Not Lesbian Nor Gay, But Girl Slash Guy

It was a dehydrating day of driving when I and my Dad decided to stop over to fill up the tank as well as our stomachs. Judging by the absence of a vacant parking space, people greatly treasured the service of coolly-ventilated restaurants. So we decided to grab a bite through the take-out counter. Dad stayed in the car while I charged the scorching heat of concrete between our car and the entrance door with my hair tied under a baseball cap.
I lined behind two old women who were claiming their discount by presenting senior citizen cards. It took them quite a long time negotiating with the cashier about the validity of the card, making me more concern about the state of my Dad getting baked in the car. Finally, a waiter realized that eternity already passed since the beginning of that negotiation, so he asked the cashier in the next counter if she can accommodate me. He turned to me and said,”Sir, you can proceed to the next counter.” I smiled but didn’t move. He took a good look at my features, observing me from toe to cap, and smiled heartily. “Hey! Kindly serve ‘Sir’ over here!” he shouted for everyone to hear. He turned back to me again joking, “Really, Sir. Don’t be scared. We don’t bite…you will be the one who’ll do the biting on our delicious meals…” My expression was in the middle of a smile and an appalled grin. But it wasn’t the first time that happened.
I remembered the time when I taught in the Day Care because of our school’s scholastic organization’s Outreach Program. I was observing the kids, reminding them every once in a while to stop punching each other, when one of them tagged my skirt. He looked at me with inquisitive eyes and I beamed back. “Why? Don’t you understand the lesson?”
Without so much of a warning or a sign that I’m about to be humiliated straight to my below-the-knee girl’s uniform wearing self he spits “You’re gay.” His tone was not questioning. It was declarative.
Now, I have nothing against the third sex. In fact, I find them fascinating in the sense that they are, well, queer. (One of my best friends is the gayest ever, and I adore him to the core). But putting it that way, well, I got myself disoriented throughout the lesson. The kid just stared at me, expecting the affirmation of his basic skills in comic anatomy. I and my friends just laughed at it, them laughing like hyenas that were hyper-ventilating, and I, my jaws twitching to fake a smile.
That was just the umpteenth time it occurred, but it was significant since, I have mentioned, I was wearing a five-inch below the knee skirt as were my other certified GIRL classmates. Maybe it’s the fact that I often forget to tell everyone I get acquainted with that I am a natural girl. Or maybe it’s because I have similarities with Shaquille O’Neal, as my brother insists. Either way, sixty percent of the people I meet get the first impression that I’m a boy, not gay. Boy. Does this insecure me? Well, I would be lying if I say that I take it as a compliment. At first, it got me asking questions like “Am I really a girl?” or “Was I a hermaphrodite and my mom just chose the feminine genital for me?” But as time passed along with more remarks, I felt strangely happy about myself.
I felt comfortable with everything that I do – from playing demented basketball to laughing my tonsils out over a simple newspaper joke. People don’t mind, in fact, I got more friends because of my hermaphroditic personality. Friends, boys, girls and gays alike confide in me, not because I’m witty with advises or I suck at it, but because I understand precisely how they feel. I jive with the sexualities. My Mom too had doubts if I was really a girl, preparing herself for the confession of my being a lesbian, because some guy friends would visit our home looking for my company just for the sake of goofing around, boy’s style. I am not picky with people. I can get along with the most demure of the princesses to the “piggiest” of the pigs. Being a girl-slash-guy surely is beneficial. It’s just who I am. And I thank God for that.
So, I finally got the iced drinks from the counter, smiling at the waiter before I head for the concrete desert outside. As I left the resto, they all giggled - signifying something good; they finally recognized the waiter’s error and realized that I AM A GIRL! (Okay, I’m not sure of that. But they were definitely laughing the moment I walked out the door.)
Whatever it was, it’s no cliché – it really is fun being a girl.
Slash guy.

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