I could saunter confidently into any restroom that had that outline of a little woman, standing primly in her A-line skirt with her hands at her sides and feet together — you know, the way cisgender women often stand in front of public elevators — and know that if I wasn't her sister, at least all my effort had purchased another Day Pass to FemaleLand. I drew stares, but not blood.
But gradually that effort evaporated. Strip the long hair, earrings, lipstick, mascara, and blush off most cisgender women and you still usually pretty much see a woman. Strip them off me and what you see is ... Richard. And no matter how feminine I feel inside, Richard gets no Day Pass. Richard sauntering confidently into the women's room is ... chaos.
Some women call out, "It's the women's room." The more polite run outside to check the sign and make sure it's not them who are in the wrong bathroom.
Others just glare really hard. I've even had a couple wait outside with their boyfriends to go after me.
And then there are the rare ones who just go off. I was shopping in my favorite high-end South Beach deli one sunny morning when a crazy older woman — not a regular like moi — was busy loudly harassing employees.
She yelled at the guy behind the meat counter. Then she yelled at the woman working produce.