When I was a girl, (and I’m saying that from a nearly-middle-aged viewpoint) I wanted to be a boy. I don’t remember ever wanting a penis, but I wore boys’ clothes and played with cars and climbed trees and idolized George from The Famous Five. People used to think I was a boy; I was a tomboy.
Now I’m too old to be called tomboy or even boi, but I still kind of want to be one. I still don’t want a penis though. I don’t want to be a man either – I don’t want a beard or to pee standing up or any of the things that seem to define men. I have no desire to transition, just the need to define my gender any way I want to. So I wear men’s clothes and my hair is short and people call me sir and I like it. I don’t attempt to pass as male; this is just me and the way I look.
I’m not sure whether at this stage I should clarify things by saying that I have nothing against transgendered people or that I’m lucky enough to count a few of them as my closest friends, because that would sound banal – but too late, I’ve done so already and it happens to be true.
So here I am – cis-gendered female, very fond of my vagina and I use feminine pronouns. I shave/trim various bits of my body hair when I feel like it and don’t bother when I’m lazy. I buy my clothes and shoes in the men’s department, where I can just grab the size and style I want without having to face myself in cruel changing-room mirrors. I wear men’s boxer shorts with my bras. I’m not overly fond of sport and I can’t fix cars. I’m an OK cook and I can catch snakes. I’m scared of frogs and deadlines, I have a high pain threshold, I love chocolate and hate handbags.
Gender matters to me to the extent that I am a feminist, so I want equal rights, and I am a lesbian, so my prey-er-interest is women. Beyond that, I really don’t care.
If anyone needs me, I’ll be walking like a man.