So I was at the beach last week, "celebrating" the birth of this nation from the womb of murder, genocide, and chattel slavery (AKA 4th of July) with some brown and beautiful friends, whence suddenly, I had to pee. No big deal, right? Aside from the seemingly endless trek from our spot in the sand to the nearest public restroom (which was exhausting, by the way. Hot day, hotter sand, and no sandals), this should have been routine.
But it wasn't.
When dressing and packing for the beach, I failed to remember that mens' beach bathrooms have no stall doors. It's a ridiculous rule, but standard none-the-less. For a pre-op trans guy, this was a serious oversight. Remembering my female anatomy, I decided to use the women's restroom.
This took some prep work. Stepping away from the facilities for a moment, I tried to channel my energies into "female" mode. I felt like a fucking transformer, disassembling my masculine exterior in an attempt to reveal that "she" hidden inside. A slight sway in my step and a swollen chest were about the only two gendering assets I could work, so I got in line, practically cradling my breasts as if to say "Hey! I have these! I belong!"--the opposite of my daily ritual.
That's when I remembered just how little straight people like gender ambiguity. Standing there in the never-ending line, I got more than a few stares. I got the points, the whispers, the head-to-toe-to-head-to-toe scans, the murmurs and chuckles, and finally, the "excuse me! EXCUSE ME!!" Which I consciously chose to ignore, since I didn't care to engage what was waiting on the other end ["you're in the wrong restroom" (no I'm not. but then again, yes I am), "are you a boy or a girl?" (um, both. um, neither. a boy in a girl's body...well, I guess it depends on who you ask...), "you shouldn't be in here!" (maybe you're right. but then where do I go? If I show you my goodies will you be convinced?)].
So I handled my business and jetted as quickly as possible...headed back to the beach, reassembling myself with each step.