I'm afraid to use the men's restroom because of my sexual preference. Every time I push open that heavy door, my heart pounds against my ribs. The sound of urinals flushing, the unmistakable glance from another man at the urinal next to me—it all sends a jolt of anxiety through my body. I can't shake the feeling that everyone knows, that they can see the desire in my eyes when I catch a glimpse of a stranger's hands or the outline of his body. I've started using the single-stall family restroom whenever possible, just to avoid the intense scrutiny I imagine in those shared spaces. Sometimes I'll hold it for hours until I get home, my bladder screaming in protest, because the alternative feels too risky. It's exhausting, this constant performance of masculinity when all I want is to be able to piss in peace without fearing that someone might see the truth written all over my face.