The Man
I’ve never yearned to be a man in the sense I am uncomfortable in my femininity, in my sexuality. I am happy to fret over my hair, and groan as I set off to hastily apply makeup for a last minute trip to the bar.
But in the sense of culture- I adore the old days. Most will argue against it; the conditions, the prejudice, the suffering. But the glamour? The glamour of being a man who has enough power simply because of the thing between his legs to do as he wished without threat?
To, in modern frame, dress in however they wish, to get up and not need to do their hair for it to not look horrific. To not worry about perfectly smooth legs in shorts during the summer, or be concerned how their arms look in a tank top.
To be like my brothers- able to drink a dozen pints and stumble home at day break with a clap on his back and broad, prideful smile from a neglectul father, rather then a constant little girl who cannot handle one diluted beer and needs to be conservative in appearance and soul.
To take whores to bed and be labeled a champion, rather than a scallion with the same body beneath me.
To have my body convert fat to muscle without lifting a finger, rather another joint to their lips on a day in the field because it should be fine for a male dominated field to succumb to ways of old, but never fine for a woman to wish to implement the ways of today.
I lift weights heavier than the average man at my gym. I kiss more pretty girls than them. I have more money. Yet, and yet. It is never enough.
No. I do not wish to have a man’s body, or a man’s face. I do not wish for a deep voice or his words. But I do wish I could be like a man. Just for a day.