The further I get from being a woman the less I’m stared at while eating. Eggplant parm, fries dripping truffle oil, fries dripping cheese whiz, appetizers washed down with gulps of beer never water. I’m not skinnier than I was pre-T, but I’m not fatter either. It’s the difference of: Maybe a chubby man is not the person you’ll go home with tonight (or any night), but you accept his hunger as legitimate. When I was six years old, and legitimately overweight, belly rolls dripping over a plaid skirt (oh the rich kids who witnessed this, like a pencil thrust through their 18 karat eyes), my friends threw away my Hostess cupcake and force-fed me a red delicious apple. When I was 31, my play partner baked me cookies and served them to me on her knees, said she liked the solidness of my body in words that seemed too convincing to be false. Still, some of us lie well. I said I feel sexy when I meant the apples in my belly come up my throat, bob with me in this rotten barrel.
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