What I learned when I wore a dress

If only they had that shit in my size I would be the fucking
king bee

They say that to truly understand another person you need to walk a mile in their shoes. Unfortunately, as I've been forced to realize, I can't fit into most women's shoes, so I guess the feminine will just be an eternal mystery (it's places like this that I am cripplingly aware of how much I need emojis to communicate, but they are not available on this blog platform. So for my sake, let's imagine that the word "spib" means the same thing as that one awkward emoji face with the sweat dripping down the forehead). Spib

But luckily whoever invented that saying didn't literally mean that you have to wear another person's shoes to understand them. What they actually meant was that you have to go through the same things that they do on a daily basis. Unfortunately, that's also not possible. You can never go through exactly what another person goes through, so I guess we're just doomed to live lives of isolation due to our inability to every understand each other.

Kidding, that'd be shit.

I think it is possible to eventually understand another person in the same way that it is possible to eventually understand yourself (and you'll likely be shocked to find how remarkably similar the two of you are). For men who really want to understand women, not in the sense of learning to exploit them to get them into bed- to really acknowledge the beauty inherent in femeninity, there is only one way: you're going to have to put on a dress.

I'm not claiming to truly understand women now, but wearing a dress opened my eyes in a way that is difficult to put into words. It was a bit of a Damascus road experience (except I think Saul/Paul would have been better suited if he just dawned the attire of a woman in that era). My entire world radically changed for the better and will likely never be the same.

So what did I find? Firstly, I look damn good in a dress ;) And in my opinion so does everybody. Men can be just as beautiful as women, but we've been forced to wear boring suits that restrict our ability to truly express ourselves (a man's outfit is considered wacky if he wears a different colored bowtie- that's so limiting). Dresses are more comfortable (except in the cold- learned that the hard way. But for true beauty you must suffer, so here we are) and more elegant in a way that beautifully frames the inherent beauty of what it is to be a human.

"Okay, Bram. I don't give a shit about fashion. I'm a man and I'm tough and masculine and too insecure to actually use the word 'beautiful' to describe myself for fear of being thought of as associating with the feminine (which is why we invented the bullshit word 'handsome'). Can't you tell me something actually useful?" Probably not; you sound like you need some psychotherapy and a big hug (maybe snuggle a cute pup), which is okay- i've been there and don't judge you in the slightest.

"You got a pretty identity, boy. It'd be a
shame if something were to happen to it."

The other thing wearing the dress made me realize is how truly oppressive masculinity is as a force. And I don't just mean to women. Masculinity is the chain that every man is born with- the burden of seriousness that our fathers lovingly strangled our inviduality and love of the world with. Because to be a man and not be masculine makes you a threat to the powers that be (tall men in black suits or, just as likely, fucking lizard people. Who knows who is actually pulling the strings of this world? All of us do- it's all of us: we live in the cruel world that we've all allowed to exist and we are all culpable to some extent), which makes you a target. Unless you've got some supportive friends you will buckle under the force; even if you've got supportive friends you'll likely be brought to tears at least once (I was, and let me tell you: every cathartic tear was shed with pride).

But perhaps the most interesting thing I learned came from the access that wearing women's clothes gave me to the previously inaccessable secret world of women- a clubhouse with "no boys allowed" written on the door (fooled 'em!). I'm talking about the secret gathering of women-folk before a ball or party to perform one of the most beautiful rituals I've ever seen: helping each other prepare to slay like Beyonce. I dawned my anthropologist hat and watched with curiosity as girls painstakingly did each other's make-up, gave each other their accessories, and went to great lengths to help each other look amazing. At first I was surprised- from the vantage point of a man that level of cooperation seemed almost ridiculous. Surely, these girls all wanted to be the most beautiful at the party? Nope. Because to be feminine is to realize that there is room on the stage for more than one person: that life isn't a zero-sum game and that beauty isn't a competition. Everyone has more fun if we all look nice.

The absence of deference for power dynamics and politics seemed insane to me. Every man knows that at some level, access to resources and competition for romantic partners forces the world to be a competition. To associate with masculinity as we know it is to embrace a narrative of alienation where every other person is a threat to your survival and every encounter is a battle for dominance so that you aren't left with nothing in the future. What the fuck were these idiotic girls thinking? And why did it seem so beautiful? It caused an intense feeling of cognitive dissonance: was I crazy or were they (or maybe we're all crazy- to even call it crazy assigns a value judgement that is not helpful)?

Then came the moment of truth: stepping into public in a dress. I felt naked without the suit of armor that is a suit. I felt the eyes of everyone watching me- some admiring my beauty but quite a few giving me disapproving glances that seemed to say "the lizard people aren't going to be happy about this. Watch out or you'll get yourself killed for challenging masculinity; also I might be the person who kills you, you fucking freak." But luckily I'm a masochistic comedian who would be perfectly fine being killed for something I thought was beautiful and entertaining (not that I would prefer that to life, but the decision isn't really mine to make and it seems better to make the best of a bad situation than to be constricted by fearful people who resent me for being brave enough to find my freedom).

It was amazing though. It was like I had stepped into a character actually worth playing for once in my life. People seemed far more receptive to talking with me, dancing with me, and letting me be the silly fucktard that I am. It was a bit annoying the amount of times people assumed I was trans- like it's impossible that a man could think a dress was an appropriate expression of his masculinity (which I think it is). But for the most part, it was like I had slipped into a parallel universe where everything is happier and everyone gives me the benefit of the doubt instead of assuming I have some sinister motivation when I compliment the way their outfit looks or strike up a conversation with them while we're smoking next to each other. Every conversation I had (minus the condescending ones from both men and women in which they tried to tell me that I had to either reject the gender I was given or get out of the dress) was amazing.

When you're in a dress you can see the world more clearly. We're like beautiful little ants going about our lives but happy to take time to help each other find what we need because we live in a beautiful world of abundance that has enough for all of us to be happy. It has allowed me to slip out of the depressing, boring, "no sissy stuff" narrative which society had shoved down my throat from birth. And now that I've tasted that freedom, good luck putting me back in the cage of men's fashion. I may wear a dress, but I also listen to a lot of heavy metal and I'll fight for my right to unite the masculine with the feminine so that we can create a world in which everyone gets to feel this way.

Good talk.