You Speak Like A Girl
- Pius Fozan
- Aug 10, 2019
- 2 min read
Updated: 2 days ago
New Delhi is a dry and rude city.
The air was heavy with dust.
My hair felt dry, dirty, brittle.
It was early evening.
I walked over to his room to borrow hair oil.
You could say they were one room—
split by a locked door.
Three men stayed together in another room.
I was alone.
One of them asked
if he could sleep in mine.
I said yes—
but asked him to arrange a separate bed.
There was only one in the room.
He never came.
I thought I had offended him.
So I said—
you can use my bathroom in the mornings,
if you need.
Three men.
One toilet.
I thought I could help
so they’d make it to the meeting on time.
I was wrong.
The next night,
I asked for hair oil again.
He gave it to me.
I went back to my room.
His room was beside mine.
Mine beside his.
The walls were thin.
I heard them.
Mocking my voice.
Mimicking my tone.
Repeating what I’d said.
Laughing.
They turned my kindness into a joke.
A sexual one.
People say I have feminine traits.
That I speak like a girl.
Soft.
Quiet.
Mild.
Too soft, they say.
So it must be feminine.
They joked about fucking me.
Said I’d scream like a girl.
Said their thick, long penises
would drill my ass.
That I’d moan like a slut.
I heard every word.
I didn’t use the oil.
I didn’t know how to return it.
I didn’t know how to face them.
I was agitated.
I am agitated.
But I’ve always been agitated.
This isn’t new.
Men—whether close, or distant—
have often shared their “fascinations” with me.
Some even tried.
Agitation is my normal.
And I am a boy..
