Armin smoothed his coat. “I comforted myself by thinking graduate life would be different. I’d meet some different breed of man there. And I did, but it became even clearer that my little club hadn’t been an anomaly—it was the microcosm. The masculinity I saw around me was entitled, violent.” He ran a hand through his hair, sighing. “I don’t have any other male friends because most men I meet are accustomed to those things. It’s how we’re bred. We’re raised in it and we repeat it to each other and we end up in an echo chamber. I’m in it, too, Ren.”
My chest felt tight. “You’re not. Not anymore.”
“Does it matter? I’ve already put evil into the world. But to answer your question, no. I wouldn’t do this for any man. I think you’re different because you were raised differently, treated differently, and those experiences shaped you into someone better than me. Someone more deserving.” His eyes gleamed, flecks of gilt and bronze catching the light. “I’ve been watching your early vlogs. There’s one called ‘Adrift,’ about birthdays, and growing apart from old friends. It got to me.”
“Why were you watching those?”
“Would you believe I was comparing myself to you?” He smiled, so casually, devastatingly handsome. Perfectly designed face, flawlessly engineered body. Everything I’d ever wanted. “I was trying to figure out how you did it. What it takes to make a good man. You say you’re ‘self-made,’ and I realized how much I want that. How I’ve let others make me, instead of taking responsibility for my own masculinity.”
My whole chest seized up. I choked the words out. “I’m ordinary, Armin. Nothing special.”
“Maybe you can’t see it, but I can. Being yourself in this world is what makes you special.”
“God. We’re two dudes misting up about masculinity in a tailor shop. Let’s talk about a war, or a dog, or something.”
Armin laughed. Didn’t hide his face or feed me psychobabble. Just let me see his vulnerability, his fragility, unflinching. Owned it.
Being a man meant being strong enough to let your fragility show.
Somewhere, I imagined Ingrid rolling her eyes. Baby’s First Man-Tears. How quaint. You used to be more interesting.
“Need some air?” Armin said.
“I’m good. Let’s dapper me up.”
“Just so you know, he’ll need you to undress. That okay?”
“Does he know I’m trans?”
“I didn’t mention it. That’s your call.”
As we stood, a jag of panic rose. I was packing like usual, but it’s one thing to see a bulge from a distance and another to wag it in a man’s face. That plus the surgery scars plus my bone structure— Okay, I thought. These things I cannot change. I’m a guy with scars and wide hips and a prosthetic dick. I can still look good in a suit.
I can own my fragilities, too.
The tailor put me at ease. Brisk but gentle, he asked about my job as he measured. I told him I yakked on YouTube for a living but was trying to transition to youth outreach. “Transition” had been such a loaded word for years, but here it felt unremarkable. Ordinary. People transitioned all the time—between careers, homes, relationships. Even their bodies, in nongendered ways: gaining muscle, losing fat. Life was constant flux. In all these little ways, I’d been preparing for the biggest change of my whole life. It felt good to be getting back to the small stuff. When the tailor measured my inseam I impressed myself by not clenching my thighs.
It was the fully clothed part that freaked me out. He pulled a suit coat and pinned it against my body. My shoulders were broad and square, masculine. My hips curved like a bell.
That hard twist in the pit of my stomach: dysphoria.
Tactfully, the tailor said we could tweak the silhouette. Slim fit, or—he released some pins—traditional. Which did sir prefer?
Sir preferred not to look like a fucking girl.
“Traditional,” I said.
Too boxy, too dadcore. Paradoxically, the more it hid my hips, the more I cringed, slouched. Diminished myself.
Even if no one else saw it, I knew I was hiding something.
“Can we try the slim fit again?”
As I stared into the mirrors, my mind split in two. One part saw a guy of below-average height, muscular, dusky, chiseled. His jaw could cut glass and his eyes could melt it. Wide legs, narrow waist. Instead of the typical male V shape, his body made an X.
The other half saw a girl pretending to be a guy. All the muscle, stubble, body hair were merely a costume. She’d nailed it save for the dead giveaway: those childbearing hips.
How could I still feel like this after nearly five years on T?
I love watching you, Sofie.
“I’m kinda dizzy,” I said. “Stuffy in here. Can we take five?”
On the street in my own clothes I paced up and down the sidewalk, compulsively rubbing my neck. Armin followed, silent. People passed between us, a blur of wool and snow.
I headed for an empty plaza. Something was revving up in me, an awful engine of anxiety.
“Ren,” Armin said.
I snapped as if midargument. “It doesn’t end. It never fucking ends.”
“What doesn’t?”