On Saturday, I was feeling so confident about myself, my gender identity and my body in particular. My friends were introducing me as a boy and they all politely corrected people we met when they assumed I was a ‘she’. They stuck up for me and were proud of me, and I couldn’t be happier. I’ve been using men’s toilets a lot more now as well, so a lot of my self esteem is on the rise.

On Sunday, we went to one of my favourite places for food and cocktails in town. This was a big LGBT venue, so it was pretty packed. After lord-knows-how-many G&Ts, I needed to relieve myself. Alas, the queue was about 25-30 people long. I walked to the front to examine waiting time and realised it was only for the ladies toilet. I plucked up my courage and my cockiness and left my female friends behind to use the boys.

I wasn’t too surprised when I saw a female and a male security guard, it was that busy. But what did surprise me was the look she gave me and the hand she raised to stop me right there.

“You’re not a boy,” she said, standing beside her useless male counterpart, in front of a long line of girls desperately trying to hold it in.

Puzzled, I immediately replied, “Yes I am. I’m a dude.”

“No, you’re not, join the back of the ladies queue.” She really doesn’t seem to understand me. My short temper was at breaking point.

“I’m a guy!” I stressed the word, my hands pointing towards my obviously flat chest. I didn’t want to have to say it in such a public place, but she had to understand me once I said, “I’m a transguy!”

“You’re a girl, go and join the back of the queue.” Short temper broke.

I was shocked, disgusted, and enraged. “I’m a guy, I identify as male. I don’t want to use the ladies toilets, it makes me uncomfortable.”

“But you’re a lady.”

“I am not, I’m a guy!” This was going in circles, nothing was getting through to her. “So you don’t cater for trans people?”

“No,” she started off with a positive response, “If a man came in here dressed like a woman, he’d use the mens.”

“This is bullshit,” a curse word I only use once I’ve had a few drinks and I am completely livid, “That’s not right! I identify as a man!”

“Show me your ID.” I stopped. Is she fucking serious? My hand went on my back pocket protectively. No way. I despise having to show my ID because it’s not me, it’s a photo of an unrecognisable, chubby girl, taken four years ago. I feel embarrassed, like I’m taking a step back or something. Or showing someone the deepest part of me that I just want to hide forever. And that stupid little F… I hope that’s not going to be on there for much longer.

“NO.” I said firmly. “That has F on it, I haven’t had it changed yet, it’s old,” I fell over my words as my face flushed.

“Get to the back of the line.”

“Just let me go in there for a pee,” I pointed to the boys toilets, less than a foot away.

“Are you going to piss in the urinal then?” She said, with sarcastic eyebrows raised.

“No, I’m going to use the cubicle in the boys toilet.” My finger jabbing the air for emphasis.

“Use the cubicles in the ladies.”

“NO! It makes me uncomfortable, I am not going in there, I’m not a girl, I’m a dude.”

She looked at me up and down, hands folded across her chest, “You’re not dressed like a man.”

“I dress how I want!” I barked at her. “This is bullshit, just let me go!”

At this point, my friend came out from the ladies, and, well, it was hard to miss the commotion. She spotted me in the middle of this conflict, realised the problem and quickly intervened. She tapped the security woman, they briefly spoke and then she suddenly let me pass. I headed straight to the cubicle, relieved myself of only one problem I was facing, and walked back out. Since everyone had witnessed the commotion, boys who walked past took it on themselves to judge me, and what toilet I should have used.

I leant in towards the security guard as I walked past her, “Thank you for understanding!” I said flatly. To my surprise, she ushered me to the side to talk me once again. I hope she apologised; I can’t actually remember, but her arrogance tells me that the word ‘sorry’ is not in her vocabulary.

“I haven’t really experienced transgenderism before today, I didn’t realise you identify as a man,” she said.

“Okay,” I rolled my eyes, thinking, that’s exactly what I was telling you.

“You’ve got to understand people do this a lot,” she said, but I cut her off quickly.

“I don’t give a shit about waiting in a queue, why would I do that, I don’t need to go that badly.” I can’t remember what was last said, but I left quickly. I returned to my friends by the bar, shaking my head, and jaw clenched. After repeating the whole encounter to them, they suggested I complain. I saw a bartender free and approached her, and reiterated my experience again, a little more eloquently since I had a chance to calm down.

I started explaining why I’d like to make a complaint about one of the security staff at the toilets, but I suddenly realised as I was talking that there was a chance she would understand trangenderism as much as the bodyguard. Luckily, this (very attractive) understanding bartender could not have been more understanding and apologetic. She also knew exactly who I was talking about, and since the security are a hired group, and not members of staff, they won’t be hiring them next pride. One point to us.

My biggest disappointment came from the fact that this happened in a notorious gay club, on one of the biggest prides in the country. It makes me think that people forget that it’s LGB and T. Well obviously they do. But in a gay club, it’s ignorant not to think you’ll have a trans audience, and toilets for trans people are a sensitive issue. It’s the hardest everyday decision I make – which gendered toilets do I use? Whichever I go for, depends on my confidence, and how likely I am to feel uncomfortable using them. On Sunday, my confidence was soaring, and I knew I was in an LGBT-friendly environment, and there was no reason why I should encounter a problem. I was wrong. And that really affected my self esteem. The rest of my night took a while to pick up, I still couldn’t get over it or feel secure in myself. How dare someone else tell me I don’t dress like a man. What the hell does that even mean? It doesn’t even matter all my clothing was obtained from the men’s section, for someone to make a judgement based on that little evidence, after all that was coming out of my mouth? That look on her face when she looked me up and down makes me feel disgusting. I felt violated. Which didn’t help after she ordered to see my ID. And after she asked if I was going to piss standing up. She might as well have just asked, ‘Is that a cock between your legs, or are you just happy to see me?’ She is a constant reminder that some people, no matter how diverse their sexual orientation is, or how intense their occupation gets, will never see past what is between someone’s legs; genitals = gender.

My friends were proud of me for standing up to her, for not losing my cool (as I have done with bouncers and security in the past), and they were also sorry that it happened, and that they weren’t there. I don’t know what wouldn’t have happened if my friend wasn’t coming out of the ladies at that moment in time. Perhaps I would have lost my cool after all. As if her male security counterpart was doing anything to help or defend! I could’ve easily taken her down.

My incredible physical strength is besides the point. What if it wasn’t me? What if it was another trans person facing this inconsiderate clown? Someone even more sensitive, or not as confident? Not everyone has the courage to stand up for themselves, and she might have gotten away with it countless times, leaving trans people feeling like they’re not real men or women, as long as they have to piss standing up or piss sitting down. As long as their identification is true to what they were born as. As long as they ‘look like a man/woman’. Be trans, but be invisible.

One of my fierce Birmingham friends later pretended to hit on this disrespectful security guard. Once she thought she was in with a chance, and my friend had gotten close enough to read her name and badge number, she gave her the instant cold shoulder and left. Security: 0, Trans: 2.

I’m not really sure what more to say on the matter. I feel very deflated after recounting it. Despite all of this, my entire weekend was fantastic. I will definitely revisit Birmingham Pride. And I will be going back to the same bar, because it was not their fault, and they handled it very well. I also still remember that hot bartenders name, and I will find her again. If I experience anything like this again, I’ll be even stronger, and hopefully a little more sober.