Minus the City – Trading Sexes?

Cary Reed

I haven’t met one girl who wouldn’t want to be a boy for a day. Yes it’s impossible, but if a girl were given the opportunity to switch sexes for 24 hours and then switch back, she would take it in a heartbeat. Boys, on the other hand, tend to be less enthusiastic about being a girl. I’ve found that at least four out of 10 are grotesquely opposed to the idea.

It would be so liberating to pull on a pair of jeans from the dryer and have them hang slightly off my hips and thighs (no lunges, bending or dips necessary). And to know that it is not only acceptable but expected to wear these jeans for a week straight is even more exciting. I would shower and watch in awe as my hair dried in less than two minutes, I wouldn’t have to cringe at the thought of goose bumps ruining freshly shaved legs. I would burp, eat whole pizzas, sit with my legs open and masturbate, which I think we all would do. Pure curiosity.

But even having sex as a girl to see what it’s like isn’t enticing enough for some guys to want to be a girl. I know high-heels, makeup and tampons aren’t something to brag about, but haven’t the boys always wondered what we’re thinking?

My friend Justin said, “no.” Girls think too much, and apparently he’s perfectly happy thinking of nothing. “Plus, if I were going to be a girl for a day, I wouldn’t do it to see what you were thinking.” Touch?e.

So if all we’ve agreed to do while switching sexes is play doctor, why are girls far more interested in making the switch?

Think back to adolescence. While girls danced to Ace of Base, decorated their rooms with pictures of Jonathan Taylor Thomas and played Dream Phone, boys were trying to figure out what to do with a body part that decided to move up and down against their wills.

Even now – though less frequently – boys have to think about their naked grandmother or their parents having sex or a dead cat (so I’ve been told) to keep the general public from knowing that they’re enjoying…something. How awful it must be to have to think about sagging breasts or a decaying family pet while some girl is having a blast dancing all up in your business at the Jug. How awkward it would be on Monday at ten twenty if that guy in my history class knew what I was thinking Saturday night. Or at least, the general subject of my thoughts.

So, yes, I may have to wait in line for the bathroom and wear stand-up-only pants and worry that the beer I just drank will make me bloated, but I get to dance with a hot guy at the jug or sit across from him in class and think about whatever I want. And, just because I am a girl, nobody will ever know.