Is it gay to be attracted to femboys

In a kindergarten classroom in the mids, a kid named Mikey steered clear of the boys stacking large toy blocks on top of one another and knocking them down again —so obnoxious — and instead went and sat at the table of girls making beads out of salt dough and stringing them together on a thread. These girls were not averse to tasting the salt dough and smacking their lips in disgust.

Mikey preferred these sober, artsy activities—making necklaces of salt dough beads, pressing hand prints into soft clay disks, tracing the profiles of silhouetted heads projected via lamp light onto sheets of construction paper—over the rough-and-tumble of block stacking, fat-ball tossing, and floor hockey, because—well, he just did.

Thus developed the central themes of his boyhood—hates sports; likes art and language; hangs out with the girls. This desire was at long last granted, and soon he was permitted whole boxes of colored chalks to use, and the teacher allowed him and some girl friends to cover the entire chalkboard with decorative chalk drawings.

Boys, meanwhile, did stupid shit, like blow spitballs around the room, and got into trouble for it. The atmosphere of menace was deplorable. Mikey found himself in a ring of screaming spectators watching two boys scuffle. The whole spectacle made him sick to his stomach. By contrast, girls were more civilized and accommodating.

Most of their time was spent in conversation rather than fighting.

Is anyone here attracted to femboys?

The culmination of these games tended to be hilarity rather than bloodshed. He gravitated towards these girly activities not in spite of the distinctions between boys and girls but because of them: It was the very patency of these differences that attracted Mikey to the girls.

If asked to describe the distinctions between the sexes at the age of eight, Mikey would have been hard-pressed to enumerate them clearly. Yes, boys and girls differed in clothing styles and hair lengths, interests and activities; but even at his young age he understood that these were differences of custom, not kind; so, struggling for a more complete, cogent answer, he might have said:.

Even spiders! It was wonderful how Chris could hit a spider with an eyedropper of a liquid concoction and kill it, then mount it intact on a cloud of cotton in a little box along with a name tag. And Chris knew all about birds, how to identify them by sight and by sound. He could imitate birds. His whistles were uncanny.

Some of these birds, too, he killed and collected, preserving their feathery hides and pinning them on boards. Chris was a little urban Darwin. This was no mere hero worship: Chris was a biology whiz kid. What Chris told Mikey was as disgusting as it was implausible. Thirteen was the year the hair appeared. Things began to happen quickly—the froggy voice, the changes in shapes of body parts, the smells, etc.

How he ended up the way he is today is not a very special or harrowing tale. How would he fare? The events depicted here are drawn from life, but they are highly selective.