“I went back and made my way nervously into the unflattering fluorescent light of Dusty’s dressing room. Mary Isabel Catherine Bernadette O’Brien (Dusty Springfield to the rest of us) was heavily made up, her eyes rimmed with her trademark heavy black eyeliner. Her hair was white-blond, and she was wearing some kind of sequined beaded number. Her look was over-the-top in a bad way. The elitist snob in me rebelled, but she was an icon; and so was I, albeit in a Canadian, self-effacing kind of way.
Two years earlier, I had lost my beautiful, blonde, unattainable mother to cancer just when I was starting to make a tenuous connection with her. I never got enough love from my mother. If you are a lesbian, you know where this is going.
My first words were, “Vicki suggested that we meet.” Dusty looked at me shyly and smiled. We started to talk and joke around, and within moments were flirting madly with each other. I inched closer. Dusty’s hand reached out to stroke my leather pants. She showed a warped sense of humour; she told me that when she was tarted up, she felt like a Puerto Rican drag queen. We broke into slang like a couple of cockney yobs.”| tags: