Some nights I catch myself staring in mirrors too long, trying to figure out who the fuck I'm looking at. Built like a brick shithouse now — funny how that worked out. All those childhood prayers to wake up different, and here I am, stuck in this body that screams Man so loud it drowns out everything else. Sometimes I think the universe got my order mixed up with someone else's. Some poor bastard out there probably got my supposed-to-be body while I'm walking around in his return-to-sender mistake.

Spent years trying to sort myself into the right categories. Like those stupid Myers-Briggs tests they made us take in high school — except instead of "introvert" or "extrovert" it was "man enough" or "not man enough" or "what the fuck are you anyway?" Got real good at pretending I knew the answers. Got even better at pretending I gave a shit about the questions. INFJ past 3 years in a row, only the 5th letter changes.

Truth is, I'm tired. Tired of feminism vs. masculinity like it's some boxing match and we all have to pick sides. Tired of watching people slam doors in each other's faces because their pronouns don't match their presentation or their politics don't fit the approved narrative. Tired of explaining myself to people who already decided who I am before I opened my mouth.

Thing about labels — they're like those cheap name tags at conferences. Stick one on and suddenly everyone thinks they know exactly who you are. HELLO MY NAME IS: feminist. HELLO MY NAME IS: masculine. HELLO MY NAME IS: confused as fuck about why we're still playing this game.

I spent four years in the Marines performing masculinity like it was a Broadway show. High and tight fade, shoulders back, dick-measuring contests at the bar. Got pretty good at it too. Won a few contests and the occasional black eye when someone caught a whiff of who I really was beneath all that carefully constructed man-costume.

Then Hollywood, where I learned that gender is just another commodity to be bought and sold. Want me masculine? That's one rate. Feminine? Different rate. Something in between that makes you question your own sexuality just enough to keep you interested but not enough to make you uncomfortable? Premium package, baby.

I spent four years in the Marines performing masculinity like it was a Broadway show. High and tight fade, shoulders back, dick-measuring contests at the bar.

I've seen both sides of this coin we keep flipping — feminism, masculinity. Been in rooms where women had all the power and rooms where men did, and you know what? Power looks the same no matter who's wearing it. Same smile, same casual cruelty, same way of making you feel like you're nothing more than whatever box they've decided to put you in.

You want to talk about gender roles? Let's talk about that night at the bathhouse. Three days without sleep, feet bleeding in borrowed shoes, just wanting somewhere to rest. Door locked, I remember checking it twice. Woke up to … well. Tried reporting it. Watched the cop's face do the thing — the shift from professional concern to something else when they take note of where we are. Who it happened to.

"So you were there for…?"

Never finished that report. His voice already had the answer he wanted — the one that made this make sense in his little rulebook of victim and perpetrator. Because men don't get raped, right? Especially not men who have sex with other men. Especially not a Marine.

Should've. Could've. Would've.

Ended up banned from the bathhouse. Guess I was bad for business. Imagine that — getting raped makes you unwelcome in the place you got raped. There's probably a metaphor there about society or gender roles or something, but I'm too tired to find it.

So here's what I'm thinking, sitting in my apartment that costs too much, looking at photos of me in Playgirl next to photos from actual Hollywood films next to my Marine Corps graduation picture: maybe we're asking the wrong questions. Maybe instead of "what does feminism mean?" or "what does masculinity mean?" we should be asking "why do we need these labels at all?"

Ended up banned from the bathhouse. Guess I was bad for business. Imagine that — getting raped makes you unwelcome in the place you got raped.

I've been called faggot and sir in the same day. Been told I'm too masculine to be gay and too feminine to be straight. Been praised for my strength while being dismissed for my sensitivity. Been valued for my body while being ignored for my mind. And through it all, these labels we cling to — feminist, masculine, whatever — they've done nothing but draw lines between us. Build walls. Create spaces where some belong and others don't.

You want to know what I think about feminism? I think it's like every other ism — useful until it becomes a cage. Important until it becomes an excuse. Necessary until it becomes a weapon.

I've lived enough lives to know that strength isn't gendered. Pain isn't gendered. Love, fear, hope, despair — none of it comes with pronouns attached. We just pretend it does because it's easier than admitting how fucking scared we all are of just being human.

All of the above

Maybe instead of fighting for feminism or masculinity, we should be fighting for the right to be none of the above. All of the above. Something in between that we haven't even named yet.

Or maybe we should just stop fighting altogether and admit that we're all just making this shit up as we go along, trying our best not to hurt each other while we figure out who we are beneath all these labels we never asked for.

But what do I know? I'm just a guy who used to dream about being a girl until I realized I was just gay, then spent years performing masculinity until I realized I was just me. Whatever the fuck that means.

Let the bashing begin. :)

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