Does Male Privilege Exist? A Trans Man’s Perspective on Living Both Sides

Content Warning: This article contains personal accounts of sexual assault, harassment, and gender-based violence. Please take care while reading. Support resources are available at the end of this article.

Does Male Privilege Exist?

As a trans man who lived the first 21 years of my life perceived as a woman, and the last 5 years as a man, I can answer with absolute certainty: yes. It does.

That answer doesn’t come from theory or social commentary. It comes from living two different lives in one body. It comes from witnessing the way the world shifts when it reads you as male - in tone, in posture, in fear, in opportunity, in safety.

It comes from knowing what it’s like to be groped, assaulted, and raped - and then, one day, to suddenly not be.

The Violence That Stopped

I was sexually assaulted more times than I can count when I was seen as a woman. Groped in school and in bars. Followed home. Touched without consent. Raped by my first (and last) boyfriend at 16 years old. And always told - explicitly or implicitly - that if this happened, it was somehow my fault.

Since transitioning, those experiences have stopped. Not because the world became safer - but because I became someone it no longer targets the same way.

This isn’t rare. In England and Wales, 7.4% of women reported experiencing domestic abuse in 2024 compared to just 3.3% of men. The disparity in how violence touches our lives is not imagined - it’s structural. [1]

The first time I realised that, it broke me. I hadn’t changed. My body was the same body. But now that people saw a man, I was left alone.

I used to be a lesbian. I had partners who were women. It was almost guaranteed that some man would ask if he could watch, or join in. That hasn’t happened once since I’ve been seen as a man.

The harassment, the entitlement, the constant sexualisation - it’s like someone turned the volume down on danger. I still carry the fear. But now, I walk alone at night with a different kind of silence. I look behind me out of habit, but rarely feel pursued. I cross the street when I see a woman ahead of me, knowing what it used to feel like in her position.

One night, a young girl had to cross paths with me. She saw a bearded man - me - under the yellow wash of the streetlights, and I watched terror pass across her face. It shattered me. Because I recognised that fear. I’d felt it in my own chest. And now I was the source of it.

Even when you carry the same body, the world rewrites the rules depending on how it perceives you.

The Weight of My Voice

It’s not just safety that changed. It’s volume. Power. Assumption.

When I speak now, people don’t question me. I’m not interrupted. My opinions are rarely challenged. No one asks me to prove what I know. They assume I do.

Research has shown that men are more likely to dominate conversations, and when women speak as much as men, they're often perceived as overbearing. Men’s words are more often credited, while women’s are interrupted or redirected. [2]

I remember being in the hospital with my girlfriend at the time, after she’d broken her leg. She was in pain, unable to drive, and I was just there to support her. Yet when the consultant entered the room, he looked at me, not her, and slid all her paperwork across the table to me while explaining her treatment plan - as if she wasn’t the patient. As if I was the guardian signing off on her care. As if my voice mattered more, automatically.

I hadn’t earned that weight. It was handed to me.

That’s how male privilege works. Not as a reward, but as default trust, default respect, default authority - while everyone else fights to be believed.

How Men Talk When They Think You're One of Them

There’s also the side people don’t see unless they’re inside the room - the conversations between men when no one’s watching.

One night in a bar, a drunk man who’d met my girlfriend earlier and had clearly tried to flirt with her saw us together. He smiled, gave me a nod, and said, “She’s tidy, mate. You’re lucky.” Then, without hesitation, he leaned in and added:

“Just don’t cum inside her, I know it’s hard not to but you should always pull out - pregnancy ruins everything, and she’s still so young.”

He didn’t know me. He didn’t know I was trans. He didn’t know I didn’t have a penis. He didn’t know she had PCOS and was likely infertile. But that didn’t matter.

To him, I was one of the lads. That made me part of his team. And this - this was how teammates talk.

I was shaken. Not because I felt unsafe, but because I realised I was expected to laugh. To nod. To be complicit. This is how many men learn to bond - through the objectification of women, the assumption of entitlement, and a kind of grotesque camaraderie built on dominance.

But I didn’t laugh. I didn’t nod. And then, he saw my jewellery - three earrings, six rings, a necklace - and his tone changed. The friendliness twisted. He leaned in again, narrowed his eyes, and accused me of being gay - the way someone doesn’t ask, but warns. His voice dropped, but the threat in it climbed.

I froze. I didn’t know what was going to happen.

My cishet male friends saw the shift and stepped in, trying to defuse the situation - one of them, in an ill-advised moment, started flirting back with the man, trying to throw him off. It was messy, tense, and confusing. Eventually, he backed down, but not because it felt safe. Because he chose to walk away - for now.

As we all dispersed, he walked up beside me and wrapped his arm around my shoulders - his bicep pressed hard against the side of my neck, his fist clenched under my chin. A threatening, too-tight, grip - the kind of grip men pass off as friendly but your body recognises as a warning.

He leaned in. "You’re alright, mate,” he muttered with a cold smile.

But the message wasn’t reassurance. It was:  “You’re only alright because people are watching.”

That’s the part of masculinity no one warns you about - the way power hides inside performance, and how quickly you can go from being ‘one of the lads’ to a threat just for seeming not quite right.

Privilege Doesn’t Mean You’re Safe - It Means You’re Protected

None of this means I’m immune to harm. I’m still queer. I’m still trans. I still carry trauma and fear and memories that don’t fade just because people see me differently now.

But the world treats me with more softness, more space, and more patience than it ever did before. I’m less likely to be touched, followed, doubted, or dismissed. I don’t fight to be heard anymore. I don’t feel hunted anymore.

That is privilege. Not freedom from pain - but freedom from specific dangers that are handed to others like birthright.

Conclusion: The Simple Answer

So, does male privilege exist?

I have lived in the before and the after. I have felt the threat, and then watched it vanish. I have seen women’s fear from both sides. I have heard the things men say when they think it’s safe to speak freely. I have felt what it’s like to be believed, trusted, protected, just for being seen as a man.

And yes - male privilege is real.

We need to talk about it not to shame people, but to change the structures that keep others vulnerable. And the first step is listening to the people who’ve walked through both sides of the fire.

Sources

[1] Domestic Abuse Victim Characteristics, England and Wales: Year Ending March 2024

[2] Addressing Gender Bias in Workplace Communications

Support Resources

If you’ve been affected by any of the experiences mentioned in this article, you are not alone. Support is available:

UK-based

• Rape Crisis England & Wales
  Free, confidential support for anyone affected by sexual violence.
  www.rapecrisis.org.uk | Helpline: 0808 500 2222
• SurvivorsUK
  Support for male, trans and non-binary survivors of sexual violence.
  www.survivorsuk.org
• Galop
  Support for LGBTQ+ people affected by abuse or violence.
  www.galop.org.uk | Helpline: 0800 999 5428

Global / Online

• RAINN (US-based, available globally)
  Largest anti-sexual violence organisation in the U.S. with 24/7 chat and support tools.
  www.rainn.org

If you're in immediate danger, please contact local emergency services or a crisis line in your area.

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Disclaimer:

This article has been written by a HASSL Ambassador as part of our community content initiative. While all ambassador contributions are reviewed for clarity, tone, and alignment with our values before publication, the views expressed are those of the individual author and do not necessarily reflect the views or official position of HASSL.

These articles are intended to amplify personal perspectives, lived experiences, and knowledge from our wider community. They are not authored by the HASSL team, and HASSL does not claim ownership over the content.

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