Cisgender Dysphoria
Confessions of a Sometime Drag King
I have an image of myself in my head, a mental map, if you will, of the contours of my physical body. This body has bony shoulders and defined limbs, slender thighs and hips, little perky tits. It is not the body of an 18-year-old, or even the body of a 28-year-old; but its shape is in some ways informed by those bodies.
The body I see in the mirror does not quite match the one in my mind. The shoulders slope and curve more, the hips and thighs spread past the outlines of that phantom map. I look, basically, more womanly than I feel myself to appear.
At 18, I had a body not much different from my 16-year-old brother’s — slim hips, sharp bones, the faint outline of a 6 pack. But I had pigtail braids, our mother’s nose, and a girlish waist that was easy to wrap your arms around.
Eighteen was the age that my interest in presenting more male emerged. It was the year I finally retired my floor-length skirts in favor of baggy cargo jeans and black band tees. It was also the year I broke off my engagement with the Roman, and distanced myself from Snake.
At 18, I never felt like I wasn’t in the right body.
Let me be clear — I have never felt any need to be male. Only to appear so.
