But this queer-coded villainy relied on a gender transgression that moved in only one direction. During that first read-through, I made the sickening discovery that I could not perform effeminacy—I physically couldn’t. When I flicked my wrist for emphasis, I saw myself as a hand-flapping teenybopper ditz. I pictured myself in eyeliner and realized I would be indistinguishable from Juniper Green or Rollerblading Maddy or any other average-faced girl in drugstore makeup. Tight trousers and half-unbuttoned shirts would only draw attention to my breasts and stomach and other excess flesh so
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