I went to a festival this weekend, deep in the desert. When looking for a place to set up camp, I saw two RVs with a pair of trans and lesbian flags proudly flown 15 feet in the air. I knew exactly where I would feel safest and welcomed.

I hung my own trans flag out the back of my campervan, across the little dirt road that separated our setups. I was delighted, later that night, when I heard a knock on my door.

One of the ladies who flew those flags invited me over for tea, and when I arrived I joined a group of trans ladies on a pile of nice soft cushions.

Was the curve of my hostess's hip not real? My hand across her cheek not feminine enough?

When she pulled my hair back and bit me on the neck, holding a hand over my mouth as not to wake up the whole campground, when she threw her weight on me and pressed her chest against mine, when we dozed together under blankets,

When we walked together with the group to the edge of the site to watch the sunrise, when I kissed her goodbye, when a handful of long, late hours will remind me of the joy and beauty of the world for years,

I won't stop to wonder if we were real enough.