The open-air lobby overlooking the beach was even better than the pictures had promised, the ceilings high as a chapel, the ocean gilded gold in the late afternoon light. I’m not sure if the burning sensation of dozens of eyes following me as I made my way toward the back of the plane was imagined, or if I genuinely was subject to such scrutiny, but I felt conspicuous either way. Then I was reminded again and again as I walked down the aisle of the plane toward my seat, passing dozens of carbon copies of the same lean, muscular, mostly white body type. Who the fuck has the energy for all that at the airport so early in the morning? But then the realization dawned on me. And then, when I was sitting at the gate for the connecting flight from Houston to Puerto Vallarta, I made eye contact with a bulky man wearing a T-shirt that read “Some of you should have been swallowed” and a “DADDY” snapback, stylized in all caps. Despite all this advance scouting, it somehow didn’t quite click with me that Puerto Vallarta is a gaycation hot spot in much the same vein as Fire Island and Provincetown, which is to say glaringly cisgender.
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