We Met at the Airport, And I Asked Him Not to Kiss Me

This is an honest piece based on our personal experience traveling as a gay couple, in a world that often feels unpredictable. If you relate to this, as a queer person or gay couple, would love to hear from you in the comments. We hope this makes you feel less alone.

As I was counting down the minutes to see Davey, my heart raced like a child on his first day of school. I stood by the arrivals gate in Spain, scanning the stream of people for his beautiful green eyes and familiar grin. When I finally spotted him pulling for his luggage, my body instinctively stepped forward. And then I remembered where we were.

I absentmindedly pulled out my phone and typed: “Hug me, but no kiss.”

His smile faded into a sea of confusion when he saw my text. He hugged me anyway, and I reciprocated, but I kept my face turned to the side as his drew close. The air between us was suddenly full of things we weren’t saying.

That wasn’t the first time we reunited after time apart. Davey and I met in 2022 in Miami. He was visiting from London, and I from Chicago. We fell in love long-distance and spent years criss crossing borders to see each other again. And every reunion had this same pattern: him, open-hearted and excited; me, anxious, scanning for stares, calculating how visible we were. He’d reach out for affection; I’d flinch. He felt rejected. I felt ashamed. And yet, we loved each other.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to kiss him. It’s that I’d spent my whole life learning when not to.

I grew up in a conservative Catholic family where the possibility of two men loving each other didn’t exist. I also grew up in the South Side of Chicago where two boys holding hands was a dare, not a date. I’ve spent my whole dating life navigating the world with a kind of second awareness, mindful of who’s watching us, wondering if it’s okay to be gay, and just how much is too much. Always analyzing for an exit in case it became unsafe.

Davey didn’t grow up with that same fear. He was raised in Scotland, a different country and culture, with a family that had no religious attachment. He grew up around a community that, during his teens, became a place where one didn’t think twice about same-sex relationships. Because of that, Davey is bold in his love. He embraces me in public and doesn’t hesitate. He wants the world to know.

I thought this was romantic at first, but eventually, I realized just how hard it was. For me. For him. For us.

When we started traveling together, we had to negotiate our affection, country by country. We’d walk hand in hand in Madrid but break apart in St. Lucia. In Morocco, we called each other “friends.” At the Marriott Mena House, overlooking the Pyramids of Giza, we lay opposite each other in separate beds. We learned to adapt, to mask, to read signs neither of us ever wanted to learn.

But here’s what no one tells you: after a week or two of pretending not to be in love, it’s hard to remember how to act like you are.

Returning home from these trips, we’d have to recalibrate. One of us would reach for the other’s hand, and it would feel... foreign. Not wrong but fragile. Like something we had to learn all over again. That awkwardness built resentment over time. He couldn’t understand why I seemed so cold. I couldn’t explain the emotional gymnastics of going from “just friends” in one country to boyfriends in another.

The worst fights we’ve had weren’t over where to eat or what train to catch. They were about whether I would let him kiss me hello.

Once, after a particularly long stretch apart, he waited at the arrivals gate in LAX. Even though I knew California was about as gay-friendly as it gets, when Davey leaned in for a kiss, I still froze. We didn’t speak the entire ride to the hotel. Once we settled in, I explained that it had nothing to do with him. That it was all me and that sometimes, even when my mind knows I’m safe, my body doesn’t. With a sad look on his face, he said, “I know, but it’s hard to always feel like the one who loves the other more.”

That stayed with me.

I’d spent so long believing I was protecting myself,  and in my own way, I was. But I hadn’t realized how often I was also protecting myself from him. From the vulnerability of being seen loving him. From taking our relationship to the next level. From feeling fully human, proud of who I am and who I love.

Eventually, we had a heart-to-heart conversation. He told me that he didn’t need me to be fearless; he just needed to know that I wasn’t ashamed. That I still wanted him, even if I couldn’t always show it. That when I looked away in public, I wasn’t looking away from him.

I told him I did want to be braver and that sometimes love and safety felt like opposing things. That it was hard to live in a world where our joy needed strategy.

Years later, we’ve now made peace with that discomfort because while we wish our world was different, it isn’t. And we have to continue living our lives in a way that feels authentic and real to us.  Sometimes he holds my hand, and sometimes I wait until we turn the corner. But we understand each other now.

Not long after, we reunited again—this time in South Africa. The airport was crowded, and I spotted him from across the arrivals hall. He grinned, but as he walked my way, I could see a flicker of apprehension. But this time, I didn’t text.

I walked up to him and kissed him. Soft, quick, but unmistakable.

No one stared. And even if they had, I didn’t look away, not in shame. And, boy, did it feel good.

We hope wherever you are in the world, you give yourself permission to give and show your love, openly and freely. You deserve to be happy. We all do.

Sending you love and safe travels,

Davey & Omie

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