Author’s note: I wrote this earlier in the year and had nowhere really to post it. So, now it is here.
Most of the time I feel at home with my female biological distribution. I enjoy makeup, skirts, high heels, skinny jeans, the curve of my neck into my shoulder, the contour of my collarbones. The delicate grace of my tiny hands, gesturing dramatically as I speak. My innate ability to focus my sexuality and use it in interactions with men and women. The way sunglasses make me look rather bitchy.
I’ve always been genderqueer, and valuing of masculine traits to the point of being almost sexist. Or just outright sexist. Being an academic, I’m aware that the mere endorsement of feminine/masculine “values” as such can be a sexist statement in and of itself. Tiring, to think on it today. Suffice it to say that I have great respect for logic and directness. I have little patience with dithering or passivity in myself, though my tolerance for it in others is more complex. I don’t understand women as a general population. Inter-personally I tend to find them baffling, though I’ve met more and more who I can connect with of late. Cheers to metropolitan living, and the variety of people who increase accordingly.
On a few occasions though, I have found myself in complete contempt of my feminine form and the implications it has. Hiking, in particular, seems to draw my attention to my (albeit minimal) excess flesh. The extra fat making up my small breasts, padding my inner thighs and stomach and the curve of my ass moves over lean muscle and functional bone, cartilage and sinew. Inefficient. Irksome. Wrong, in a subtle, unmistakable way. Not to mention the plumbing system. Intelligent design, I beg to fucking differ.
And for what? The possibility of children I neither want nor need? To host another organism in my personal domain? Unlikely. If so, not for my own purposes, but to help someone else attain theirs.
Partly because I know it makes me more intriguing as a female, and possibly because I listened to too much Toby Keith growing up, I have cultivated a taste for fine scotch. Ardbeg, if you are curious, is my present favorite. Scotch, mountain-man style camping (I own an actual buffalo robe), knife throwing, and the occasional cigar. A cigar which is most certainly not “just a cigar” but is very much a declaration of masculine and gay intent. As much as I despise Freud, I do most certainly have “penis envy.” Such an elegant and functional organ. Straightforward. No pun intended, but it was funny, wasn’t it?
All of these carefully nurtured proclivities, my own version of a masculinity complex.
Sometimes I read. Fanfiction. Slash fanfiction, to be precise. The hundreds of thousands of stories extrapolating upon the “what if” behind any given plot line where male characters seem to value one another beyond the hetero-obvious.
Then I ache. To feel my male body pressed to another man. The affirmation of masculinity that could only really be expressed between two men. To have a direct and functioning cock instead of the zone of asexual ambiguity that I am presently plagued with. To see, intimately the ways one man might interact with another in the absence of female censure, or societal subjugation. To have an equivalent sense of power to play with, to have a more profound submission, and a more magnificent dominance.
I ruined a tube of eyeliner today. My roommate was napping with her door open, and I closed the bathroom door, and started to draw. I thickened my eyebrows (ironic, given that my tweezers for the opposite purpose reside in the same glass). I sketched out a mustache, and then a goatee. Simple. I crept across the hall and donned a sports bra and my boyfriend’s plaid flannel shirt. Tiptoed back to see the effect in the mirror.