The Club With No Name

The first rule of any secret society
is to not talk about it with anyone
whom has not shown the secret sign
that confirms their fellow membership. 

When I was growing up
masculinity was the secret club
that I was denied the membership of.

I had no idea what the signs were
or that having a character that strangers
could not read was the clearest proof of membership.

Men never said how their membership
of this hidden club was proven 
by what was between their legs,
as opposed to what the ladies had,
but that was the least of the many facts
that they strove to never speak about.

In spite of, or perhaps because of, that
I learnt how keep secrets alright.

My secrets were of the sort
where without thinking it though
I was the one who was done to, 
rather than the doer. And masculinity, 
indeed all proper regulatory authority, 
was always much more about the doing
than it was about in any way consulting 
the done to, done for, or done over. 

We hid in plain sight
as men, swollen with pride, 
shared their membership
of their masculinity club with me.

As I obliged them, 
so they signed me in 
and they kept my membership
of their club a secret from me;
they liked my lack of choices.

When finally I could choose
there was only one choice left;
leave forever and never be like them.