Drag queen

As a child one of my deepest desires was a big white merengue dress. One summer my family went on holiday to Italy and somehow we found our way to a store that sold clothes. The basement of this small shop was filled to the brim with big, fluffy, white dresses for girls. I was smitten by the laces, the tulle, and the volume of the dresses and I decided right there and then that I just had to have a dress like this. When I became a teenager I got into period clothing, admiring the craftsmanship of the garments, the cloths, laces, stitches, patterns and colors. I made a medieval dress for myself with 3 meters lace that I tatted myself. I also made myself a 1910s white dress with puffed arms and a standing collar, and a couple of years ago I’ve made three folk costumes, one from the area that I live in, one from the area my grandmother came from and one from the area where my wife is born. I love to sew with, what I would call it, honest materials like wool and linen. I like that the materials set the limits and that you cannot rush the sowing. The garments always look the best if you do every stitch by hand, and it’s a treat to feel the cloth and thread in your hands. I love to get ready to wear the dresses I made, I love to iron them properly and get dressed layer by layer, knowing that I look the part. So how can I claim that I’m a man and should have been born a boy? Isn’t these interests of mine proof that my gender-issue is at best a phase? This has haunted me for years now and I just recently got my head around it. Despite my interest in nice dresses, my mother had to force me to wear dresses to functions and parties. So how can this be? The answer has been there all the time – it’s the circumstances around it that makes the difference for me. I’ve always loved to play dress up and making shows for my relatives, I frequently dresses up like a “nice lady” or as a bunny, but that was for play. So for me it was like wearing the clothes from the dress up drawer when we went to parties, and being dressed like a bunny to a party can feel quite awkward.
As I became a teenager my feet came to grow to the size of men and finding shoes to fit the dresses my mother bought or made for me was increasingly hard to find. I still had one pair of “nice” shoes; black, shiny with a gold clasp and an inch high flat heel. They were hand-me-downs and already outdated when I got them and I managed to grow out of them before I turned 17. Then my feet were so big that it was impossible to find women’s shoes in my size and I started to wear sneakers all the time. Wearing sneaker to dresses doesn’t really help with getting into the spirit of being girly. Not even makeup would do much for me. My face doesn’t really work like a “standard face” when it comes to makeup, if you apply eyeshadow by the rules, I look evil. Rouge makes my face look like a dolls and lipstick tend to make my lips take over the whole face. My eyelashes would make any girl envious, if I use mascara it looks like I wear extensions. This means that even with a very small amount of makeup I end up looking like a drag queen. I don’t particularly mind looking like a drag queen, I admire them deeply for many reasons, but being a teenager trying to fit in doesn’t go well with looking like a man posing as a woman.
While my face could belong to a drag queen, I’ve been blessed – or cursed depending on how you view it – with a very nice female body. I look really good in female clothes, or more accurate, my body look really good in female clothes. Especially when you cover up my face, because let’s face it – even drag queens have good looking bodies! Most teenage girls would make the most of this, dressing on the sluttier side to get higher science grades or to get favors from boys. My only wish however was to be seen as one of the guys. Or at least seen as me. I was very insecure about my body and always had long sleeved polos and chinos, even during the summer, and getting any kind of remarks for my body made me feel awful. Once my friends proudly reported that the boys had said that if I didn’t have glasses, I would have looked really good. Eh, what kind of remark is that anyway?? Even though I could see that the body was attached to my head, it never felt like it was MY body and therefore I never felt that the remarks were aimed at me. Today I know that I have a nice body, but how can you be proud of a body that isn’t yours?
I don’t know, I just have a hard time understanding that you can appreciate your body like I do but still want to change it. I can’t really say that I’ve always hated my body and that I finally get a chance to change it. It’s not everybody that’s blessed with liking their body and I feel like I should be more grateful for it. Still I can’t. I can never get around the feeling of being born with the wrong body and writing this post has made me realize that this feeling has been with me since puberty, before I had any thought or knowledge about trans* people. I am determined to transition, but at the same time I sometimes feel that it’s a waste of a good body. I wish there would be a kind of second-hand shop for bodies. Somewhere I could leave my body for someone else to have and pick up a masculine, semi couch potato, adult male body like the one I would have had if I was born male.

4 thoughts on “Drag queen

  1. Hehe, I can empathise in ways with you. When I take off my clothes I see a hot guy, that’s not a boast, it sucks! Maybe it is a waste of a good body and a waste of healthy tissue, but it seems prevalent that seeking gender affirmation makes one more in tune with their body and creates a better outcome. Eeep.

    I told my therapist that dysphoria sucks, because I’m such an awesome man. She retorted, ‘then why shouldn’t you be an awesome woman?’ Touche.

    Liked by 2 people

  2. How can it be a waste of a good body–is you body going anywhere?!

    Being trans is just a really weird surreal experience. I feel like I can hear your alienation from your body in this post. You are able to look at your body and evaluate it from a remote, 3rd person perspective, like you’re looking at someone else. To be deeply disconnected from the soul, never fully inhabited and enjoyed–now that’s a waste of a perfectly good body.

    I suspect you’ll make an attractive man as well. 🙂


    • I’ve never thought about it like that, and your spot-on comment makes me a little bit sad. I’ve always thought that my dysphoria wasn’t that bad, but as you put it I realize that it’s actually a big part of my life. I just handle it by ignoring it and alienating myself from my body. Hm…


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