Hello, little girl. My name is… well, it doesn’t matter. What matters is how much trouble I'm planning to go to just to get to a place where I can attack you. Let me tell you all about it.
See, I grew up twisted. Blame it on abuse, blame it on a mother who was domineering, blame it on whatever you like. The thing is, I hate females. And something inside me tells me I’ll feel better if I beat you up, rape you, maybe even kill you. And I just came up with the best friggin' idea for how to get you alone so I can do horrible things to you. BATHROOMS!
So, here’s my plan. I’ll go someplace where I can buy a wig with long hair; gotta hide my sideburns, y’know? Trouble is I’m not real big on going into a wig shop and having anyone see me looking at women’s wigs, trying them on, or—worse—actually buying one. Maybe I’ll order online… but then I’ll start getting all kinds of spam from places where they think I’m a woman. I mean, I'm super confident. Don't get me wrong on that. It's just ... well, it’s gonna be a problem…
Never mind. Let’s say I’ve got the wig. Now I need to get hold of some makeup. Not just eye stuff and lip stuff, either. I mean, I’m a real man. Got all the parts to prove it, as well as the beard. And I ain’t takin’ no hormones, neither. So I need serious makeup. But… hmmm… gonna have the same issues with that as with the wig. Either I have to go someplace and be seen buying the stuff, or else I have to order it and have all these women’s sites sending me emails about what my skin tone is, what color lipstick is “in” this season.
Crap; nearly forgot fingernail polish. Gotta get that, too. And remover. Am I forgetting anything else?
Never mind. Let’s say I’ve got the makeup. I don’t have a clue what to do with it, so I’ll watch some online videos, and I’ll practice. Trouble is, the better I get—and the more like a woman I appear—the more my stomach turns when I see myself in the mirror. Yuck… Is that really me???
Never mind. Next is clothes. I sure can’t wear anything I’ve bought for myself as a man… Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, why is this so friggin’ hard? I’ll get clothes somehow. And shoes. And a pocketbook… Wait just a minute. I’m gonna have to carry a purse?!?!?
Yeah. Not only that, but I'm gonna have to practice. You know, walk like a girl. Hold my shoulders like a girl. Hold my hands and wrists like a girl. Move my hips (I can't believe I'm even thinking about this) like a girl. Man... how long is this gonna take?
I’m not sure “never mind” is gonna cut it at this point. Because let’s say I’ve gotten through the terror I feel shopping for girlie stuff, and I've beaten my nausea into submission enough to actually use it, I've put in hours of practice walking, talking, sashaying—all that stuff that makes me want to strike out when I see it—and I've managed to put myself together so that people will think I'm a woman.
After days and days of preparation, I’m ready: wig curled and positioned perfectly, makeup smeared all over my face and making me want to hose myself down, plus-plus-plus size jeans on under a voluminous black… [gulp]… blouse, too-tight running shoes killing my feet with every step, shoulder bag in place. Let’s say I’m ready to go out into the world, make my way to… I don’t know, a bus station, maybe? A movie theater? A gym? No, a gym won’t work; I’d have to convince someone there that I was a woman in a one-to-one encounter or they wouldn’t let me past the reception desk, and I'm not convincing enough for that. Movie theater, then.
I’m standing inside my front door. I’m ready. I’m going to do this. I’m gonna go out into the world and try to make everyone think that instead of this tough, aggressive, self-righteous, angry MAN, I’m actually just like the people I hate with an irrational passion that makes me want to damage them. I’ve got to fool everyone into seeing me as someone who should be allowed into a women’s public bathroom. I’m gonna do it.
I’m sure of it.
Crap. Bloody hell. I’m never gonna be able to do this. Excuse me a minute.
[Sounds of ripping fabric, shoes flung across a room, angry growls, the occasional wordless yell, and—finally—running water and loud, masculine sighs.]
There. I’m my true self again. Man, that feels better. Looks better, too, in that mirror that nearly made me upchuck earlier. Handsome guy, yeah? Any woman would thank her lucky stars if I pretend to make a play for her. And she’ll never suspect what I’m gonna do to her. Never in a million years.
If you're concerned about who's in public restrooms, watch this video from OurQueerStories.com and decide who should "go" where. And if you're cisgender, be glad you were not born in a body that was all wrong for you.