I’ve begun going to a gym. There little chance of me wasting away to nothing, but the physical activity does offset my love of cheese. This experience has become a rather intense lesson in the fragility and limitations of passing. I’ve joined with two friends. Both male, both gay. Having a set of queer backups added a certain amount of safety, but they aren’t always with me and even if they are, they don’t change the fact that I have no dick. It’s a tenuous and vulnerable space to begin with. Men with all their parts are cruising, or not cruising; looking and not looking and trying to not be looked at while they show off. It makes me very conscious of what I do and do not have. I do have scars. I don’t have a dick.
Do people notice when I am changing and wearing boxers? What about briefs? Are people looking, and if so, how closely? Underwear has always been a distinct marker of manhood for me, but never to this degree. I quickly realized that using the elliptical in boxers inevitably makes one short or the other ride so far up my ass that I can taste the fabric. I switch to briefs.
I’ve got a soft pack. I’ll wear that. And I did. It was all fine until I was finished changing and actually using the elliptical machine. The feeling of soft rubber chafing against my crotch and slowly ripping out every single pubic was not the burn I was hoping to feel. There would need to be a barrier.
I went home that night and modified all my briefs, sewing pockets or pouches into each of them. The next day I tried again. All was fine until the inevitable bouncing began. Suddenly it started moving against my leg. This is probably the exact same thing an actual dick would do, but with an actual dick is attached to your actual body. You do not need to worry about it slipping out of your underwear, through the leg of your shorts and to the gym floor. Packing was not going to work. I needed something more secure.
Sometimes I pack and sometimes I don’t. It doesn’t seem to make that much of a difference. I am always aware of my body. Wear the wrong shorts—the ones that are a little too tight and ride up a little too high—and I’m sure my hips will give me away, or I’ll be stricken with camel toe so blatant that it will serve as a giant vaginal highlighter. Wear big and baggy shorts and they sink into nothing when I sit against the weight machine.
I’m sure that everyone feels this self-awareness at the gym. Gyms are a haven of embarrassments. Still, somehow farting on the treadmill seems slightly less concerning than exposing your vagina in the locker room.
I’ve begun swimming. Feeling the water flow over my bare back and chest is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. This liberation is tempered by the vulnerability I feel when I take off my bathing suit. I am naked in a bathroom stall. Men all around me and my body exposed. Will they see me through the crack in the door? With the door suddenly open? What will this mean? What would happen? Though I do sometimes wonder how people would respond if I joined the group shower in all my transsexual glory, self preservation keeps me from finding the answer. Some things are better left unknown.
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