binded

zane ; dysphoria and ice cream

While she drives, Grace rambles about some ice cream shop that her father always took her to when she was younger and practically begs me to let us go.

"You're the one who is driving." I tell her, "It's not like I can stop you from wherever you decide to drive to."

Grace pulls into a parking lot and parks her car in front of a building with '32 Below' illuminated in neon blue lights. She observes her nose stud in the rear view mirror and gently touches it. With a smile, she leans over to kiss my cheek and unbuckles her seatbelt.

"Zane, come on." she says, shutting her door as I am just getting out, "I know that you're gonna be a bit overwhelmed with the flavor choices so you might need a bit more time than me."

I'm confused what she means until I enter the building and take a peek at the gigantic menu. There are flavors that I didn't even know existed! Cinnamon Buns, Cherry Garcia and Pumpkin Cheesecake are a few that I've never seen, but Grace doesn't look intimidated by the many options.

"I always get two scoops of Cookie Dough with rainbow sprinkles." she whispers leaning in towards me, "I was always scared of this menu too, just get something that sounds good to you."

When we reach the front of the line, I settle on Red Velvet Cake with chocolate syrup on top. Each of us pay for our individual desserts and sit in a booth in the corner of the parlor. While Grace shoves her face with ice cream, I'm hit with a wave of discomfort.

I glance down at my chest and can see the slightest indent. Yes, I know that a binder does not work miracles but I desperately want it to. My mom used all of our money to run off from my biological dad (aka the biggest douche I've ever known) so top surgery is out of the question for a while.

Then I look at Grace. How she now seems so comfortable with herself and I put on a facade that I am as well. But in reality, looking into a mirror is more like staring at a stranger. Taking showers is a hassle and waking up to realize that I still have breasts is a heartbreaker.

I am a boy I think to myself. I am a valid boy despite what society has chosen to assign me as. I have a mother who refers to me as her son and a brother who calls me big brother.

"Zane, you okay?" Grace asks, a perfectly plucked eyebrow raised and her squishy cheeks packed full of ice cream.

I nod and dig the blue plastic spoon into my dessert and nod," Yeah, I'm fine. Let's just eat."

While savoring the subtle chocolate flavor, I stare at my spoon and feel a sudden sense of comfort with myself. Blue, the stereotypical boy color.

I am a boy.