Girl in the Bathroom
Words by Grayson Buckley
I am sweaty and wobbly and smiling to pretend I’m not drunk. I can feel how heavy my fake eyelashes are, the glitter and lipstick I have on flakes off with every sip of my drink. My friends and I, linking arms to weave between the pockets of frat guys in the crowd, make way for the bathroom.
Now, the women's bathroom in the club (or, in this case, the Irish sports and frat bar – because there were no good clubs in Flagstaff) is a sacred, spiritual place. The scent of different Victoria’s Secret sprays waft out of the door, open and closing every ten seconds to let angels in and out. Strangers hold close the stall doors that don’t lock so they don’t swing open. There are purses and wallets and drinks left on the counter, untouched and unbothered by those they don't belong to. There’s no fear of leaving things unattended while you steal a stall for a moment. The mirror has mascara splatters, the sink is stained with lipstick shades that were haphazardly wiped off after enough drinks. A few girls are in crop tops, shorts and heels, a few in dresses, a few in button ups. So much variety, crammed into a place where we all shed the performance and let ourselves be messy for a second.
Voices overlap in choruses of sorry, just need the mirror and girl, no you're okay, and oh my god you're so hot, drowning out the loud, mediocre music that the DJ was playing. Have you been in a women's bathroom when a girl complains about her ex? A toilet therapy session starts, drunks psychoanalyzing other drunks, girl, he doesn’t deserve you, and, oh my god, you're better than that, and do you want a shot? My friend gives me a shooter from her bra to take. I re-adjust my tights and reapply my lipstick, make sure I have my keys and phone and cards, like a Hail Mary of tapping all my pockets before leaving the chapel that is the club bathroom.
When I go to the club, I embrace the girlhood I am met with. I am not a woman, but I was raised one. I am not a woman, but I was a girl once. I know the girl codes of conduct and I know the club bathroom rules. I feel the shift in energy as soon as I cross the threshold. There is safety and community there. I am not a woman, but in that moment, I belong. I feel like it’s safe to relax my shoulders, and I don’t need to hunch over to hide my chest. I’m safe enough to take a breath, and I know I’m in good hands.
I was raised a girl but I wasn’t very good at it. I didn't get along with the other girls, I didn't do all the “girly things” (but I didn't do the “boy things” either), I didn't have crushes on the boys. I made it all up to feel like I fit in. I was the girl who got asked out as a joke. It was alienating to be the girl who didn't do it “right,” even though there is no “right” way.
I craved girlhood and the experience of belonging. But I knew I wasn’t really a girl, or at least that “girl” didn’t encompass enough. I tried on label after label, feeling ashamed that my desire for a tether to femininity still stayed present. I landed on butch, on lesbian, on gender-weird. I am not a woman, but there is still that little girl inside me who wants to belong. There is a little girl who played GirlsGoGames, loved Taylor Swift, and collected scents from Bath & Body Works. I’ve learned to embrace my inherent masculinity, and so I embrace my inherent femininity, too.
The love I receive from women – lesbian, sapphic, cis, trans, unlabeled – is strong. I was a girl who wanted to do the boy things, the girl things, everything in between. And as I grew into myself, I met women who welcomed me into spaces that celebrated womanhood and redefined femininity, regardless of my masculinity. I was welcomed into spaces that comforted those of us whose girlhood – perceived or genuine – caused us pain or made us the target of danger. It became comfortable for me to be a girl in the bar bathroom, because I knew I had a safe haven. A retreat for when existing femininely in a patriarchal world (god, and especially the frat bar) is exhausting. Some days I was button ups and Doc Martens,being the bodyguard to a group of my fem friends. Other days I was in lashes and lipstick with a push-up bra, a moment of drag but also a moment of embracing my inner “stereotypical” girlhood. And no matter where along that spectrum I fell, I was loved. I was accepted. I was protected by the ceiling-to-floor tile and women I’ve never met before.
I was raised a girl, and I carry that with me every day. Even on days where my masculinity outweighs anything else, on days where being called “ma’am”makes my skin crawl. The women, the femmes, the feminists, the trans-positives, the sex-positives, have made me feel safe to be “one of the girls” without strictly being one anymore. I was raised a girl, and I want to be a part of the celebration of girlhood, of healing. I’ll hold onto my masculinity, as well as femininity, and know there's nothing to be ashamed of – I carry multitudes, the femme experience carries multitudes. We celebrate the multitudes and the differences, in a crowded bathroom half an hour before the bar closes, complimenting each other, comforting each other, checking on each other. It doesn't matter if you're doing girlhood “right.” In the club bathroom, you're safe just to exist.