On The Outside

I have tits. If you know me in real life, you may have grabbed them. I'm lucky in a way that many genderqueer people aren't, in that my tits are relatively small. Half A cup to be precise. As far as I know there are no bras that fit me, just bras with mockingly empty cups. 

You would think it would be impossible to hate something so small, but it isn't.  

One summer I had the uncomfortable luxury of binding my breasts. I would leave the house with a men's t-shirt, a sports bra, and a roll of sports gauze in my bag. As soon as I got out of the subdivision I would pull over, scrub my make up off, smother my tiny boobs, and change shirts. When I got home I would really my make up, unbind, and put back the girlish shirt I had on before. It was great.

I didn't pass as male. I didn't want to, no more than I want to pass as female. 

I don't have that binding option any more. Now I have people around me who call me by my birth name (a stranger's name if there ever was one), who think something is wrong if i'm not wearing make up. My mother threw all my men's clothing (my comfortable clothing, the stuff I didnt feel like a freak in) away before I moved it. I never bought any more. I thought she would find out. It wasn't worth the fight. 

People bitch about wearing masks, about how no one really knows them. I guess this is mine. 

Every second I am around another human being i am faking something. All my interactions with people are based on their false presumption about me.