First tie-me: dressing in my preferred gender expression

I am a girl and should wear ‘girls’ things’, I shouldn’t be drawn to wearing ‘men’s things’

BY FAY BARRETT, IMAGE BY BEN ROSETT VIA PEXELS

Sneaking out the house, like a furtive teenager, with alcohol stashed in my bag…Only it’s not alcohol, it’s a tie. A man’s suit tie. And somehow that feels like the most illegal contraband of all. Because it’s taboo. Forbidden. I am a girl and should wear ‘girls’ things’, I shouldn’t be drawn to wearing ‘men’s things’.

My entire outfit is ‘men’s things’. Apart from my sports bra (worn to make my chest look a little flatter). And possibly my Chelsea Boots. I can’t remember if they came from the men’s or the women’s section. Probably the men’s. But, from the inside out, I’m layered up in man: boxers, skinny jeans, Hollister shirt, aforementioned tie, denim hooded jacket, a slick of Ted Baker body spray (probably too much), Eros by Versace (definitely too much). I smell like a walking barbershop, and I kinda like it…

Then, in the toilet on the train, the circular one, where you have to lock the door so it doesn’t open unexpectedly mid wee. Although I’d rather be caught peeing than this. It would be less shaming somehow than being caught in the act: a girl, in the toilets, trying to put a man’s tie on.

Earphones in (trying to block out the anxiety pumping in my chest) I awkwardly stand by the sink, needing the ledge to rest my phone on so I can watch the YouTube ‘how to tie a tie’ video. We just wore jumpers at my school so, apart from my starring role as a male teacher in a school play, I’ve never had to tie one.

And now apparently I can’t. Sweating in the humid loo, thankful for my Covid mask but trying not to breath in (hoping the urine stench doesn’t mingle unpleasantly with my cologne) I fumble with my length of silk. Rewinding and replaying a video that may as well be telling me how to make a bomb for all the complexity. How do men do this with big fingers? I swear the guy in the video is fucking with me. I have to rewind a few times, convinced he’s skipped a section because what is wound around my neck certainly does not resemble what’s around his.

It may as well be a noose for how high my anxiety levels are, which is apt given the stranglehold gender dysphoria’s had on me. I’m sweating so damn much, I can feel it pooling down my back, sticking the shirt too me like an Elastoplast. In an attempt to look hot, I’m going to smell hot. And possibly of wee, if I stay in here much longer.

I’ve been in here the best part of 20 minutes when finally I do it. Huzzah! I’ve switched videos to ‘how to tie a tie the quick and easy version’ which I should have gone to in the first place, “quick and easy” being the clue. I’d have saved myself a lot of unnecessary finger gymnastics if I had.

I gaze at my reflection and like what I see: myself fully masced up, slicked hair and dapper as hell. Me. Albeit through a smudgy, grimey train loo mirror haze.

We pull into the station and I bundle my coat back on, doing it up to the neck. I’m not ready. Not yet safe enough to reveal myself to the general public.

Instead I’ll conceal myself again, fight my way through the crowded London streets, uncomfortably done up in a coat , despite the heat. It’s easier than braving the disapproval, the stares, the judgement. That way I’ll evade any potential threat.

So I’ll wait, bide my time, until I arrive at the lesbian event that’s a safe space, where I know I’ll fit in and belong. Where the unkind looks and stares will be replaced with ones of respect, approval and, hopefully, attraction.