per usual. Heading over shortly!

  2. I absolutely love your voice. My only admonition: WRITE MORE!!!

    • Thank you for the huge compliment! Funny you should mention, I am actually working on drinking less and writing more! (Unsuccessfully, but I plan to keep trying)

  3. LATE comment this time! Been on vacation and had lots of things to catch up on before I got to the blog reading priority on my list. But I’m back now–will update my own blog with a review of the Bruce Springsteen concert I attended on Monday and such ASAP! So stay tuned!

    Just as a first comment: WOW at the black dress in that photo! Will you please buy it for me? lol. Smoking hot, man! That Hannibal Lector mask was the only thing ruined it, but good going, Prada!

    As for the conservative Mitt Romney wives; no thanks. However; looking beyond, it would definitely fit me as well, so don’t fear of feeling alone.

    Anne Hathaway is way more sexy tho!

    • Agreed on Anne – she is a goddess! And YES now that I’m blogging regularly again, I want the same from you!!! (Super jeal that you saw the Boss, BTW, going to live vicariously through your review.)

  4. I’m secretly terrified of the masked mannequin. Also, I LOVE Chanel, but honestly, even though I have a Prada handbag that I’m proud of…most of Prada’s shit is ugly as fuck to me…

    • Haha it is SO terrifying. “Creepy yet awesome” was the only way to describe them. Some of the other masks were equally weird, and one had suggestive bananas on it, but I thought it might be too phallic for my innocent blog.

  5. You are a fabulous writer! Thanks so much for visiting my blog so I could find yours! Awesome post!


  1. […] My So-Called Life, aka that gay guy that you loved in He’s Just Not That Into You) read my last post. In it, I discussed how I failed at stalking Wilson at the Met and was upset about having lost out […]

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