Breaking the Trans Fantasy of Womanhood
A humorous look at my dabbles in traditional femininity
As I toy with the idea of my own transness, it makes me think a lot about gender constructs and how they play into owning your gender. Clothing, hair, roles, I have always seen them all as artificially assigned and dangerously constraining. When trans folx talk about the unnecessary pressure to “pass” in order to be fully their true gender, I’m like deconstruct that shit.
But. But… When it comes to imaging myself as a woman, the little boy in me (okay okay, the adult me too) embraces the fantasy of traditional femininity. Long gowns, sexy heels, a fantastic blow out; I go for the full red-carpet drama.
And so I’ve put on a few of the trappings to see how it feels. To get in touch with the woman in me who just wants to drop some jaws. And so far, my attempts to feel the fantasy have mostly just served me some deconstructed realness.
A highlight reel:
High Heels
Fantasy: Think CEO stomping into a boardroom in a Chanel suit and power heels. Think Adriana Lima in stilettos. Think cosmopolitan woman running across 5th avenue in a flowy skirt and black slingbacks.
Reality: You ever see a dog walking in booties? Or a giraffe wearing roller skates? I’ve felt about as graceful as a a cow on ice anytime I’ve put on heels. I clump-clump around gingerly so I don’t fall over until I kick the damn things back off in relief.
Long Hair
Fantasy: Framed by flowing, gently waving locks, I would be transformed into a soft-faced beauty — or at least a strikingly pouty androgynous model standing by a wind machine.
Reality: I put my friend’s expensive drag wigs on, ready to become a knockout. They made me look like a geriatric member of a 70s rock band. I looked knocked out alright.
Makeup
Fantasy: Drag Race’s Courtney Act — just a touch of makeup for a natural look and voila! Maybe she’s born with it, maybe it’s expert contouring.
Reality: It looked like me… with makeup on. And somehow my chin looked longer? I felt like a Drag Race Season 1 queen, not an All Star under some really damn good stage lighting (seriously, great lighting job, Drag Race).
Dresses
Fantasy: Cute. Cute. Cute. Just feminine and cute. Cute skirts, gorgeous gowns. Or serving Marie Antoinette with her head still on as I strut around in VOLUME.
Reality: Turn the volume up ’cause I didn’t see the cute. Anytime I’ve tried a dress on, I realize how much it matters what you wear for your body type, and most dresses aren’t made for hipless, dadbod belly, overly-developed traps (they do look nice, I’ll admit) body types like mine. Caftans, here I come.
Heels and lipstick don’t a woman make I have already said in my article on getting in touch with transness at a later age. I recognize that my desire to look like a traditional woman, the fantasy woman, is probably a way to feel “legitimate” in a society that arbitrarily ingrained in me what a real woman is. I’m happy to keep deconstructing that fantasy as I explore my trans identity. Which is great, because my calves still hurt from those damn heels.
