I’ve been wearing a baseball cap ever since. When I saw it, I knew I’d struck on something major: it turns out, throw a baseball cap on this thirsty theater queen and voila: She’s masc! (Falling in love with him instantly, I made the mistake of not inviting him home that night, and we never got past a dinner date the next week - last time this lady plays hard to get, I assure you.) While that night did not bring me lasting happiness, it did generate a photo of me wearing my costume. Sammy Sosa? Is he one? - and I ended up dancing with someone far better-looking than I deserved.
It started last Halloween, when I went out dressed as a Mets player - no one player in particular I am not sure I could name a Mets player. Then I became masc, and the men who once ignored me now treat me like a queen. For years I languished, a decidedly cheaper cut of meat, reeking of homosexuality, powerless to satisfy anyone in the market for a real man.
