You know those moments in life that shape everything, but you never talk about them?

For sixty years, I kept one of mine buried.

I’m Bill, aka Tiffany, aka The Crystal Empress XIII, and if you’d told me at 78 I’d finally be sharing the story I’d locked away since 1959, I would’ve laughed. Or cried. Probably both.

But here we are.

Let’s start in Lakewood, New Jersey, 1946.

Picture a postcard-perfect town. Frozen lakes, horse-drawn carriages, and me, a blue baby named William, born to a Greek father and Polish mother. My grandparents met on Ellis Island. My grandmother Rose couldn’t read or write, but she could sign her name on a check like a boss. She promised my dying grandfather she’d give me a good life. She kept that promise for 35 years.

Then came California. The orange groves. The 1955 Oldsmobile station wagon Mom drove 1,000 miles a day to get us to San Diego. The Catholic school nuns who swung rulers like they were training for Wimbledon.

And then, at twelve, the Boy Scouts.

I joined looking for a father figure.

What I found instead was a scout leader who saw something else.

El Monte Park. A comet streaking across the sky. A hand on my thigh. Then silence.

I quit the Scouts the next day. Told no one.

A year later, he found me again. Walking my bike home with a flat tire, he pulled up, offered a ride, and turned right instead of left. The senior parking lot. The tennis courts. The same nightmare.

1959. I told no one until 2021.

Here’s the thing about secrets: they don’t stay in one place.

They seep into everything. Gym class became a nightmare, I forged notes to avoid the showers, then became the towel attendant just to have an excuse. I dated girls, got married, got divorced. Won dance contests. Built salons. Lost them. Became Miss Gay San Diego 1982. Got crowned Crystal Empress XIII. Lost everything. Moved to board and care. Gained 125 pounds from medication. Lost it. Found my sister after forty years, only to discover twenty-nine Chihuahuas and a whole different kind of prison.

But that secret? It was always there. Humming underneath.

So why tell it now?

Because at seventy-five, I finally called the attorneys. Because Nicki, my apartment manager, kept saying “Write your story!” for two years until I listened. Because my friend Pierre helped me pull these memories out of the dark and onto the page.

Because if a twelve-year-old somewhere reads this and thinks, “I’m not alone”, then every word was worth it.

The title? Pantyhose Saved My Life.

Sounds funny, right? But ask any drag queen about the five layers of protection. Ask anyone who survived the AIDS epidemic by being careful. Ask the boy who learned that armor comes in many forms, sequins, leather, or a simple pair of hose that kept more than just my secrets tucked away.

My sister once joked that Mom “turned me gay” by dressing me as a hula girl for Halloween. People say wild things when they don’t want to face the truth. The truth is simpler: I am who I am. Bill. Tiffany. Survivor. Son. Brother. Empress.

And after sixty years, I’m finally telling the whole story.

If you’ve carried something that long, maybe it’s time to set it down.

Not forget it. Never forget. But let it sit beside you instead of on top of you.

That’s what this book is for me. A letting-go.

And if RuPaul ever reads this, yes, that night at City Deli in 1982, when you snapped your fingers and said I put the “D” in drag? I remember. You were twenty-two. I was thirty-five. And neither of us knew where life would take us.

Turns out, we both ended up exactly where we belonged.

Pantyhose Save My Life! is available now. It’s funny, it’s heartbreaking, and it’s all true. Every glittering, messy, miraculous bit.

Come sit with me awhile. I’ve got stories to tell.