c o v e r s t o r y
Pursuing the Femme Identity
by Andrea Spoehrer

f e a t u r e s
Revealing the "psuedo-invert"
Una, Lady Troubridge
by Alison Phipps
Ashes in the Paint
by Michelle Bancroft

c o l u m n s
Health
by Dr. Lipstick
Wealth
by Ms. Moneygrrl
Sex
by SexySuzi
Advice
by Victoria
Fashion
by Dara
Femme Perspective
by Kenya
Butch Perspective
by D

Publisher's Note
Letter from the Editor
Contribute to Femme

Fashion for the Femme Fatale

Dateline: Paris, Winter 1999 for the Spring/Summer 2000 Fashion Shows

by Dara Paris

I entered the chaotic dressing room to find the most sumptuous creature in front of me. She was dressed in what could only be termed a playful nod to California beachgirl-style t-shirts, blue with "Beachbabe" styled across it. She, the ultimate blonde, was the center of attention, flashing cameras bombarding her. I bit my lip, both in happiness and shock. This was the Big Leagues and I was witnessing all the action.

As a relative unknown I wasn't jaded yet. My eyes and ears weren't bothered by chit-chat from my closest friends whom I'd never met before, unlike the well-known journalists such as Suzie Menkes and Andre Leon Talley who were as much celebrities as the supermodels. Okay, I'm a complete unknown; just a student who lied my way in, pretending to be an American fashion journalist come to witness and report the backstage truth of the Paris fashion scene.

Which ones are the star models and who are the reporters? Never mind. This is fashion, where everyone is fabulous. And yes, even I got to be fabulous for a week. I got to live a dream - the dream of so many of my male friends. Claudia Schiffer was right there, in front of me!

But where was Morganne? my lovely partner-in-crime, uh, assistant. We had quite a little racket set up. You see, I pitched my story idea to a designer press agent who hung up on me twice. Yes twice, and don't ask darlings, its too painful, still. Morganne, who speaks flawless French, placed the next call and wrangled the necessary information out of that press agent - the name and contact information we were seeking. Those Parisians are such language snobs! I was humbled and Morganne placed all the remaining calls. And the rest is fashion history.

So, there we were, at the shows. Claudia, the star of the show at Balmain, stood before me in the flesh, but I had no camera to add to those dizzying lights. Morganne had our beloved PHD (push here dummy) camera, which was not particularly impressive next to the cameras that cost more than I wanted to fathom. She was wrangling with the pesky guards. In my insolence I swept past them. I told you darlings, its fashion, everyone can be fabulous!

I went back to rescue Morganne and ran into Christophe Carrere, our patron saint. He and his company, D'Accord, created and produced the shows-with the designers of course. He's the one who made sure we got into corners no other journalists were even allowed to venture towards, even those famous ones. Pretty heady for the pipsqueak upstarts we were. Surely Christophe had recognized in us the same spirit that got him into fashion 12 years ago.

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