Page 22 of Courageous Hearts

I wasn’t lying to my new Little about being a bully. I was the worst kind, spurned on by my father’s and brother’s homophobia. I acted the same as them. Said the same things. Pushed that hate onto those around me. I got into fights constantly, my now-friend Will being the primary target simply because he had two dads.

I’m not the same kid I was back then, not by a long shot. And I’m trying to make up for my past mistakes. It’s not that I don’t enjoy being a Big—I do, immensely. It makes me feel like I’m doing good for once. But I likely never would’ve looked into the program if it weren’t for my own past. If I can help even a single kid who’s struggling in one way or another, it’ll be worth it.

Being a mentor is what I do for others. But what I did—and continue to do—for myself was a harder thing to tackle. It wasn’t quick or easy, understanding and accepting myself after years of shoving my gender identity and sexuality down. But the one promise I made, when I finally stepped out from behind that shell of a person I was using as a shield, was that I would treat myself better, too.

I was my own worst bully—constantly shaming myself, constantly shoving myself down into the dirt. It took a long time, but I know who I am now, and even if it’s hard for me to hear it at times, as Dee pointed out, I know I’m deserving of being loved for being me.

I dressed down for my afternoon with Damian, wearing more subdued pink trousers with a gray tee and forgoing my makeup, but I’m still me. I’ll never go back to those baggy jeans and ill-fitted t-shirts I used to wear, all designed to be inconspicuous. To blend in. I won’t ever hide myself away again for other people’s comfort.

I love my wardrobe. I love mixing masculine with feminine. And sometimes, I love wearing makeup.

But just as my physical appearance doesn’t define my gender, neither does it negate it. It took me a while to realize that. When I was younger, I didn’t feel like I fit my body because my body was male. That’s how everyone saw me. That’s how I saw myself.

But now, I understand that the physical doesn’t define what’s within. And the way I express myself—whether casually, like today, or no holds barred, like most every night at work—is for my own benefit and no one else’s.

I know I confuse some people. I’m used to it. Used to going on first dates and having folks eye me like they can’t quite figure me out. I’m used to being misgendered, whether on purpose or accidentally. Being mistaken for a femboy most of the time. I’m used to being different in a world where different is becoming more and more accepted, but where my kind of different is still so often misunderstood.

I’m used to it, but that doesn’t mean I stand for it. Not anymore.

I don’t go on second dates with those folks who act uncomfortable at the sight of me, and I correct people who call me “he” or “she.” I’m no longer afraid to be different, not when I’m finally being me. I spent too long being somebody else and hating myself for it.

I’m all out of hate. I have only love to give.

And someday, hopefully soon, I’ll find somebody else to love, too. But until then, I have my friends and my chosen family. And I have reasons, every single day, to be happy and thankful for this life I’ve found.

That’s all I could ask for, really.

Well, that, and maybe a good strong cuddle from time to time.

Chapter 7

Jameson

“So, let me get this straight,” I say. Dee inclines her head, giving me the go-ahead. “It’s a surprise party, but Bo knows about it?”

“That’s right,” Dee says.

“So what’s the surprise?”

“Bo doesn’t know where it is,” she clarifies, as if that clears things up.

“So… How is Bo going to get here?” I ask, looking around the inside of the club Dee told us to meet at. The majority of our coworkers are here, sans Bo, but that gives me no answers.

Dee sighs, even though she’s smiling. It’s the first time I’ve seen my fellow bartender in anything but her work attire, and much to my surprise, she’s rocking a tight gold dress tonight. At Gertie’s, she’s always in pants. Her hair is different, too, straightened around her face instead of styled in a vintage do.

In fact, all of our coworkers look a little different than usual. It’s bizarre seeing everyone dressed modernly for once. I kind of miss my suspenders.

“Bridget picked Bo up,” Dee explains. “The two of them should be arriving any minute. Satisfied, Mr. Twenty Questions?”

“Okay, it was three questions,” I point out. “And they were all valid. This is not how surprise parties are usually done.”

Dee pats my chest. “It’s sweet that you care.”

I don’t have a chance to respond to Dee before a bartender sets two gigantic trays of shots, one after the other, down in front of us. Dee’s face lights up, and she slips a wad of bills across the counter.

I point at the trays. “Is this how the night is going to go?”

“You’re off the clock, baby doll,” she sing-songs. “Enjoy yourself.”

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