I am home.
-I am standing bewildered in a hotel lobby, looking for event registration.
-I am unpacking my things and setting up at a gay campground.
-I am sipping a coffee three blocks away from a well known, medium sized concert hall/club.

I am home.
-I sign in and notice in the throng of people how many are wearing ears and tails. There are even some already in a full fursuit. Everything is hectic and I’m trying to get my bearings.
-My tent is ready on my friends’ site and already I’ve gotten to know the neighbours, almost in a race to see who could strip down first. Woofs and grrs are exchanged.
-I’m lined up now with other people waiting to visit a well established cult artist. In line, we speculate on the setlists. Would Greg play “The Lure Would Prove Too Much?” (He didn’t) Would Amanda play “Bigger on the Inside?” (She did.)

I am home.
-What starts with nervous steps leads to an almost chaotic rush between panels, dealers, artists, dancing, with more and more people with colourful ears and tails and fursuits of every colour and shape you could imagine.
-We move between the pool and our sites and the food like clockwork. The events are great and optional under such a wide, blue sky with enough clouds to keep us warm in the woods tonight after the dance.
-I am standing in the crowd, pop in hand (though I do wish it was more than that) and looking at the stage setup alongside everyone around me, waiting for that moment that the person we’re here to see steps onto the stage.

I am home.

I was not born in these places, but these places have something that says home to me.

I am home surrounded by big, hairy, gay men, knowing that we’ve had a similar experience.

I am home at these concerts of niche and cult artists, because the crowd all found something I did that resonated with them.

I am home with the furries who defy every convention of sex, gender, and species to bring out not just who and what they are but who and what they want to be.

I am at home in these places where the eyes of those who have seen it all meet those whose eyes have just opened to possibility.

I am home where the minds of the hive converge and configure new intelligence and gossip and all of the best and worst we have in ourselves to offer.

I am home as I take photos during the Fursuit Parade. I am home as I make out in the pool leading to a rendezvous later. I am home as the artist takes the stage to riotous applause.

I am home because here I’m not such a loser or a freak. I am home because we have something in common.

I am home because, through sheer force of will, I want it to be home.

And it is.

Until it’s over.

The bags are packed, hugs and goodbyes, the last encore is done and someone’s swiped the setlist before I could.

A kiss before the airport shuttle and the city bus separate, causing a divide more painful than you can imagine. Check out of the camp, exit the hall and try to find a way back to home.

And it hits me: None of these people have tails or ears or fursuits. Why is that man wearing pants? That is not right. You, sir, remove your pants this instant! What do you mean you’ve never heard this song!? And there’s the real world looming over.

It’s the real world of shirts and ties and jobs and school and everything we do because we think we’re supposed to because someone thought it would be a good idea, not knowing what harm it would cause.

It’s the real world that denies me what I am and denies those who deserve the accolades.

It’s the real world these brief visits hold at bay for a little while and it’s the real world that weighs on me as I walk to my apartment. Back hurting, feet burning, the whole time wishing I could extend my stay, all of our stays, just that little bit longer.

Thanks to the internet, I can’t say I’m going cold turkey, but it’s very lukewarm at this point.

And I poke my head out on Twitter or Facebook and say “This was fun! Can’t wait for the next one!”

And I can’t, not really, because for an all too brief moment,

I was home.