A stern voice echoed overhead. “Attention passengers: Remember, only rainbow-compliant travelers may board international flights. Heteronormative behavior is a federal offense in Zones A through G. Thank you, and stay slay.”

I reached the conveyor belt. A security officer in a sequined uniform and aviator shades held out a manicured hand.

“LGBT card, please.”

I blinked. “Oh, right. One second.”

I fumbled through my bag. Passport, boarding pass, a tube of emergency lip gloss. “I just had it—”

Their lips pursed. “Sir, or Mx, or whatever you identify as—we’ve been having a real problem with people trying to pass lately. Straights are getting clever. Last week, we caught a man in a crop top quoting RuPaul and sipping an oat milk latte. Still had a wife named Susan in Ohio.”

“I swear I’m not—” I paused. “Wait, I mean, I am. I’m—like, super queer. I once cried during a Phoebe Bridgers concert.”

The officer remained unmoved.

“Sir, liking sad lesbians isn’t proof. That’s Tuesday. Do you have your card or not?”

I pulled out my tattered LGBT ID. Issued during Pride Month, laminated in glitter plastic. Under orientation, it read: Pan-questioning with chronic bisexual energy. The officer squinted at it.

“Hmm. This is expired.”

“What? No—it’s good for five years!”

“Only if you participated in at least three activist TikToks. Algorithm's been checking. Also, your pronouns haven’t been updated since 2022.”

I sighed. “They’re still they/them!”

“You’ll need to re-certify with the Department of Gender Fluidity. It’s just a quick vibe check and a performance of Born This Way in the original Klingon.”

Behind me, someone yelled, “THIS IS OPPRESSION!” and was promptly escorted away by two Drag Marshals wielding confetti cannons.

The officer finally waved me through. “We’re watching you. Any sudden interest in football, and you're on the no-fly list.”

I made it past security, sweating glitter. The boarding gate loomed. A banner read: Flight 696 to Queerovia—No Straight People Allowed.

As I sat down, someone offered me a complimentary mimosa. The in-flight movie was The L Word: Cinematic Universe.

“Next stop,” the intercom buzzed, “a world where everyone minds their own business—and fashion is mandatory.”