On Manscaping, Manhunt and More (or How to Be a Fag in Three Not-So-Easy Lessons)

This post is the first in a three part series that was submitted by Al, who is a queer transman and fed up observer of local gay culture.



I peered up and over the half-partition wall that gives my desk a false sense of privacy and asked my neighbor a question. “So, can you shave your actual asshole with it?” He, my fag work-wife, turned bright red and busted out laughing. “I can’t believe you just asked that HERE!” He then told me yes, but warned me to be careful as he’d had a minor incident in the shower. It appears some faggotry is learned.

How does a transguy who likes guys learn the rules of the fag game? Through mentors, of course. It’s a charitable project that should be rewarded with tax refunds to the kind fag souls who take us on without discrimination or insensitivity; they are a rare breed. The above mentioned co-worker pal has been a fairly good resource, all if reluctantly. Other friends have also filled the void. The removal of body hair has been a frequent tutorial topic. Long conversations on the annoyance of having to shave one’s shoulders before a date are what precipitated the now infamous office asshole convo.

I recall the time when, after procrastinating for a good while, I stood on the precipice of dealing with my newly acquired facial hair. I was reluctant because I feared that the hard won and paid for hair I’d grown thanks to “T” would never grow back if I shaved it off. Ok, so it’s been almost three years and I’ve never fully shaved my sideburns; I was raised in the 90210 era.

After several months on “T” I could no longer ignore the “fuzzstache” (so named for its feminine softness) on my upper lip. I looked like a child molester and needed to deal with it. I found myself leaning over the bathroom sink at the home of my pals Dan and Michael in Washington, our nation’s crapital. Dan, Michael and our friend Ira fought over the “proper” way to go about the task all while I stood there waiting seemingly forever for definitive data. One would say “you need to shower first!” to which another would retort “no, no, forget the shower.” Then there was a verbal sparring match regarding lotion varietals. I ended up far more lathered up than necessary and hovering over the sink holding the razor tentatively while Michael gave instruction. Dan and Ira were crammed just outside the open door in the tiny row house’s stairwell. Ironically Michael, the person who I credit with teaching me to shave, is Chinese. He couldn’t grow a full beard if his federal pension depended on it, but then neither can I.

Hair is an obsession of trannyboys. At parties they sit around showing their one chest or one chin hair to one another, comparing the length of their paltry sideburns, or lamenting about how they can’t grow hair on the front of their chins, merely underneath them (we all tend to look a little Amish). Older guys verbally reassure and show off to younger guys who are desperately monitoring their peach fuzz for any trace of progress. Luckily hair is an obsession and complex for cisfags as well. The amount or lack of body hair a guy has is as defining as his ethnicity.

The focus on physical appearance goes much further than hair. After 27 years of being socialized female I thought I had experienced all the pressure society could muster up regarding beauty standards, but transitioning from female to male, and a queer one to boot, has provided new avenues for self-loathing. I might inspire a whole new genre of Lifetime network made-for-TV movies: transmanorexia tales.

Enter another educational model - observation. It was during these exercises that my self-esteem suffered in after school special proportions. The physical expectations fags place on themselves and one another can be seen all over. In my neighborhood opportunities abound to witness the mating habits and the related plumage of these fair creatures in their native habitat. Case study: the stretch of U St. in front of Results the gym. Sure, it’s not officially a gay gym. Women report being treated like second class citizens there, straight men tighten their sphincters instinctively upon entering, and the building also hosts a smoothie bar and hair salon; fill in the blanks.

Every day, fags parade to and from this establishment as if it were the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show. While only a few breeds are represented, they all wear Andrew Christian tank tops. There are the poodle types with their stick-thin arms and legs, upturned noses, and big bangs; and the good old reliable labs with their all-American, boy next door (if you live on the Castro), Aberzombie good looks complete with blonde highlights. Conversely, there are also bulldogs. Beefed up, tanned, and oiled they march their puffed up chests (steroids? pec implants? a few too many creatine shakes?) past the poodles with only the occasional cruise.

Cruising is a ritual I have also analyzed. I’ve actually gotten good at it. Well, at least now I notice when I’m getting cruised…sometimes. Why me? I’m assuming that it may have something to do with the fact that I, like many ftms, look much younger than I am. Who doesn’t have an altar boy fantasy? Despite having become skilled at walk-by cruising, mastered while walking to and from the metro to work every day, I have no idea what to do next. I have oft asked this question of my cisgenderd fag teachers: what do you do when you get cruised at Giant? A simply answer has yet to be identified.