There is no internal truth, there is only what happens: a man next to me on the plane, with a kid
And a wife and an N95 mask. He’s kind, helps me shove my bulky green soccer bag into the overhead
Compartment. I try not to smile to or at him. I call my mother when I land and she’s distressed.
My brother was supposed to meet me at the gate but he’s at a bar upstairs. I can’t afford an airport beer
So I take pictures of my outfit in the men’s room mirror. On the next flight, my brother’s in 4A
while I’m next to two women and their three small children, spread across the row.
Even now, I can’t help but feel as if I owe my family an explanation. I rehearse in my head:
Discomfort with strappy summer sandals, wedding dresses, breasts. Ingests gay porn, imagines self with penis.
Source: Scottish soccer coach age 8? Bend it like Beckham (2001)?
In the car on the way home, my father instructs with my dead name and to my own shame, I respond.
When I came out, years ago, he firmly believed I was addicted to cross-dressing.
That I would consume and consume and consume my body inside men’s clothing until –
Tell me — what is wanting? Has he ever felt it?