“You going to the parade?”
It was Pride weekend last year in Chicago, and my friend Jen and I were sitting on my front porch. I was trying to figure out where my people would be the next morning.
Hungover and sleeping it off? At brunch? Dancing with shirtless, oiled-up men in booty shorts under the burning sun?
Jen lazily reached for a lighter, lit the cigarette in her mouth and blew a cloud of smoke into the air.
“Baby,” she said. “Do I look straight?”
That answered that. I didn’t go to the Pride parade last year. Neither did anyone else in my immediate queer friend group. Wait, that’s not true; one of my friends did, but only because her (straight) friends were in town and really wanted to go.