It’s serious when I do it. It’s not Marlene Dietrich, not Eponine, it’s not a cute gamine whose hair tumbles out of the baseball cap. I don’t look particularly masculine. As long as I don’t move a muscle. As long as I hardly even breathe. When I wore dresses and make-up I looked almost like a pretty girl until I moved and then I was instantly in (gay male) drag, and slightly overdone at that. And now, when I’m wearing my white collared shirt and black jacket and thin wool scarf?
It’s off the deep end serious right away. I can’t control it and I can’t make it adorable. I tried to break it down and fence it in and succeeded in a sort of asexual limbo. Now that I’m accepting it, trying to understand and cherish it, I see the reactions it gets, and I feel a certain sympathy with my scared former self. The straight girls at the hen party sitting at the next table actually stared. I got hit on within a minute of her going to the bathroom and leaving me sitting alone. It’s transgressive and explosive. It’s taking some getting used to.