They lay eyes on him, they see a body out of the gym.

A black, thick beard, in a need of a trim. They see the Arab nose, pointing, grim.

They assume he’s harbouring a big drill. Under his tight jeans, they anticipate a thrill.

That’s what to them all of this spells.

But he is more than what they diluted him in, with their stereotypes and fantasies of what sells.

He looks at them and feels the heat of his identity being boxed, left sizzling on a social grill.

He wants to shout out loud:

I want to come out as small… Or…
But I am not small.
At least, that’s what I thought.

Before, he never contemplated it at all.

Its diameter stretching thick at the base then narrowing all the way to the tip, leaving of thickness no trace.
Long enough to have the head fall out of the hand’s embrace.

How do you explain that yours is a ‘grower’ – small when it’s asleep, average when in pleasure it takes a leap?

They look at him and only see a Top! But – God damn it – there’s something out of that image cropped.
Why must he justify it at all? And why is the only well of fluidity the one of self-loathing where we are dropped?

He just wants to shout:
I want to come out as small… Or…

But what else should he expect?

They bottled him since the doctor announced, “It’s a boy!”
From the blue everywhere, to the car toy,
To his first time hearing “Boys don’t cry”,
To catcalling, objectifying, to man up, and wear a tie.

And now –

He had to use the ruler.
A measurement of how he fits their stereotypes in centimetres.

He reduced himself to a stick.
He allowed himself to be reduced.

That’s crude!
He is more, more, and definitely more.
He wants to be loved for it and adored.

They see him, they imagine a guy well-hung.
They smile, flirt, approach, and buy a drink.
So, affection and further interest gets born.

But what if he tells them it is small.
Or that what they imagine does not exist at all.

What if he’s in the wrong gender born? Would they take it all back –
The smile, the approach, the affection, the interest, that goddamn drink?

His therapist’s statement followed by a post-mortem report:

“He was tired of all the boxes, he suffocated,
He yearned to be liberated, nothing can be reverted.
Like a mosquito with the hand of social taboos and constructions,
He was swatted, he vanished.”

Now there’s no coming out as small,
Or existing at all!

Cover Image: Photo by Andre Taissin on Unsplash