“Some woman came up to me and whispered something weird,” my sweetheart told me as we drove home after her performance.

“Oh the ticket lady? What did she say?”

“”She said ‘your husband’s great.’”

“Oh lawl. She means well. I talked to her for a long time last night when I was waiting for you. I told her that my significant other’s in the show, and all the posters and programs were your work.”

“Didn’t she figure out that you’re a girl?”

I shrugged. “Who knows?”

“Husband, eh?” I said with a grin, sitting taller in the driver’s seat, “I think I like the sound of that.”

“Ha. You feeling all manly now or something? HUSBANDDDD.”

I shrugged again. “Maybe.” I was smiling for the entire remaining duration of the drive home.

Ticket lady may have been wrong about my gender, but she was not mistaken about my significance. Her vocal recognition of me as a supportive partner was more timely than she could know, as I was feeling bummed about being introduced as my girlfriend’s “cousin” earlier that day when I dropped her off.

“Is that your boyfriend?” Curious parents asked, “”We always see him driving you.”

“Oh no, she’s just my cousin.”

“Ohhhhhhh. Cousin.”

So there I was, extended-family-zoned.

“Sorry babe,” she texted afterwards, “I just didn’t want any drama, you know.”

“I know, I know, don’t worry. I understand.”

Of course I understood. I’m used to it. My mom referred to all my girlfriends as “friends” or “classmates,” unable to mouth the word “girlfriend.” My first girlfriend introduced me to her family as her girlfriend, but I had to sneak in her house after hours and sneak out before dawn. I wasn’t allowed to stay over and I worked 9 am - 12 am at that time, so the middle of the night was the only time I got to see her. To my second girlfriend’s mom I was a “friend.” My third girlfriend’s mom was so severely homophobic that letting her know that I existed as a person was not an option. She knew nothing about me throughout the two year relationship. When I dropped her off at home I always parked three blocks away, just in case her mom ever saw. In this relationship I guess I’m “cousin.”

You’ve probably picked up my drift by now. When I say “friend-zoned” I don’t mean being deemed undateable by a love interest, but being labelled as “friend,” “classmate,” “cousin,” by significant others in front of their family and friends. And I will accept it with a smile. Because I want to be understanding. Because I don’t want to be a drama queen. And so I continue to sneak around like a thief in the dark. Always lurking around the margins of her home but never invited in. Not unless I leave the “partner” hat outside and put on the “friend” slippers on my way in.

“Title doesn’t matter,” I’d tell myself. “Not everybody needs to know who I’m dating.”

But title does matter. “Friend” doesn’t come close to encompassing her significance to me, and it fools no one. Its ambivalence breeds its own branch of drama.

“Why is she so nice to you?” her mother once asked her, “Are you her next target?”

“You better be careful around her,” her father cautioned, “No one is this nice without intentions.”

My friend’s girlfriend’s mom is even more blatant in her disapproval.

“Careful she’s just using you to satisfy her sexual urges.” Because straight people make love and gay people satisfy sexual urges.

Sometimes it’s not so insulting, it’s just not sweet.

“Ohhhh, lunch box delivery, isn’t that nice?” My girlfriend’s boss teased once after I dropped off lunch for her.

“Oh no, she’s my cousin. She lives nearby and my mom forces her to bring me food.”

I often hear people wonder out loud why we still need Pride.

“What’s there to be proud of? You don’t see ME waving a straight flag around all day”

But I do. When I see their Facebook photos of them and their spouse and their kids, both their families smiling behind them, they’re basically screaming, “Look at me! I’m straight and I’m doing straight right!”

Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for them, truly. I don’t want to take that away from people, I’d just like to have it for myself too. It would be nice to walk through my girlfriend’s front door and say to her parents, “Hi, we’re going for dinner and a movie after. We’ll be home before 12.” Instead we’ve perfected a fire-drill like routine where I reflexively turn off the radio and shut up when her phone rings. She would roll down the window and pick up the call, so she’d sound more like she was on a bus.

It’s hard, listening to her tell her parents that she’s worked over time and the bus came late, with her head hanging halfway out the car window, to not feel like I’m doing something wrong. It’s hard not to feel ashamed when day after day I’m acting like I should be.

And so I need Pride. I need to see RuPaul waving a rainbow flag and hear him tell me to “amen” to loving myself. And so I need marriage equality, so I can say: “Hey, guess what? This is legit, blessed by law, and this is normal. This is love, same as yours.”

I’m grateful for Ticket Lady, I really am.

“Husband.”

I DO like the sound of that. I sure like it more than cousin.