Makeshift solutions are uncomfortable and imports are expensive. So queer people are now building the undergarments that help them be seen.
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One late afternoon in 2021, Rosa*, a 30-year-old transwoman illustrator from Kerala, stepped out in feminine clothes in public for the first time. She chose her outfits with care. First, she thought of wearing a body-hugging dress, something she always longed to do. But that won’t let her “pass” as a woman, she wondered. So, she finally picked a flowy skirt that could hide the bulge of her penis. The experience made Rosa actively seek sartorial ways to affirm her gender identity. She landed short on finding innerwear.
For many trans and nonbinary individuals, like Rosa, in India, undergarments are often the first tools of gender affirmation—long before any medical intervention is available or even considered. A binder to flatten the breasts, underwear to tuck the penis, or a prosthetic bulge aren’t just clothing or related accessories; they can help some trans and nonbinary people feel comfortable in their bodies and safe in public.
The scarcity of safe, accessible, and affirming innerwear is a quiet but urgent crisis. It forces the community to navigate bodily dysphoria with little institutional or commercial support. And in a world where so much of identity and dignity is expressed through clothing, that scarcity becomes yet another form of erasure for them.
As Rosa searched for solutions that could help smooth her silhouette, she stumbled upon the idea of tucking. Rosa scoured the internet —subreddits like r/MtF & r/asktransgender, and several YouTube channels — to understand how to tuck. Tucking is a technique used by some trans women and transfeminine people to reduce the visibility of their genitals by creating a smoother silhouette. According to trans health resources like TransHub, Point of Pride, and Fenway Health, tucking involves gently guiding the testicles into the inguinal canals—small cavities in the lower abdomen— and pulling the penis back between the legs. This can be secured using medical tape, layered innerwear, or specially designed-tucking garments.
Patruni Sastry, a Hyderabad-based drag queen, told me that some transfeminine persons use duct tape too, layering it over regular underwear.
While not universally practiced, tucking is a common method of gender affirmation. For a 2024 study published in Annals of Family Medicine, researchers from the University of Virginia surveyed 98 transgender and gender-diverse individuals in the U.S. and found that 79 percent of them had practiced genital tucking. 61 percent reported psychological benefits of tucking. And about half of the surveyed individuals tucked for 8 to 13 hours per day. Many of the transpersons queerbeat interviewed for this story, including Rosa, said they practiced tucking regularly—on average, around three days a week. For them, the act of tucking wasn’t just about appearance; it was about safety and self-assurance.
“Being a drag artist I want to be fluid with my femininity and be more experimental, therefore methods like tucking and good innerwear material is really important for me as it helps to focus on performance rather than worrying about awkward accidents,” said Patruni.
As numbers and research circulate in health literature abroad, a striking silence persists in the Indian context. In the course of pursuing this story, queerbeat couldn’t find any published quantitative research on the percentage of transgender or gender-diverse Indians practicing tucking or binding, and the health impacts of doing so. Most Indian sources including news stories and healthcare research on gender transition remain qualitative, rooted in personal stories and community accounts but systematic data is lacking. The dearth of such research and data prevents researchers, government, and social enterprises from understanding the scale and nuances of the problem and designing targeted solutions in India.
Arjun, a 19-year-old biotechnology student at Savitribai Phule Pune University, was just four years old when he began training in gymnastics in the city. Even as a young observer of the sport, he found himself drawn to men’s gymnastics. "I felt like I wanted to do that instead of women's gymnastics," said Arjun who was assigned female sex at birth.
When Arjun turned twelve and got his first period, puberty arrived like a storm. “I started growing breasts, and that was very uncomfortable for me,” he said. During gymnastics practice, Arjun was required to wear a leotard, which initially felt like an act of transgression. “It was like I was doing something wrong with my own body,” Arjun told me. So he would wear a T-shirt over it to give a flat chest feel.
The tightness of the leotard helped flatten his chest, and while he didn’t yet know the word for it, he was intuitively learning the mechanics of chest binding.
