I share a room with my sister, and in that room are one bureau, one upright stand of drawers (seven drawers in that, I think), a night stand, and a desk for storage purposes and furniture. I am blessed with the use of most of the stand of drawers and a mother who has long since stopped her bi-annual whirlwind of cleaning the nooks and hidden places of our bedrom.In this stand of drawers, in the drawer that I use for underwear, I keep my male things. These things are few and cherished for it, and include three men’s undershirts (black), a pair of suspenders (blue), a clip on bowtie (black), a compression shirt (white), and a bottle of hair gel.
Bits and bobs from costumes, these are. The suspenders and bowtie for choir performances, the undershirts for halloween. The compression shirt is a secret, and I keep my underwear drawer closed, with the undershirts on top.
Directly above this drawer is my woman’s drawer. I have a white nylon slip, several women’s tank tops, a girdle, and a corset. As with the compression shirt, the corset is a secret.
The high swings and lows of my gender are outlined by what I wear, how I change my own shape to fit my mind. Sometimes I want to wear it all, and dance until I can’t breathe because all the pain has been breathed out; and having been breathed out, becomes separate from me.
These drawers are my secret. They are taboo, hidden, inexplicable and not technically allowed. But then, my actions are so very seldomly dictated by what I am “allowed” to do.