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“Feminicity”

So I had gotten myself a new boyfriend. The perfect scenario all girls dream of: some ridiculously hot guy randomly deciding to commit on the first date. What more could I ask for? Terence was so great, he even liked some things about me I wasn’t too sure I liked very much myself.

Terence thought my dorky ways were endearing, “Ha ha ha! You trip every five seconds on flat ground. You’re such a cute mess!”

Terence liked my messy morning hair, “You look like a brown Edward Scissorhands when you wake up!”

Terence admired my gluttony, “I’ve never met a guy as small as you who could eat five slices of pizza without taking a break to breathe!”

Terence also watched bad movies with me without any feelings of remorse, an idea completely new to me. We must’ve watched the movie “White Chicks” about three times, because I found myself using the phrase “I’m gonna throw a bitch fit” more often than I’d like to admit.

After one week of being together, he was even becoming quite familiar with my morning routine. One particular morning, he saw me squeeze myself into my most flattering, gray skinny jeans, spend an unnecessary twenty minutes doing my hair, and put on my skimpiest sleeveless shirt. I heard him chuckle.

“What?” I asked him.

“Nothing,” he said with a big smile, and his hand covering the other morning habit his crotch was becoming accustomed to.

I carefully applied some lip balm in front of the mirror, looking closely at the image of myself, making sure I got every little bit of pink smothered in the waxy substance. I heard him chuckle yet again.

“What?” I demanded with an annoyed, waxy smile.

“Nothing.” He hesitated. “I don’t know. It’s just, I had never noticed your feminicity.”

“My what?”

“You know, that you can be a little girly sometimes. When you put on those sexy, tight pants that show off your ass. And you wear that shirt that shows your tummy when you lift your arms. You know, your feminicity!”

I didn’t know what offended me more – him butchering the word femininity or calling me girly.

But just when I was about to throw a “bitch fit”, I saw him put his strong arms around my shoulders with a big smile on his handsome face. His height and strong built made me look small – girly. But the picture of the two of us in the mirror, the contrast of his darker skin and mine – it was quite beautiful. We made a damn cute couple! He then grabbed my apparently feminine self, carried me like a bride back to bed, and gave me the most passionate kiss of my entire life. The kiss was quickly followed by another morning habit I can’t complain much about. Maybe there are some perks to this whole feminicity thing!

And what an apt term to describe urban homosexuals, too: feminicity. I thought about most of my gay friends, all very cosmopolitan. They seemed to be quite in touch with their feminine side: stylish outfits, pretty hair, plucked eyebrows, Sex and the City DVD Collections – you name it! But then I thought about all my male lovers and ex-boyfriends: they were all quite masculine or even borderline closeted. In a spectrum with size-twelve stiletto shoes on one side and Monday-Night Football on the other, where exactly does one fall into? And depending on where you fall in the spectrum, who’s attracted to whom? That same night when I got back from school, I made it a priority to ask my new boyfriend just that question.

I stood between him and the PS3 game he was playing and began, “Terence, do you think I’m…”

Before I could finish, he grabbed me by the waist and sat me on his lap, “Get your cute ass over here!”

He continued playing his shooting videogame. Surprisingly I found myself quite content just sitting there on his lap with my arms around his neck like a damsel in distress. I could just picture myself, cheering my man on as he killed the imaginary beings that haunted the seventy-inch TV. But soon after, my legs became numb and pretend-killing monsters lost its appeal. I wanted to talk!

“Babe,” I began. “You don’t mind if we go out to eat tonight?”

He paused the game and smiled, “Not at all, babe!”

We walked to one of the thousand local Thai restaurants in my neighborhood. As he paced in front of me to enter the restaurant, I noticed how most of his walking motion was limited to his V-shaped upper body. I looked down at myself and realized most of the movement was happening in my hips. I was definitely the feminine one in our relationship!

We sat down and a gorgeous Thai waiter with a blue streak in his Justin Bieber-do took our order. Terence couldn’t take his eyes off him – but then again, neither could I. As the cute waiter walked away, I noticed my boyfriend didn’t take his eyes off his hips, which swayed even more than mine did.

“Hey!” I said a little louder than I had intended.

“What?” he finally looked away from the waiter’s ass to my face.

“You like feminine guys, right?” I asked without thinking.

“Ha ha. What kind of question is that?”

“Well,” I had to pull something out of my ass. “I was just coming up with a theory about gay dating. And, I’d always thought that my attraction to masculine guys was, I don’t know, internalized homophobia. But maybe it’s just because I may be, you know, in touch with my…”

“…your feminicity?” he finished the sentence for me.

“Yeah, that!” I didn’t have the heart to correct him. “So I was wondering if a masculine guy like you is attracted to a more feminine guy like…”

Before I could say like me, our cuter, more feminine waiter came back with our meals and said directly to my boyfriend, “Enjoy the shrimp!”

We will!” I said rather loudly, but neither the cute little bastard nor the blue streak in his hair made any signs that they heard me. “As I was saying, maybe masculine guys like you are attracted to guys like me.”

“Yeah, that could be it,” Terence said still looking at the waiter sway away from our table.

I’ve never finished a meal more quickly in my entire life – and here I thought the PS3 was a bad distraction!

When we got to my place, he grabbed me by the waist and was about to pull me to the couch to continue killing imaginary demons, but I stopped him – presumably to exorcise my own demons.

“Do you think I’m super girly? Or not girly enough?” I asked without hesitation this time, holding his hand in place.

“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” He smiled patiently.

“Well, I didn’t want to say this, because my pretty head starts going psycho-bitch on guys when I overanalyze things. But I don’t know if I’m really your type. I mean, I’m not ashamed of my feminine side, but I’m also not necessarily flaming. I’ve never done drag, although I’m not opposed to the idea of drag – I actually would try it, and have friends who do it. But my point is that I don’t know what you’re looking for. Or If I’m even close to the guy you want to…”

He shut me up with a kiss – my favorite way of being quieted.

Then he said, “I think you’re just being a little insecure. But I’m with you aren’t I? Not with some sexy, femmy waiter. Not with a drag queen.”

Insecurity! He could still read me like a book, “OK. You’re right. Thanks.”

He smiled that perpetual smile of his and added, “And if you must know, I think you’re not super fem or super masculine. You mostly come off as a cute smarty pants.”

Feminine, masculine – who cares, really? Apparently Terence didn’t, and that was good enough for me. As long as he fit together with me (and could flatter the crap out of me), I had no complaints. Or at least very few I could voice with my lips locked on his.

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