BoiGirlBoiGirl

I am thinking about gender again, thinking about who I am on the inside of my head.

A boi

A girl

A woman

I won’t say a man, because my masculine side isn’t as fully formed. I think of him as a boi, an adolescent, not as a man. He, and I, am not a man. We are a boi still, and that is all right. We have a great deal of learning and growing to do together, first.

I was born a woman, and I like my biological sex. I enjoy the weight of my breasts in my hands, the feel of my hand cupping my mons. I like the smooth skin of my stomach and the high line of my cheekbones.

But I am also a boi on the inside… sometimes. Much of the time.

I am a boi in my linear, problem-solving thinking, and in the length of my strides when I walk. I am a boi in my stubbornness, in my willingness to be the pursuer in my relationships. I am a boi in my obsession with fucking him, my love of simply bending him over and taking him.

I am a woman, and I am a boi. I am not transgender, but I am genderqueer. Sometimes.

But even when I am at my most feminine, the boi sits in the back of my mind, watching, commenting, and sometimes laughing.

I tried on a wedding dress, with the beautiful Miss Gigi, and for about 15 seconds I gloated over how lovely I looked… and then the boi in my head freaked out, saw that white dress as a denial of himself, and we went and changed back into my unisex clothing- a tshirt and blue jeans.

I will not lie, I am afraid of the boi in my head. I am afraid of what he means to my feminine self. He frightens me, and this is the only place where I express him. But he is here, and he is me, and I must learn to accept him… and myself.