Men's Space

A lot of things swirl in my head, things related to gender journey. Androgel, binding, packing, pronouns, bathrooms, etc. Things I want to use, things with which I might want to experiment, and things I just can't figure out.

Today I slashed one thing off that list after running uterus-first into it.

I'm bleeding and I really had to pee so I went into some independent coffeeshop on Jackson & Dearborn to use their restroom. And for some hot chocolate. Attempting to make a beeline to the bathrooms from the door, I hit a brick wall of boisterous dick-wagging. All but two of the twentysome customers were masculine, upper-middle class, white, tweed suit-and-tie men between 28 and 55. They were all talking with each other about the stock market, business deals and strategies, sports bets, and the like. Each one of them emphasized their most important points by speaking more loudly; every word uttered, though, was a most important point so only yelling was happening. It didn't seem to matter that nobody could hear anyone but himself.

After the bathroom and getting my hot chocolate, I found a chair in a corner and read _Rubyfruit Jungle_ by Rita Mae Brown. Realizing that I wanted no part of this men's space brought me peace; knowing that I wouldn't be accepted in it anyway only brought me self-pride. As long as a men's space (and there are many different kinds of men's spaces) involves small-dick insecurity, I want no part of it.