Chest binding, commonly used by transmasculine and non-binary individuals, involves compressing breast tissue to create a flatter appearance. Binders are usually made of elastic or spandex and come in various styles, from full-length vests to half-length garments. While they offer significant relief from dysphoria, binding can also lead to overheating of the body, skin irritation, and restricted breathing—especially in hot climates like India, said Riyam, the founder of Genderse — a new queer-owned Indian brand that sells binders.
Packing came next. In 2023, at the age of 17, Arjun began using socks to simulate the appearance of a bulge between his legs. “I had been feeling inadequate as a man because I don’t have a penis. So I thought, what if I do something about it—even temporarily?” The improvisation brought unexpected relief. “It made me feel more at peace,” he said.
Arjun is young and is still exploring the idea of gender transition. He is not out to his family yet, and only a few close people are aware of his gender identity. In daily life, Arjun said he expresses his masculinity through his clothes and hairstyle but avoids overt gestures. He shared that people have often read his feminine mannerisms as those of a gay boy, not a trans man. So he’s settled into what he calls a “peaceful masculinity” through style alone.
In 2024, he spent ₹1,500 online to order his first binder — a medical-grade compression garment normally worn by patients after open heart surgeries, and top surgeries that remove breast tissue to create a more masculine appearance. It helped flatten Arjun’s chest under tight T-shirts. But wearing it continues to be uneasy. “It feels extremely hot, and if worn too long, it hurts,” Arjun told me. So, he wears it sparingly — just 2–3 times a month, mostly to queer meet-ups — and always checks if the venue has air conditioning. “If it’s outdoors or too hot, I just don’t wear it.” He hides his medical binder behind a pile of clothes in his cupboard so his family doesn’t notice it.
One late afternoon in 2021, Rosa*, a 30-year-old transwoman illustrator from Kerala, stepped out in feminine clothes in public for the first time. She chose her outfits with care. First, she thought of wearing a body-hugging dress, something she always longed to do. But that won’t let her “pass” as a woman, she wondered. So, she finally picked a flowy skirt that could hide the bulge of her penis. The experience made Rosa actively seek sartorial ways to affirm her gender identity. She landed short on finding innerwear.
For many trans and nonbinary individuals, like Rosa, in India, undergarments are often the first tools of gender affirmation—long before any medical intervention is available or even considered. A binder to flatten the breasts, underwear to tuck the penis, or a prosthetic bulge aren’t just clothing or related accessories; they can help some trans and nonbinary people feel comfortable in their bodies and safe in public.
The scarcity of safe, accessible, and affirming innerwear is a quiet but urgent crisis. It forces the community to navigate bodily dysphoria with little institutional or commercial support. And in a world where so much of identity and dignity is expressed through clothing, that scarcity becomes yet another form of erasure for them.
As Rosa searched for solutions that could help smooth her silhouette, she stumbled upon the idea of tucking. Rosa scoured the internet —subreddits like r/MtF & r/asktransgender, and several YouTube channels — to understand how to tuck. Tucking is a technique used by some trans women and transfeminine people to reduce the visibility of their genitals by creating a smoother silhouette. According to trans health resources like TransHub, Point of Pride, and Fenway Health, tucking involves gently guiding the testicles into the inguinal canals—small cavities in the lower abdomen— and pulling the penis back between the legs. This can be secured using medical tape, layered innerwear, or specially designed-tucking garments.
Patruni Sastry, a Hyderabad-based drag queen, told me that some transfeminine persons use duct tape too, layering it over regular underwear.
While not universally practiced, tucking is a common method of gender affirmation. For a 2024 study published in Annals of Family Medicine, researchers from the University of Virginia surveyed 98 transgender and gender-diverse individuals in the U.S. and found that 79 percent of them had practiced genital tucking. 61 percent reported psychological benefits of tucking. And about half of the surveyed individuals tucked for 8 to 13 hours per day. Many of the transpersons queerbeat interviewed for this story, including Rosa, said they practiced tucking regularly—on average, around three days a week. For them, the act of tucking wasn’t just about appearance; it was about safety and self-assurance.
