This story dedicated to the drunk lesbian who was at my house celebrating a mutual friend’s 21st birthday. Her confusion at my identity as a nonbinary transmasculine person and not a butch lesbian was never spoken. However, it echoed through every question she felt that she had the right to ask. Not even my partner has felt so entitled to my body.

Drunk Girl,

I see your eyes widen the moment I say not to call me “she.” Questions form at your lips and before you can even ask, I already know what you are going to say. To me it is so obvious, yet you act like you are the first to ask.

It starts off slow.

“So, like, how did your girlfriend react?”

Knowing you are actually asking if we are lesbians I say, “three-fourths of our relationship has been with me being openly trans.”

“Ah.” You bring your solo cup to your lips to create a palpable pause between us. With this silence, I try to brace myself for what I know is coming next. These are the real questions, the ones you have been wanting to ask the first transgender person you met. Unfortunately, I am that person.

You take a deep breath, “What about hormones?”

I grip the railing on my porch that a group of us have gathered on. Inhale slowly. Feign confidence. Smile. “Yeah, it’s something I have thought about. Don’t ask other trans people these questions, okay?”

What you don’t see, Drunk Girl, it that the questions you feel so entitled to ask have invaded my dreams for over a year now. I let you ask me these questions because I have already had one too many panic attacks, trying to answer find the answers to them.

Your eyes flicker before you shake your head and say, “Of course, I won’t!”

I doubt it.

“Sooo, um, like…..”

Here it comes. The big one.

“...are you going to get THE surgery?”

Woop, there it is.

I try to find an answer that is more educational than reactionary. Deep breaths. Be calm. I respond, “Which one? There are several different types of surgery, for both top and bottom.”

“Yeah, but do you want a dick?”

“Not particularly.”

“So are you going to get your tits removed?”

I wince at the word before responding, “I may get top surgery. I don’t think I want to bind forever.”

“How big are your tits anyway?”

I want out of this conversation so badly. For reasons unknown to me I still respond, “Maybe a C? I bind a lot, so I don’t think about it much.”

That was a lie. Some nights, I don’t sleep because I become hyper aware of this. Some nights, my dysphoria wins and I wear my chest binder to bed. The next morning, my ribs will scream in protests at my decision. I wear many layers to try to hide my chest. Summer is a nightmare. But you don’t know this. More importantly, you don’t care.

In that moment I was an oddity. You talked to me like I could direct you to the nearest mall to the Build-A-Dick shop. You didn’t care about my journey. These questions weren’t asked because you wanted to donate upwards of several thousand dollars to pay for my top surgery. I was no longer a person to you. Drunk Girl, you wanted the front seat to the side-show that is my body.

Sincerely,

B

P.S. Never ask those questions to anyone. Ever.