Wife-Pleaser

and other gender epiphanies

I wore a wife-pleaser, a grey zip-up, and a black denim jacket today. Flared blue jeans, chunky sneakers. The gold necklace catching the light of day and reflecting it back into the room. I felt fucking amazing. I felt cool, attractive, powerful. I felt masculine. And I fucking loved it.

In my pursuit of building the perfect femme persona, I often forget how comfortable in my skin I feel when my curves are hidden, when I go braless and don’t have to worry about ogling eyes glued to my chest. I forget how good it feels to look masculine enough to avoid detection, blend into a crowd, hands shoved deep in my jean pockets as if I’m Chad Michael Murray in the early 2000s.

My sexuality has allowed me to express my identity in ways beyond my comprehension, in ways I take for granted, in ways I forget about until I’m wearing a carabiner on my belt loop.

I’ve always identified more with the femme label, and I still very much do. But every now and then, when the sky clears up, and I can go back to my spring uniform, I relish in the clothing that makes me feel masculine. In jorts and oversized T-shirts, in hoodies and high top sneakers, in buns pulled back just enough for curls to escape to the front of my face.

I feel so undeniably, liberatingly lesbian.

I feel like a girl kisser. Emboldened to look into a pretty girl’s eyes and smirk. My shoulders squared, eyes looking up through eyelashes, eyeliner smudged at the corner of my eyes. Everything that was once presented as feminine takes on a new meaning. Stretching feels like an invitation to stare.

I stopped shaving my armpits around eight months ago and haven’t gone back to it, probably never will. Most times, it makes me feel feminine, makes me feel delicate in the way that something society considers gross and unhygienic gives me a surge of joy.

But when I stack rings on my fingers, chunky and cold to the touch, when I decide to only wear sunblock on my face, spritz musky perfume that reminds me of the way my dad’s clothes smell, it becomes something more. When I raise my arms and the hair peeks out, bold and black, I feel like the man that never was. I feel like the man that most girls will never get to date.

Perhaps this is all superficial. I’m aware how surface-level these descriptions feel, how masculinity is so much more than how you dress and carry yourself, but I just don’t care because this— fuck, this feels so unbelievably good. I might even argue it feels better than sex.

I’ve been feeling gender envy to an unrecognizable extent these past few months. It began with a deep seeded envy of Finn Wolfhard. The way t-shirts never seem to cling to his body, harsh shadows against his prominent cheekbones, the build of an overcooked noodle and yet—and yet I envy him. Desperately, deeply, irrationally.

Today I got a small dose of what I imagine it feels to exist in the world as anything other than feminine adjacent. I walked around with rolled sleeves and wired headphones. I let cigarettes hang loosely off my lips with the confidence of someone who knows no object nor person would ever pass up the opportunity to be near these lips.

I know thought, that not everyone gets the privilege to retreat back to femininity when convenient, when existing openly feels dangerous. I know that I can untie my hair and simply be perceived as a tomboy. There’s a safety button for me when things get a little too uncomfortable, when stares become more pointed than I would like.

In those moments I feel ashamed for enjoying the feeling of such trivially masculine things. As if masculinity can not be chivalry, emotional. As if it can only be overconfidence and inflated egos. I know it’s not. I know.

But I can’t help the confidence it gives me. I don’t know how to stop feeling this euphoria.

I can’t stop.

I don’t think I will.

The act of coming back home and shedding layers only to remain in a white tank and long underwear, reclining back in my chair, smelling the smoke and metal on my person, it’s something I chase with fervour, like climax.

This pseudo uniform emboldens me to sit with my legs spread, makes me feel like I should flex when someone touches my tattoos. Makes me feel like I could realistically impregnate someone. Makes me feel like I could please your wife better than you, shit I probably can.

I walked into class, and this dude greeted me with a shake of his head and a smile. Felt like he was saying hi to an old friend, a friend that maybe wasn’t a girl. The way he smiled, it felt different, acknowledging in a way. Like he was trying to let me know he liked my outfit, so much so, he might wear it himself. It drove me insane. Had me feeling like one of the guys.

I’m chuckling down the hallways, swallowing like I’ve got an Adam’s apple, possessing the hormonal drive of a pimply fifteen-year-old who just discovered his dick. The gender euphoria so intense that it short-circuits my brain, like a completely different person has taken over.

Someone who tilts their head at you when they smoke, someone who talks in questions and dares. Someone who might have been if things had gone a little differently. Someone who probably would have been just as happy as me in their body, but would still feel the ghost of electricity passing through their veins when they felt a little more feminine than usual.

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