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'Actually, I'm not gay'

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OCTOBER 25, 2016

We would stay up all night in his room talking about whatever naive freshman woes were plaguing us. I would divulge conflicted thoughts over the girthy 26-year-old dicks I illegally sucked as an underage Golden Bear, while he would retort with confused romantic musings about the multiple women who made him swoon. He, more than anything, craved some form of monogamy with a girl.

So soft.

Or so I thought.

Over time, our bedside conversations morphed into a gradual gay confessional. He began to ask me more detailed questions about my cock conquests and inquired about the specific mechanics of gay sex. His increased intrigue tipped me off to a buried layer I hadn’t seen before: a deeply suppressed curiosity for boys, a deeply suppressed curiosity for … me.

I wanted to slip into his psychological realm of Freudian oppression, suck his dick and show him the light. I wanted to take a hatchet to his closet like Jack Nicholson in the fucking “Shining.” I, more than anything, wanted to kiss him — but I wouldn’t dare try.

One day the gay breakthrough I had been nervously anticipating came.

“I’ve always wanted to try more stuff with guys, I just don’t know who …” He trailed off and looked up at me.

I avoided the stare that I knew had been trailing me for weeks.

“ … I would do it with,” he finished in raspy, elongated syllables.

I glanced down to evade his gaze but was met with the formation of a burgeoning boner bulging in his tight pants. It was almost as if he was tempting me to reach out and release the damn thing. Even though I had been craving it for so long, there was absolutely no way I was going to make the first move. I didn’t want to fall into the promiscuous gay archetype of attempting to seduce a “straight” friend and facing a painful rejection.

But I didn’t have to.

That night he turned to me: “Do you want me to give you a blowjob, dude?”

I hesitated. Does this mean he likes me too? (Answer: no)

“Come on, I promise it won’t be weird.”

I threw any sense of rationality out the window of my conveniently vacant Deutsch double and let “straight” boy engulf my entire shaft. My semen signed a sexual semesterly contract that would end up ruining my straight-to-gay conversion fantasy. Like most eager people, I didn’t read the Terms & Conditions, which, within the fine print, stated that every hookup would be under HIS terms and HIS conditions. Not mine.

We could only hook up when he decided, my emotions would definitely have to be executed, and not once would I ever get that coveted kiss. If I tried to stray from his sexual itinerary (i.e. what he was craving that night), he held the authority to call the whole interaction off. If I ever tried to schedule a dick appointment, he’d swiftly reply with a defensive: “Dude, I’m not gay.” A denial of any possible affiliation with homosexuality became an instinctual reflex for him.

But his heterosexuality halted at 4 a.m. After indulging in a few good hits of top-shelf kush and returning to the loneliness of an empty bed, he would frequently set my phone abuzz. I would routinely lie in wait with my cell on full volume, much to my roommate’s dismay. Sometimes I didn’t even sleep because I was on edge for one of his beckoning calls.

I went from a friend to an on-call dildo with a pulse, a disembodied penis detached from any sort of humanistic existence. After the rejections of all my advances, he inadvertently made me feel as if I were somehow privileged to be the one gay he hit up to tamper with his straightness. Gay sex wasn’t something he did regularly, and my new role as erotic experimental subject should be an honor. Or at least that’s what I told myself.

I lived to satisfy his taboo “gay fantasy” at my own emotional expense. He made it perfectly clear that any feelings I had for him would never be reciprocated. Even so, I continued to participate in our twilight rendezvous because I foolishly thought that maybe I could change him. I took what I could get, whether it was a half-hearted handjob or a quick blowj, because I liked him. I thought if I gave him what he wanted, eventually he would like me too.

He never would.

Our toxic arrangement reached its peak when I sloppily topped him in my first ever fit of fervent fucking. I guess it was poetic that I lost my virginity to him, just the sadistic cherry I needed to top off our fucked up sundae.

The next, and final, time we hooked up was in my room before the sun had set. He barged in and asked me to fuck him.

As I was about to slip my dick in his ass, he turned around and killed my boner for the last time:

“Actually, I’m not gay.”

Chris Cox writes the Tuesday column on sex. Contact him at [email protected] and follow him on Twitter at @chriscoxrox.

OCTOBER 25, 2016