LatinosUSA

I’m a man in my mid-seventies who is still all man. I haven’t lost one follicle of my virile chest hair (the chromium head is another story), or a single ounce of my Sam Elliott basso profundo cowboy voice. I’ve never dated or even danced with another male, with the sole exception of school-sponsored father-daughter dances where I have, of necessity, grasped other strapping males and do-si-doed with them—not for one second wanting to leave my wife for any of them, as dashing and light of foot as some of those hombres were. But I’ve come to acknowledge that I also have a feminine side, because it’s so obvious, now that I  think about it.  

For example, I recently thought of the night as velvety. Now that’s a confession if I ever made one. A real man would consider the night close and warm, perhaps, but not velvety. And then I caught myself picturing my neighbor’s face, old Mr. Whitstone’s with his yapping dog, as an overdone waffle laced with creamy butter. In truth, I have made feminine observations and committed female acts many times during my long life, and continue to do so. I remember baking chocolate chip cookies one time in high school, and I chose lemon as the color for my den when I bought a house—not yellow, lemon.  

These remembrances have caused me to rethink my life. What if I had embraced my femininity when I was younger, instead of only now, when I’m already a desiccated old root doomed to disintegrate over the next few years, and no one cares what gender I am, or thinks I even have a gender? What, in fact, if I had been a female at birth, or starting anytime, really?  And I think I would be okay with that.

Let’s say I began as a girl. Sure, I would miss out on some good masculine fun, like throwing up on purpose in grade school, then sticking a fork in the cafeteria wall, or driving a car without actual brakes for two years, or shooting rats at a landfill, or playing golf in a lightning storm (working on my electrical game, I called it), or asking my date to admire my new Prince Albert, when it was really only a swimmer’s nose clip pinched onto my privates, or proposing marriage to two women on the same night. Talk about great times!  

But my life as a female would be enjoyable, too. As a girl, I would arrange bouquets and take lessons in clogging instead of burning ants under a magnifying glass and wrestling with no shirt on. I would collect stuffed animals instead of cherry bombs, and if some dude got on the wrong side of me, I would send him a fraudulent valentine instead of shooting him in the ass with a BB gun. The only thing I might mind as a girl would occur later on, after I had grown up a bit—namely, being hit on by guys. I don’t think I would welcome any close encounters with a Neanderthal who had combustible cologne beading on his cheeks and breath like a Hot Pocket. No, I might not like that one bit, not at any age.

Or maybe I would. It would depend on what type of female person I become. There are countless feminine types out there, and since it’s impossible to predict exactly which one I’d be, who knows how I’d get my kicks? Let’s say I turned into a chick who attracted men with the same ease that I, as a man, have always attracted women: in that case, the amount of woo flung my way, and unwanted passes endured, would be about zilch. Somehow I know, though, that I would be the kind of woman who could knock your block off, perhaps an actual Bulgarian weight lifter or Belarusian shot-putter, who enjoyed squat thrusts and pushups more than intimate sex. Then again, I might be the kind of gal who was into bondage and DP anal. Or I would be a prim puritan on anti-depressants who fainted when she saw a piggy sprout in a guy’s pants. There are women out there you shouldn’t mess with, and I’m pretty sure I would be one of those. And I would be fine with that. There’s nothing about being a woman I wouldn’t love or at least learn to deal with.   

That does leave me with one question: what in hell are my pronouns, if anyone asks?