A common fantasy among autogynephilic men centers on sleepovers, the ‘girlhood’ these men never experienced, of which they consider themselves robbed. Supposedly, we bodies with vaginas sat around in our panties giggling and painting each other’s fingernails and breaking into scantily-clad pillow fights.
But men’s fantasies of girlhood never have much contact with the reality. Mostly I remember how we terrified and terrorized each other, first playing Bloody Mary alone in a dark bathroom in front of the mirror while the other girls held the door closed, later by sneaking outside long after dark to spook one another. The first girl to fall asleep woke up with her hand in warm water — as we tested the rumor that warm water would make the sleeper lose control of her bladder.
Sometimes we played at being men. We sat on a bridge and spat like jaded old men, as we practiced cursing in indifferent tones. We play-acted ordering drinks at the bar. The boldest, Stephanie, played the bartender, a sleazy old man, whom we all had to wheedle fake drinks from.
We tortured more than one Barbie, including with matches and a burial rite in the backyard. Now it's curious: what were we thinking? Why did we feel compelled to do that? It wasn't any feminist protest—I'm sure I'd never run into the concept—but the feelings that act stirred were messy. It was a thrilling but muddled transgression. A few hours later, the owner quietly dug the Barbie up and smoothed its butchered hair with something like guilt.
What we didn't do was undress or touch each other’s breasts or fulfill any other male fantasies I can think of, though once we all weighed ourselves, age 10 or 11, which brought shame to both the heaviest girl and to the hopelessly prepubescent featherweight (that was me).
That sleepover where we weighed ourselves was the last one I was ever invited to. I remember getting the sense that my interests were all wrong (too bookish, yes, but most of all too childish) and that I laughed too much at things the other girls suddenly took seriously.
The night of the next sleepover, I got prank calls at home. I was out.
I can't remember who I was talking with about this but there's something protective about early experiences of deep unpopularity. It hurts. You can read my fifth-grade diary, if you’ve any doubts. But you learn you can live without social approval. You even develop a healthy contempt for approval purchased on false terms.
I understood more or less what I needed to do to regain my lost social capital. But I couldn't submit myself to it. Because I really did have bookish, uncool interests, and because I really was still a child while my friends grew up at a faster pace.
I spent a lot of lunch periods sitting alone with a book, knowing my old friends were staring and snickering. On balance, I preferred the company of my books.
So it’s funny now to see that pattern repeating.
I know just how I could fix it now, too, and it's not like there haven't been offers from people I used to call friends to rehabilitate me, starting, of course, with my thinking. Surely I could put my pen to a fluent recantation of my wrongs. But I would have to count them as wrongs first.
My daughter went through a similar childhood. The boys were more accepting of her than were the girls, which may have contributed to her having gender dysphoria at age ten. She desisted and eventually changed schools and found social acceptance by the end of high school; however, from my perspective, it took letting go of some of her quirky interests and hiding some of her intelligence to gain more friends. You deserve respect for not selling out in any way.
Eliza, I don’t have any idea of how old you are, what you do for a living, whether you are still light as a feather or as a pre pubescent girl who loves books but I think everything you write is spot on. This blog made me laugh and smile and I have just handed it to my 93-year old partner (male) who loved it too. You are keeping me sane with the trans blogs. Just keep going wonderful you!