Just one of the boys: from my earliest memories, that's how people have described me. 

I remember playing cars with the boys on my street.  By the time I was nine, I had the best toy car collection on the block.  The pride of my collection was a James Bond 007 Aston Martin, complete with bulletproof windshield, tire slashers and revolving license plate. 

Inheriting my cousin's Action Man knocked all my Barbies into a cocked hat.  He had the "winter whites" kit, with a white balaclava and snowshoes.  I was beside myself.  Oh, and Barbie?  She got a crewcut.  Demi Moore would have been proud.

I remember my Dad, one Christmas.  It was after dinner, and I was expected to go into the kitchen with ‘the women' to wash dishes and gossip and make noises like a neurotic chicken while picking apart the latest episode of Dynasty.  As if I ever watched soaps.  I'd sooner grind thumbtacks into my eyes.  My mother tracked me down in the living room where I was lurking, hoping to avoid my fate.  "You should be helping in the kitchen," she said, like it was written in the Bible.  Maybe it is, for all I know.  I turned big, brown eyes on my father, who was getting ready for the annual saunter to the pub with all the other male members of my family.  He looked me over - my eighteen-year-old self, in habitual torn jeans, t-shirt, ratty sneakers and a chain fastening my wallet to my belt. 

"Nah," he said, thoughtfully, lighting his pipe and winking at me through the curls of blue smoke.  "She doesn't have to do that.  She's one of the boys." 

The look on my mother's face was priceless.  A spike of joy ripped through my chest as I grinned at my Dad. We turned and walked out of that drab little room that tried and tried so hard to contain us.  It had failed.  Off we went to the pub:  my Dad, my uncle, my three male cousins, and me.  Bliss.

Nothing much has changed.  I still go to the pub and leave my dishes in the sink.  I drink beer out of the bottle.  I don't wear skirts, heels or makeup.  I don't own a purse.  I wouldn't be seen dead in pink.  My fingernails are short and naked.  I don't watch soaps, don't cry at movies, and I certainly don't iron.  I walk like a man, and kiss like a man.  I can change a tire by myself.  I can load and fire a shotgun (and yes, I have a permit for that).

But in spite of all this, I'm still a girl.  I'm not butch or frumpy.  I have long hair.  I wear my boi-style with a female touch.  I notice and appreciate hot guys (and my partner?  Heck, he's the hottest guy of them all ... !)  Speaking of guys:  I love ‘em.  My best friends in life have always been male.  They're straightforward, sometimes brutally honest, and they don't gossip.  They don't witter on and on about lipgloss or cookware for half an hour without taking a breath.  They're beautiful and sexy and smart and funny and sweet and loyal and kind and strong and faithful and steadfast.  They are my heroes, and if the measure of my admiration is a lifelong identification as just one of the boys, then I'm happy to buck convention and resist the kitchen sink for as long as I can. 

N.B.  A.J. Wilde is a multi-published author of homoerotic romance.  Currently published with Torquere Press, A.J. writes contemporary, historical and fantasy, always with a bit of a dramatic twist.  From contemporary short stories to historical novellas, you will always find plenty of drama, action and hot guys in A.J.'s work. A.J.'s characters include undercover cops, personal trainers and maverick lawyers to name just a few. If you're looking for an engaging drama, a tear-jerker romance or just a naughty romp, A.J. Wilde will not disappoint. A.J.'s published work to date has been m/m, but she is venturing into f/f very soon.

Originally from England, now residing in Canada, A.J. identifies with Pierre Trudeau as ‘a citizen of the world'.  Check out A.J.'s series of novellas about the experiences of a young man on a journey of self-discovery, entitled Soul Journeys, parts 1 and 2 of which are out at Torquere Press.