Walk like a man

What happened when I crossed the gender barrier.

By Virginia Vitzthum

Jan 25, 2000 | To transform myself into a man, I employed the Mr. Potato Head theory of gender. I removed the female accessories -- lipstick, eyeliner, fluffed hair, curves -- and built up from there. I figured adding the other set of accessories would make me a man visually, and then performance would flow from costume.

A night on the town would test the Mr. Potato Head theory. Would I feel like the new sex I was impersonating, or just the same as always? My "natural" state has felt as much male as female: From age 7 to 10, I was often "read" as a boy. Tall, skinny and short-haired, I constantly heard, "Wrong bathroom, kid" and "Here's your change, sir."

And I thought spending a night out as a man would let me explore firsthand the malleability of gender. I decided to go to gay bars to sneak a look at a sexual lifestyle closed to me; plus, I thought it might be easier to pass as gay than straight.

Rather than create a character, I wanted to follow wherever my appearance and people's reactions to it led. My Frankenmale needed a firmer guiding hand though, because he kept sliding all over the gay-straight continuum. Unlike a true transgender, I had no man trapped in my female body to anchor my masculinity.

I didn't shower or use moisturizer that day. I put on Howlin' Wolf and cut my fingernails short and square over the kitchen table, just to be gross. I pulled my hair into a tight ponytail; I applied stubble make-up with a stipple brush around my jawline and between my eyebrows.

I'd bought a fake mustache, but it made me look like the Brawny Paper Towel guy's wimpy cousin. Instead I cut it into small sideburns and a soul patch, funk chunk, whatever you call a rectangle of hair just below the lower lip. I pasted a few wisps of chest hair at the base of my neck.

I borrowed clothes from my friends Peter and Sam, the couple who'd agreed to escort me to the bars. I wrapped my breasts in an Ace bandage, put on Peter's T-shirt, then a generic white button-up shirt of my own. I pinned a dishtowel inside the waistband of Sam's jeans, erasing my waistline and camouflaging my girl butt. Finally, I fished a sock out of my dirty laundry, pinned it and hung it on the left. I scowled at myself and pumped my new straight hips to "Back Door Man."

As I looked in the mirror, I saw a slim, good-looking guy about 10 years younger than I am. Now, he needed a name. I wanted one that was gender-neutral and suggested Robin. "Too faggy," Peter said, and we settled on Alex. After checking me out, my friends concluded that Alex was a nerdy but hip straight man.

Next Page: Getting checked out by the other guys

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