It was on a family trip to San Francisco, in my early tweens, that I saw what I recognized to be a real, true to life lesbian for the first time. Two, actually. I could tell because they held hands. After that, I started seeing lesbians everywhere. Well, not everywhere. But around. Whenever we left home, I saw women, often much older than me, loving other women: On the beach at the Mexican all-inclusive resorts my family vacationed at, walking down the same Main Street in a small Northeastern fishing town, at a second cousin’s wedding and reception in a midwestern town. Vacation, it seemed, was about lesbian-spotting. This was the early aughts, when absolutely no appropriate lesbian television shows or movies or really even books for girls my age existed.

My sixth sense continued as I grew up. I'd scout out lesbians, studying them as if looking for clues. My overactive imagination would wonder who these women were and where they lived and if their families still talked to them and if they had to lie at their jobs about their personal lives to afford a very nice vacation. I’d look at what books they’d leave on their pool chairs, what they ate and drank, and what they talked about, if I could hear. I was curious, totally unaware of why I was so staunchly fascinated by these strangers, like objects in a museum.

Years later, I found myself embodying my role as the lesbian at the resort with my now-wife, on a long weekend getaway to Sandals South Coast in Jamaica.

“Where’s Mr. Nice Guy?” our server asked us before we could decide if we wanted a lobster roll or fish sandwich and fries. I was confused, wondering if he meant the staff member who’d brought our bags to the room. “Where’s your man?” he asked again, insinuating that two very beautiful women couldn’t possibly be at a couple’s resort alone.

We hesitantly explained that we were together, and after a few seconds, the server fist bumped my wife, like I was an accomplishment, exclaiming something along the lines of “nice.” That became the familiar approval message once staff learned of our relationship status, though many seemed to completely misread why two women from New York were traveling together.

While our stay included a couples’ massage, staff insisted two women would prefer side-by-side facials instead. I don’t know if anyone suggesting this has ever had a facial, but having a stranger extract clogged goo from your pores anywhere near your partner is not my idea of romance.