There was such unexpected freedom in being a man. As Jack I could come and go as I pleased, at any hour of the day or night. I jogged around the neighborhood, regardless of the hour, at least twice a week, I walked home alone after dark. I could order a straight whiskey at the Regal Beagle, throw it over my tongue, and wipe my mouth roughly with the back of my hand, and no one looked at me twice. Most flattering of all, I was seen and judged by others as a protector, as someone strong—others naturally looked to me for help in a practical, physical way. Helping a friend move? They asked me. Shepherding my female roommates home after dark? They looked to me. Someone needed backup in the face of an enemy? I was there. These foregone expectations alone gave me a huge amount of satisfaction I never fully realized I’d been missing. For it had never been enough to merely feel powerful—I’d learned long ago that nobody gives a shit how a person lives in their head. To truly exist in the external world, others must judge you worthy. Like Tinkerbell being clapped into reality, my strength required others to will it into existence with their faith, and by just presenting as male I felt like I’d gained a new respect, a strange sense of invincibility. Of invisibility, to a degree. For the first time in my entire life, my future had a map with endless destinations, and the whole world cheered as they shoved me into the driver’s seat, telling me to go, go, go.

The best part was that this confidence wasn’t a conscious realization, but was assimilated into the wallpaper of my psyche, into the marrow of my bones, until I didn’t give it a second thought. Everything could be done without so much as a second thought, it seemed. Beyond the most basic rituals of hygiene, for example—combed hair, clean and relatively unwrinkled clothes, deodorant, the occasional dollop of cologne—I rarely contemplated myself in the mirror as Chrissy and Janet had, fussing with my face and hair and wondering, Good enough? None of that. And it was effortless—I was not arrogant or an asshole, I was not crazed with masculine power. I was simply myself. I walked with swagger because the world was mine.