“Being a drag artist I want to be fluid with my femininity and be more experimental, therefore methods like tucking and good innerwear material is really important for me as it helps to focus on performance rather than worrying about awkward accidents,” said Patruni.
As numbers and research circulate in health literature abroad, a striking silence persists in the Indian context. In the course of pursuing this story, queerbeat couldn’t find any published quantitative research on the percentage of transgender or gender-diverse Indians practicing tucking or binding, and the health impacts of doing so. Most Indian sources including news stories and healthcare research on gender transition remain qualitative, rooted in personal stories and community accounts but systematic data is lacking. The dearth of such research and data prevents researchers, government, and social enterprises from understanding the scale and nuances of the problem and designing targeted solutions in India.
Arjun, a 19-year-old biotechnology student at Savitribai Phule Pune University, was just four years old when he began training in gymnastics in the city. Even as a young observer of the sport, he found himself drawn to men’s gymnastics. "I felt like I wanted to do that instead of women's gymnastics," said Arjun who was assigned female sex at birth.
When Arjun turned twelve and got his first period, puberty arrived like a storm. “I started growing breasts, and that was very uncomfortable for me,” he said. During gymnastics practice, Arjun was required to wear a leotard, which initially felt like an act of transgression. “It was like I was doing something wrong with my own body,” Arjun told me. So he would wear a T-shirt over it to give a flat chest feel.
The tightness of the leotard helped flatten his chest, and while he didn’t yet know the word for it, he was intuitively learning the mechanics of chest binding.
Chest binding, commonly used by transmasculine and non-binary individuals, involves compressing breast tissue to create a flatter appearance. Binders are usually made of elastic or spandex and come in various styles, from full-length vests to half-length garments. While they offer significant relief from dysphoria, binding can also lead to overheating of the body, skin irritation, and restricted breathing—especially in hot climates like India, said Riyam, the founder of Genderse — a new queer-owned Indian brand that sells binders.
Packing came next. In 2023, at the age of 17, Arjun began using socks to simulate the appearance of a bulge between his legs. “I had been feeling inadequate as a man because I don’t have a penis. So I thought, what if I do something about it—even temporarily?” The improvisation brought unexpected relief. “It made me feel more at peace,” he said.
Arjun is young and is still exploring the idea of gender transition. He is not out to his family yet, and only a few close people are aware of his gender identity. In daily life, Arjun said he expresses his masculinity through his clothes and hairstyle but avoids overt gestures. He shared that people have often read his feminine mannerisms as those of a gay boy, not a trans man. So he’s settled into what he calls a “peaceful masculinity” through style alone.
In 2024, he spent ₹1,500 online to order his first binder — a medical-grade compression garment normally worn by patients after open heart surgeries, and top surgeries that remove breast tissue to create a more masculine appearance. It helped flatten Arjun’s chest under tight T-shirts. But wearing it continues to be uneasy. “It feels extremely hot, and if worn too long, it hurts,” Arjun told me. So, he wears it sparingly — just 2–3 times a month, mostly to queer meet-ups — and always checks if the venue has air conditioning. “If it’s outdoors or too hot, I just don’t wear it.” He hides his medical binder behind a pile of clothes in his cupboard so his family doesn’t notice it.
The community-originated, improvised DIY methods of tucking, binding, and packing are affirming and necessary but they are also physically demanding, and sometimes painful. What they reveal is not a lack of resourcefulness, but an absence of structural support: people are forced to modify their bodies because suitable products don’t exist where they live.
Rosa tried various DIY methods to tuck —using socks and elastic bands from used underwear. But these makeshift solutions came at a cost. Rosa developed rashes and itchy skin in her groin area.
“My skin would get red and swollen, sometimes even peel off or form wounds,” she said. “What we need is innerwear made of fabrics tailored to our genitalia, our comfort.”
