“We have a question for you.” It was the redneck Charles Dubois and two other guys who bore more than a passing resemblance to the hyenas in the Lion King, only without the witty repartee.

“Yeah,” one of them said. “we have a question for you.” As if Charles had been particularly clever in calling what the three of them were about to try to do to me a “question”.

“Are you a girl faggot? Or a boy faggot?”

“Yeah, what kind of faggot are you, faggot?”

I can't see the voting square unless I log off. The look of the site also completely changes from whites and pinks to sepia and maroon when I log on, and I suspect these two things are related.

 
I laughed in spite of myself, but to my horror, it wasn’t my usual laugh. It was higher pitched. A girl’s laugh.

“Ha! I knew it! You ARE a girl.”

I felt something twinge inside me when she said that.

 
The more pressing issue, though, was how I was going to be able to pee. I covered my face with my hand. I was just in a bathroom, my mother’s voice in the back of my head told me, why didn’t I go then?

 
“Are you okay?” A girl’s voice asked.

I looked around, realized firstly that I had collapsed on a tiled floor, secondly that it was the floor of the women’s restroom.