this post was inspired by alexthesane (read original post). check it out.
peoples of all creeds, aliens of all planets, i would like to tell you the veryvery sillyful tale of mx. punk and pants. this story involves pants-dilemmas, pants-removal, and general pants-related tom-foolery. to be fair, i must warn you that this post contains “graphic” pictures of mx. punk without pants. ready?
once beneath a time, i, mx. punk, pull on a pair of baggy guys’ jeans. they’re super comfy and they take me back to the days when i actually got read as a guy. i, mx. punk, ponder why i ever stopped wearing guys’ clothes exclusively and how i arrived in this timespace where i always get read as a woman, if not always stereotypically feminine.
i wear guys’ almost shirts every day, but i have this silly, spiky haircut and i almost always wear chicks’ jeans— until now. so i slide into these faded black jeans and i feel something shifting. something is remembering that people used to relate to me in a different way than they do now.
before i found my love, i was terrified of the way people tried to lock each other into these tiny fucking boxes— “oh, you’re wearing a cap-sleeved shirt; now you’re a girl FOREVER.” but my sweetheart accepts fluidity in other people, so he’s sorta been my talisman against erasure as i’ve explored endless sides of myself.
see, i’ve been exploring stuff for the past 3 years. like boot cut jeans, lacy bras, giggling, and bracelets. i’ve felt safe enough to try out traditionally feminine things because my sweetheart knows who i am and is not confused about my gender.
i’ve been exploring stuff for three years, but now i’m putting on these guys’ jeans and they’re hooking into my flesh. they’re gossiping to the something that keeps circling inside me like it’s trying to get comfy.
so i go to school; i’m wearing guys’ clothes, but i don’t pass as a guy. nothing weird about that; this isn’t the first time i’ve worn guys’ pants since i started exploring more stereotypically girly things. something feels different, though. i, mx. punk, feel like parts of me are at war and hissing.
i check myself out when i walk past the office windows; these pants do NOT make my ass look hot. i mean, they make it look like i don’t even HAVE an ass, let alone a hot ass. this makes the something very smug; it thinks that women care about having hot asses, but that WE don’t need to care. we’re just awesome.
(the above paragraph clearly reveals the silliness of the something. for starters, lotsa men are concerned with their asses and lotsa men wear jeans to show off said asses. the something is not concerned with logic.)
however, wearing tight, chicks’ jeans for years has led me to expect that my ass will look reallyreally good all the time. part of me doesn’t want to wear comfy jeans if they don’t make me look good in a stereotypically feminine way. i realize that i’ve been judging my appearance based on stereotypically female standards. i mean, fuck, right?
have i become the enemy? have i really been holding myself up to certain stereotypical standards based on my genitals? why does my ass have to look good? and, on the off-beat, why don’t i want to just shave my head again and be all soft and snuggly-headed? i’ve been exploring stuff, sure, and i certainly don’t look (stereotypically) GIRLY, but does it really matter if i wear jeans that are physically and emotionally comforting if aesthetically disconcerting?
when i get home from school, i tear off my pants, even though they feel all mx. punky. they make my gender identity (the something, i think) feel safe and somewhat genuine, but they piss off the thing in charge of my gender expression. they make it feel all ugly and shitty.
so i pull on these torn-up boot cut jeans. they fit my ass and my thighs, but they’re still mx. punky. they feel ok for awhile, but the something starts shifting again and grumbling and mumbling things about copping out to fit a stereotype.
so i, mx. punk, hatch a splendid plan. my plan will stop all bickering between my pieces. my plan will give me time to shout at all my pieces to just shut the fuck up and to grasp that pants are just pants— nothing more, nothing less.
i will tell my pieces that i don’t have to bind my tits when i wear guys’ jeans— even though that’s what i thirst to do. it’s what i used to do, but i don’t have to go back to where i used to be. i, mx. punk, am allowed to move to a new timespace that has less (stereotypically) girly explorings than this timespace does, but that isn’t my oldold timespace. it’s ok, really, to get read as a woman sometimes, even though i’m not a woman. i’ll tell my pieces that there’s time to figure all this shit out. pants are only the symbol, so don’t fret about them. we’ve got real things to think about, my mx. punky pieces.