Patruni agreed. She said that in makeshift DIY methods of tucking used by transfeminine bodies, the duct tape is sometimes secured to the skin. Peeling it off can cause pain and irritation, and sometimes skin itself peels off.
Some research supports such experiences. A 2021 cohort study published in American Journal of obstetrics and gynecology of 113 transgender women found that extensive tucking was linked to reduced sperm motility, semen volume, and concentration, as well as other health issues like skin damage, urinary problems, and genital pain. The study highlighted the physical risks of continuous pressure and heat on the genitals due to tucking.
Another 2018 U.S.-based study of 1,273 transmasculine adults found that while nearly 89 percent of them experienced physical symptoms like pain to skin irritation from chest binding, only about 15 percent sought medical care—largely due to their concerns that health providers may not know or understand their issues. While most of the transgender people interviewed for this story agreed with these findings, queerbeat could find no academic research on such issues in India.
Recently, Arjun wore a tape for chest binding and got a rash. He didn't seek any medical help as it wasn't very severe. Had it been severe, said Arjun, he would have consulted a doctor. “But I would have definitely lied that I got a rash from wearing a sweaty sports bra for too long,” he explained. He can’t tell the truth because he is not out to anyone except close friends.
Beyond the physical toll, traditional tucking methods created logistical difficulties in daily life for Rosa. “If I was going to be out for like, more than an hour or something, I cannot use the washroom, because to untuck and then getting it back on is a whole hassle,” Rosa added.
Despite queer bodies desperately searching for gender-affirming innerwear in India, they remain largely absent from both retail shelves and mainstream design conversations. According to industry estimates reported by Grand View Research, a market research and consulting company headquartered in San Francisco, with additional offices in Pune, Bengaluru, and Jaipur, the Indian innerwear market was valued at USD 12.2 billion in 2023 and is projected to reach USD 20.5 billion by 2030. However, there is no publicly available data on the market share of gender-affirming innerwear.
Even with the projected market expansion, the niche for gender-affirming undergarments remains largely untapped and underresearched. The majority of brands that queerbeat looked up online used a mix of materials like lycra and polyester — “both not ideal in hot temperatures due to their inability to absorb moisture and trap heat,” said Riyam. Their company, Genderse, founded in 2022 has spent the last three years trying to change unhealthy practices around binding. “I’ve been consulting technicians and designers to develop a fabric that works for tropical countries,” said Riyam. “Western sizing systems often fail to accommodate Indian body types.” Genderse plans to launch its first product line in late 2025.
For Nish, a 40-year-old queer social entrepreneur based in Bengaluru, the search for a binder began in 2022 after a friend recommended trying one before considering top surgery. “Even for someone like me — with internet access and English fluency — it was incredibly difficult [to find a suitable binder],” Nish said. International brands dominated search results. “Only UK and American brands popped up on Google.” The costs were high, and the stakes even higher. “The cost to get one to me would’ve been about ₹6000 to ₹7000. It was my first binder — what if I got the sizing wrong? It felt too expensive a gamble.”
Nish waited for a friend to travel to the U.S. and bring one back. “That whole process—between deciding I wanted to try binding and finally getting a binder—took about eight to nine months,” they said. But when it arrived, it felt too tight. “There was no exchange, no local guidance, and no safety net,” Nish said.
These gaps pushed Nish to launch Black Eagle, a Bengaluru-based small, community-led startup creating gender-affirming innerwear. In January 2025 Black Eagle launched its first set of binders. In the course of speaking with community organisations and trans men across the social class to understand the market, Nish noticed an important distinction. “I realised I was speaking a completely different language from them,” Nish said, referring to transmasculine people he met from working-class backgrounds. “For me, it was about dysphoria. For them, it was also about survival—navigating public spaces like buses and trains, where passing as a male can be a safety issue.”.
This difference became especially clear during Black Eagle’s early research. While dysphoria was a shared experience, Nish observed that in working-class communities, the pressure to pass was closely tied to safety and livelihood. Packers—prosthetic bulges worn in underwear to simulate the appearance of a penis—emerged as a significant need.
