Title: A Real Boy

Author: Adam Lysander

Rating: R

Summary: Thoughts on gender.

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Sometimes, I know she wishes I were a real boy. But sometimes I wish I were a real girl. I think we'd confuse Geppetto and the blue fairy a bit too much if they were to ever try and grant our wishes. Because I'd end up exactly as I am. Not a real anything.

Sure, I mean, there's biologically, there's emotionally, there's physically, but they all mesh into some genderless wonder. I'm more of a woman than she is, but I've still got the wrong dangly bit between my legs that just makes it… well, difficult.

And we've got so many labels we try to put on it, you know. She tell her friends that I'm her boyfriend, or her man, and then we'll joke and she'll call me her wife, or sometimes, she'll be my wife. And when we fuck, I'm her bitch. And at night, when I curl into her in bed, she strokes my hair and calls me her lesbian lover.

Sometimes on the weekends, we'll go out, both in drag, and everyone sees the polite gentleman escorting the beautiful lady, and it'll be real. For a few hours, she'll be a real boy, and I'll be a real girl, and no one will know the difference. No one will raise their eyebrows in disapproval, or make a surprised "oh" when we walk in… Because they won't know my tits are made from jell-o-like silicone and that her dick is nothing more than a couple of socks. And they won't know that when we get home, I'll get on my knees and suck her big fake cock, smearing my lipstick everywhere.

They won't know that I'm not a real girl.

And sometimes I do things that surprise her… I go camping with my guy friends, and I'll wear jeans and a red flannel shirt, and my hair will be combed neatly, and she says she can't recognize me. She says she can't place her finger on why I look so different just because I tossed on something different clothes. But I know why- it's because I look like a man.

And I'm not. Not really.

And sometimes, I think it'd just be easier if I was what society thought I was, and just become gay, because I'm a gay man. Just find some big, macho daddy and be his bitch. But then I remember, I've already got a big, macho daddy. And her name's Meg.

But more to the point, I'm hers, and she's mine. And one night, she kissed my cheeks and called me her Lysander, and called herself Hermia, straight out of Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream. And she stroked my cheek where she kissed it and told me that our love would last forever, because we'd run away before anyone could tear us apart. And when I cried, she kissed the tears and called me her sweet little boy. A little gay boy from Athens… And I shook my head and frowned, and told her I wasn't gay. "Sure you are," she'd reply. "You're my little lesbian."

And for some reason, that sounded right. But it wasn't real.

But even if I'm not a real boy, or a real girl, I know I'll always be Lysander. That's one fantasy that's real.

And that's what we're about, blurring the lines between reality and fantasy. Marking what's real and what's false, and making it seem… I don't know, just seem to exist.

I want to exist. I want to be real. I don't want to be Pinocchio.

And I know I love her, exactly as she is, the swaggering bulldagger of a girl, who's more of a real boy than I am. And I know she loves me.

But sometimes, I know she wishes I was a real boy.

But sometimes so do I.