In my early twenties I was denied top surgery because I was too feminine. It was explained to me by medical professionals with jack o’lanterns for hearts that the way I looked and lived my life meant it was unlikely that medical transition was what I actually wanted, which fundamental desire was buried deep in the very quick of everything that’s wrong with me, like a beetle in dung. My already-embattled relationship with femininity grew a new ring: usually too butch by default, I was now too faggy. Hello Kitty was definitely involved.
Some genders are best understood in terms of volume. For some, excessive does more work than any single label can, while neatly accounting for the consequences of gender variance without forcing you into essentialisms or explanations. There is a reason why I identify with femmes so deeply, despite our playful pretense of being perfect opposites.
Like when I’m out of town, as I am right now, Jade complains that she’s been weakened by years of not carrying her own bags, which normally I don’t let her do; now that I’m gone, she’s helpless! This is an inside joke that butch/femme type of gay people love to tell ourselves: we both know that Jade is actually capable of carrying her own bags and that I wouldn’t actually die of embarrassment if she did, but to pretend otherwise complements our genders, lifelong sensations comprised not just of pinpricks of euphoria (as everyone insists on calling it these days), but insecurities in need of regular reassurance from someone who understands without relating too directly.
One of gender hierarchy’s tricks is making us believe that intimacy only happens by way of similarity (which myth sits paradoxically astride the idea that it only happens by way of heterosexual copulation, itself dependent on difference). This is a natural conclusion of allowing the notion of balance to limit your desire. But if both of you are too much, then your genders can never cancel each other out.
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