My cell phone buzzed inside the right pocket of the shorts as if on cue: my dad was outside, early, waiting to drive me home. “Our winner for the boys is Zach and his dress!” Mary’s mom yelled, and the room cheered. Whether I was a pretty girl, an ugly boy, or something in between, there was one thing I knew for certain in that moment: There was nothing funny about a man going up my dress. He thought I was a girl.” He began laughing hysterically, and I just stared. I walked up to a friend as Mary’s mom shut off the music to announce the winner of the costume contest and said, “Some dude just tried to go up my dress. The dad walked away while I tried to decide, drunkenly laughing to himself. I wasn’t even sure what to be the most mad about: that man sticking his nasty hand up my dress, the fact that he stopped once he realized that I wasn’t what he expected, or that I suddenly no longer felt pretty. I said nothing as my insides pulsed with anger. “You’re not a girl,” he blurted out, a Budweiser in his hand. As they neared my crotch, I snapped out of it and turned to confront which ever classmate was fucking with me – but instead I saw one of the dads. The fingers slowly moved up my leg, under my dress and slithered towards my inner thigh. I felt more connected to my body than ever before – and a little bit like what I looked like matched how I sometimes felt.Īnd then, as I reached for a slice of pizza, I felt a hand go up the back up my leg, and I froze. I’d spent so long trying to copy how men were “supposed” to walk, but, for the first time, I was unashamed of my movements’ lack of masculinity. No one was rude or hateful about me being in drag, no one threatened to beat me for being “a sissy” – instead, my friends seemed enamored with how attractive I turned out.Īnd for the first time, I felt attractive.Īs the night progressed, I found myself moving differently through the party – more feminine, hips swaying. But the only thing anyone wanted to talk about was how good I looked – how I made such a pretty girl. Inside Mary’s garage, other teenage bodies moved awkwardly to music as various parents stood around, partly to judge the costume contest and partly to make sure we kept our dancing age-appropriate. I watched his car disappear into the evening and wondered if he thought I looked pretty. I reached for the door handle, closed my eyes and stepped out into the world as a girl. “Son, are you listening to me?” he barked, interrupting my daze, and I looked at him in his golfing clothes, boring in his masculinity. “I just don’t get you sometimes, but it’s your life.”Īs he spoke, I imagined him in a dress – a pink one even – his nails glittery and his wig long and blond, in platform shoes and walking like a runway model. “If you’re so nervous going to this damn party dressed like a girl then why’d you do it?” my dad said.