“In elite circles, no one talks about packers like they’re essential. But in working-class circles, they are,” Nish said.
Black Eagle has sold about 250 binders within six months of starting operations. Recently it produced its first batch of 1000 items each of packer briefs and tucking underwear; and 500 swim binders. The size of their binders ranges from small to 3XL.
Black Eagle imports packers from China because they are not manufactured in India, said Nish. However, importing them can be risky. Since packers resemble realistic penises, they’re often flagged by customs under India’s ban on sex toy imports, said Nish. Currently, Black Eagle’s 300 packers are stuck with customs.
Neither Riyam nor Nish knows the market share of gender-affirming innerwear in India. “We don’t have the resources to do that kind of study yet,” they said, adding that they hope to take it up in the future and are open to collaborating with research agencies.
Patruni first came across gaffs — undergarments designed to flatten the appearance of the genital area for trans women and transfeminine people — through the drag and crossdressing communities. Gaffs are typically made from soft, stretchable fabrics. Some include compression bands or layered panels for a smoother silhouette. Unlike DIY hacks like duct tape or layered underwear, gaffs are intended for prolonged wear and can offer greater comfort and safety. According to resources like TransHub and Point of Pride, they’re considered a more secure and skin-friendly alternative to traditional tucking techniques.
But while the product exists, access doesn’t — at least not in India. “The few options I checked on Amazon or Flipkart take 27 days to deliver,” said Patruni. “And even then, we don’t know the quality, or whether the sizing will work.” So instead of ordering online, Patruni asked a friend who was visiting Thailand to get them a gaff and silicone breastplate — a prosthetic silicone device designed to give the shape of female breasts. Patruni’s friend is of similar build so they could try the gaff and check its quality. “The gaff cost around ₹9,000, and the breastplate was ₹26,000 in Thailand,” they said.
Gaffs aside, buying even simple innerwears like bras can be an uphill task for trans and nonbinary folks. To buy one, Patruni visited a Hyderabad shopping mall and stepped into a Jockey store. “There was a women’s section with a clear sign that said, ‘Men Not Allowed,’” they recalled. “Just approaching a salesperson to ask for what I needed felt like hitting a wall.”
So now Patruni takes either their friend or partner along to buy a bra. “I couldn’t go into the changing room, couldn’t try anything on. So she had to decide whether it would fit me. Thankfully, she understood exactly what I needed.”
Before the initiatives like Genderse and Black Eagle become mainstream, many queer folks continue to navigate the line between safety and visibility without easy access to gender-affirming innerwear.
These days, Rosa finds herself asking, “Who am I tucking for? Is it for me, or for a world that sees danger in difference?”
Now, there is a quiet comfort Rosa is learning to hold with her body. An ease that doesn’t rely on passing, perfection, or performance. “If everyone is always tucking, always trying to pass, what happens to the ones who can’t? Who chooses not to? Who doesn't even want to?” she asks. For Rosa, tucking is a personal choice — but also a refusal. Most days, she lets her body be. “If someone notices a bulge, then let them sit with it. Let them unlearn what they thought bodies were supposed to be. I’m done shrinking myself for their comfort,” she says.
Some days, she wears tight-fitted clothes. Some days, she doesn’t. “It’s a living, breathing negotiation,” she told me. “But what’s different now is this: the negotiation begins with me.”
*names have been changed to protect identity.
Ekta Sonawane (they/she/he) is a non-binary gender fluid journalist from Maharashtra.
Jose (she/they) is a non-binary illustrator from Kerala whose work highlights personal stories marked by gender, body experiences, and their south-Indian heritage. While not lost in their sketchbook, they can be found devouring all things camp and horror.
Shruti Sunderraman (she/her) is a writer, editor, and strategist who splits her time between Bangalore, Bombay, and Goa.
Visvak (they/he) is a writer and editor, mostly of narrative nonfiction.
Ankur Paliwal (he/him) is an independent journalist and founder and managing editor of queerbeat.
