Body Week is Them’s annual look at what it means to live in a queer body today. Read more from the series here.
As a fat trans dude who is always thinking about how my body looks, I consider myself passionate about clothing. I have more than 100 T-shirts sitting in my closet and know which blanks fit me better than others — Comfort Colors or Los Angeles Apparel over Gildan every time. I have preferences on texture, stitching, and overall fit, and I can tell when my partner puts one of my good shirts through the dryer. I just know a thrift store hates to see me coming up the block. It’s hard to be an XXL in a sea of mediums.
The difficulty of finding clothes as a bigger person is hardly a novel observation. But when it comes to larger queer and transmasculine people like myself, the struggle becomes more multifaceted. What can I wear to abate the dysphoria? What size of men’s pants will cover my hips? What piece of clothing or accessory will get people to stop calling me “ma’am” at the supermarket? These worries reach a fever pitch at the thought of dressing “nice,” like for a classy party or a wedding. Sometimes the mere ask for “cocktail attire” turns me into a panic-purchasing anxiety tornado. I don't want to be bullied like Sam Smith who’s often bashed for wearing experimental outfits that are praised on skinnier pop stars, or end up being seen as the butch who has become the face of “running a McDonalds like it’s the navy.” When the fatphobic slope from dapper to corny is slicker than ever, simply getting dressed can feel like an impossible calculation.
This is why I often turn to streetwear, a style that thrives on the boxy and baggy. I love repping Big Dogs, the kitschy, pop culture-heavy clothing company who are still selling shirts up to 6X and shorts up to 5X, with useful size charts that actually make sense, even for the rapidly-changing trans body. There’s also brands like Online Ceramics, whose shirts hang thick and wide, and Ghetto Rodeo, their specialty being formless, culture-affirming clothes tailored for Latin bodies like mine.
I’m also grateful to live in Los Angeles, a city brimming with marketplaces dedicated to plus-sized fashion, like Proud Mary, The Plus Bus, and the newly established Thick Thrift, a monthly flea dedicated to sizes “XL-6X+.” These options are a welcome change from a skinny-centered shopping experience, but even in these spaces, it can be deeply challenging, confusing, and emotionally taxing to find masculine clothing. All respect to the muumuu loving community, but it is simply not my bag.
It’s not that I can’t find Carhartts and Dickies that’ll fit me, but is it wrong for a guy to aspire for more? It’s a lonely road, especially when you consider the distinct lack of positive portrayals of bigger masculine folks in pop culture – with portrayals of fat trans dudes nonexistent. It’s led me to look for representation in unlikely places, like Turtle from Entourage, Hurley from Lost, and even, as a child, Owen from Total Drama Island. Yet they all stem from the same schlubby archetype. Their clothes are often basic and barely functional: either too big, to the point where they’re swimming in their fits, or too small, played up for comedic effect.
Lately, I’ve been looking to my fellow fat guys to lead me to greatness. I envy the timeless fits of Matty Matheson, who, for lack of a better term, has that shit on every time he leaves the house. Or I look to my personal plus-sized style inspirations, Fat Joe and Big Pun circa-1999, who rock a full pinstripe suit on the red carpet with a deft swagger.
I often see pictures of these men tossed around social media with various supportive captions, mostly from big dudes like myself. A recent tweet of Matheson’s outfits is captioned “I fw this guys Vibe,” and there are millions of combined views on TikTok under “How to Dress Like Matty Matheson.” I, myself, have wondered what the secret sauce is, but it really just comes down to confidence. Anybody can look good if they feel good; which sounds so simple, but welcomes a world of possibility. It’s a reassuring thing to see, and makes me feel inspired to be part of this Fat Guy Style renaissance.
What I really find exciting about someone like Matheson getting a swell of public support is that it shows people like me that I can dress with conviction, no matter the occasion, formal or otherwise. His swag proves to me that clothes for us exist, and we can have a style that goes beyond the classic Hanes and basketball short combo. When Matheson wears something, no matter if it’s for the Golden Globes red carpet or the launch of his workwear brand, his outfits always seem thoughtfully tailored. Not all hope is lost: I won’t be forever bound to wearing massive T-shirts or feeling like a cater waiter in my one nice suit just because I weigh more than 200 pounds.
And this, historically, has been the norm for fat people, confined to the centuries-long plague of being the butt of the joke. A cocktail of fatphobia and flippancy has long correlated body weight with humor since the beginning of comedy, from Laurel and Hardy to Abbott and Costello, and from Gwyneth Paltrow’s transformation in Shallow Hal to the mess of Fat Bastard in Austin Powers. For a fat guy, nothing sticks in my head like Chris Farley’s song in Tommy Boy – “fat guy in a little coat” – every time I put a suit on.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve also gotten fatter. Since I started HRT, I’ve gotten even bigger, and realized that my body will always keep growing and changing. But something that’s given me solace and agency over my appearance is the clothing that I wear. A good outfit will change your life, and my weight can’t keep me from getting a fit off. There’s still a little voice in the back of my head that beckons negativity — I don’t think I’ll ever silence the “I would look better in this if I were skinny” demon — but there’s also a deep and sexy confidence in being a fat dude who knows they look good. And that is the type of shit I’m trying to be on, “we don’t have a double XL” stores be damned.
“T4T” is where trans folks can speak with each other directly, from the heart, without having to make ourselves legible to cis society. Here, we will tell stories that center our joy and our pleasure, our rage and our resilience, our quirks, our dreams, our love. Here, no experience or idea is too niche or too wacky — we care about what you care about. Read more from the series here.
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