The Sticker Stayed On [Narrated]

It was a May afternoon, the kind that makes you believe in starting over.
Top down. Music low. Leather pants softening in the sun.
I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror—teal silk shirt, Cuban heels catching the light—and nodded.
Not bad for a man in reboot.

I hadn’t been to a party in a while.
I hadn’t been asked to one in even longer.
And this wasn’t just any party—it was a 50th birthday, and a kind of quiet rebellion.
A gathering of women who usually met behind closed doors.
Many still not out at work.
It wasn’t billed as exclusive.
But I understood, the moment I stepped inside, that I was the only man in the room.

At the door, I queued behind three women swapping stories about Exit 7.
The host had meant the Delaware one—but there was another Exit 7 in Pennsylvania.
Half the out-of-staters had taken the wrong turn, landed at the same gas station, and been gently rerouted by a patient attendant.
When the woman ahead of me asked if I’d gotten lost too, I told her I was local.
She smiled. “That guy at the gas station was so nice. You should go back and invite him.”

Before I could ask what she meant, her turn came.
The woman at the check-in table handed her a name tag—top right corner colored in.
It meant she was open to meeting someone.

When it was my turn, I gave my name.
“Looking to meet anyone?”
I hesitated. “I mean… I’m open, but I’m not expecting anything. Given the guest list.”
She smiled, missed the point, and colored in the corner.
Sticker logic.

Later, the host pulled me aside.
She’d invited two women.
One was the woman of her dreams—this was their second date.
The other was from earlier.
Pretty. Enthusiastic. Planning to attend.
My job was to keep them apart.

I accepted the mission.
And failed almost immediately.

The younger woman walked in. Gorgeous, of course.
And I made a beeline to the hors d’oeuvres.
We talked. She sparkled. I sparkled back.
She asked if I was seeing anyone. I said almost divorced, just starting to feel ready.
She said she’d ended a long engagement and tumbled into her first relationship with a woman—now over.
I asked if she’d ever go back to men.
She laughed. “Not after that.”

I smiled.
Inside, I sighed.
I’d already written the plotline of our romance in my head.

She left early. Said she could tell she wasn’t the one being chosen.
I walked her to her car.
We exchanged numbers.
She never called.

Back inside, I danced.
I used to love dancing—had forgotten how much.
Halfway through the second song, a woman slid in beside me.
We moved together, light and loose, until the DJ paused to find the owner of a badly parked car.

We stood catching our breath.
She laughed, told me her own Exit 7 detour story.
Then, smiling: “That guy at the gas station? He really should’ve been invited.”

And just like that, it clicked.
The woman at check-in.
This one now.
Probably everyone at the party.

They all thought I was gay.

I said, “Wait… you think I’m gay, don’t you?”
She blinked. “Aren’t you?”

I shook my head. “What made you think that?”
She looked me up and down.

“You’re at a party with 100 lesbians.
You’re wearing leather pants.
A silk shirt.
And you’re dancing.”

Fair enough.

Then she glanced across the room.
“Okay,” she said, suddenly serious. “Whatever you do, don’t let my girlfriend find out you’re straight. She gets… territorial.”

I thanked her.
Found my jacket.
And left before the DJ restarted the music.

Outside, the air had cooled.
Someone inside laughed.
I reached up to adjust the mirror—and caught the sticker still clinging to my shirt.
Top right corner, colored in.