FIFTEEN YEARS AGO - APRIL
“Come on,Claire has a spliff for us to share.”
“Oh, a joint shared among eight of us. How delightful.”
“It's better than all this,” Raquelle looks around us, “old art.”
I bite my lip so I don't call her something rude. It's not her fault she thinks it’s boring looking at some of the oldest surviving artworks in the world, not to mention some of the most famous paintings to ever be created.
“Nah, I'll pass.” I say. “I actually like all this old art.”
She makes a face but lets it slide. “Suit yourself. I'll text you where you can find us.”
“Cool. Enjoy your eighth of a high.”
“Well, actually it'll be a seventh because you've forgotten how to have fun!” Raquelle sticks her tongue out at me before turning and walking away, leaving me surrounded by countless tourists and one marble statue that I can’t quite take my eyes off.
Spartacus, the enslaved Roman legend who freedhimself, stands in front of me, completely naked and with a very serious expression on his face. This was what I was looking forward to seeing in person as soon as I found out that a trip to the Louvre was included in the itinerary of our French A-Level trip to Paris.
If I had told Raquelle this, she would have laughed at me or berated me for ‘perving on dead dudes with small penises’. I mean, I don't hate men with beards, and how do I even know what's small or not when it comes to male genitalia. I've never seen any up close, least of all done anything with one, and yet I do find myself thinking about penises a lot. I find myself thinking about men a lot. Not in a…I want to fuck them or love them. I think about men in a...
I think about men because, for a long time now, I've been asking myself — am I one of them?
And the question is getting so loud, echoing off the walls of my brain, that I can't sleep. I can't eat. I can't focus. I can't be around people for more than ten minutes before I want to scream at them to fuck off and leave me alone because the noise inside my head is too loud for me to hear anyone else.
I had hoped coming to stand in a room full of men made of marble, all in peak muscular condition, all with their sculpted bodies on show and their masculinity holding up to scrutiny, that I would get my answer. That I would feel like one of them. That I would find clarity and something like clearness about what I should do about it.
But that’s not happening. Because I know I will never look like Spartacus. I will never have a flat stomach or defined thighs. I don’t have a penis or testicles. I don’t even want to be the kind of man who breaks his chains, although I desperately want to be free of the invisible shackles I feel.
I experience so much confusion about my gender and somuch anguish that I can't believe people don't pick up on it when they're around me. Like, why haven't my parents asked me what's twisting up my insides? Why hasn't Raquelle asked me why I'm vibrating with angst all day every day? Why aren't strangers looking at me, horrified at the thoughts I’ve been having.
No, not the ‘Am I a man?’ thoughts but the ‘How the fuck do I do this?’ How do I find peace with this when it feels like those I love will lose theirs?
It's not that I think my parents will be angry or disown me. I am quietly confident they'll support me through whatever steps I take to transition medically, socially, whatever. But the rest of town, Mum's work, Dad's doctor and therapist, our neighbours, the whole fucking close-minded town I already live on the very fringes of...They won't just make life hard for me. They'll make life hard for Mum and Dad and for Lyla and Devon too. Harder. They'll make life harder.Iwill make life even harder.
“Penny for them?” a familiar voice says from my side. I tear my eyes away from Spartacus and turn to see Ben Smith standing next to me.
Dressed in the Adidas sweater I think he lives in, dark blue jeans and a pair of Converse, his hair is tousled from the wind outside, and I quickly spot an unpopped zit on the side of his neck. His presence is an immediate juxtaposition with the smooth and unblemished marble statues around us. But there’s something almost charming about how real he is compared to all this cold stone.
Momentarily I wonder if he looks like Spartacus under his clothes. Strong legs, toned abs and powerful arms. I know he’s tall and slim, but he plays football all the time. That must have put some muscle on his bones.
“D-?” Ben prompts when I still — ridiculously — don’t reply.
“What did you just say?”
“Penny for them. For your thoughts. You looked lost in a daydream.”
“Just admiring the art,” I say before turning to him and very much changing the direction of the conversation. “Why aren’t you getting high with the others?”
He shrugs but it’s not effortless. Not at all. “Just don’t fancy it. Weed and booze…They don’t make me feel good.”
I snort. “You need something harder?”
He laughs at that. “Maybe.”
“You probably can’t mess with your body what with your hopes and dreams of Premier League fame.”
“How do you know about that?” He blushes.
