Tom was an R. A pair of freshmen donning backward hats sprinted down the narrow hallway steadying red cups as they ran.
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When I could tell he was getting close I told him to cum on my chest. Lots of fucking. He was the kind of person who when you meet him you think I bet he does improv and then you find out he does. I began to drift toward a gayer crowd. And if I was going to do it, might as well chalk it up to those crazy college days, right?
And now I was wandering around the quad, waiting to have sex with him. I think I laughed. It seemed like a good match.
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Heterosexual masculinity is held in check by threat, and men police each other to not break the rules at penalty of exile. I think I called her a prude. Drinking on the porch. But then I placed my hand on my neck. But then I stopped thinking about how it looked, and started thinking about how it felt.
I dodged neon tank tops and Ray-Bans as I trudged across the yellow-green lawn of the quad. Coming now! But why was I even thinking about this? Our eyes flickered on and off.
I got up and looked at myself in the mirror with disheveled hair and red eyes and semen splattered across my pecs. At the time of Fest, I had just broken up with my girlfriend, the second of two serious relationships in college. I too was wearing a tank. Except that I was straight. And my world was also tinted black, framed by cheap plastic. Of course it was.
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But I closed my mouth around the tip. Remember when you were 6 and you and Evan rubbed dicks and butts together? I took a condom and walked outside. The class gave me a vocabulary for something that had been becoming more and more intuitive to me: Gender was a bit of a performance.
Since these norms are defined socially, any group of weirdos can call bullshit, call it something made up — constructed — opt out, and perform it all quite differently. What are you gonna say now? I curved my lower back and flashed my most seductive smile at no one in particular. The croaking throats, rushing to the aid of my heterosexual side, were almost comical — it was all in my head! He was tall with curly brown hair and a bony frame, effeminate.
A straight dude! And I gave Tom the kind of head that I would want to receive.
I stared at that for a few seconds. Because we do. Was it just a choice I needed to make? The next thing I remember I was high above the muffled laughs and screams, in a dark room, kissing Tom. I lay on my back in his dorm room-size bed and watched him.
To read all the entries in the series. I brought my arms over my head and arched my back. I knelt on my knees and stared up at him. The straightest kind of word there is. At the lounge, a guy tried to grind with me. Nearly jerked each other off.
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Four cherry-colored lips, stained from the Jungle Juice that sloshed throughout the quad during Fest. By submitting to emasculation, drowning in it, there was no point in defending myself further. The blaring sunshine interrupted my mental grumblings about the normative assumptions of the cherry-lipped bros and forced me to look down at myself. Was it something they were born with?
From our porch, we whistled at girls who trudged by on the dirt path. I did that! A gender ratio at the door. At each party, I observed different ways to inhabit a gender role or sexuality. I was in a fraternity. I pulled down his pants and gripped his dick. I was grappling with my sexuality, not my masculinity, and those things are different, right? Sometimes the two went hand in hand.
And we were a fratty frat. I watched his pubic hair zoom in and out as I rocked my head back and forth, and I pictured a friend, my dad, myself walking in — what would they think? He told me to come to a local drag show with the gang.
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Which I think was part of what made actually doing it so damn thrilling. I began to wonder what made these queer folks so different than me. But I thought I looked ridiculous in his dorm room mirror, and I turned and started looking for my pants.
We would pull sheets over bunk beds like curtains to make private rooms for making out. Drinking on the roof. I tilted my head to the side and quietly moaned. Once, I saw a brother throw a mirror down the stairs because someone else had had sex in his bed. Must have really wanted it, man. The strict sex presented to me as a kid had apparently been fluctuating throughout time and across cultures. It was 4 p. So this was really going to happen. What about when you were 9 and you and Ross compared penis sizes?
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We're re-running this story as part of a countdown of the year's best personal essays. Drinking in the back lot.
I had always had girlfriends, from pre-K to high school. He was on his way. Lots of fighting.
Then, new voices. The door clicked behind us.
Kinda crazy since it was just under the covers and people in the bunk were still awake. I watched him reach his hand behind him and grab my dick.
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At first, I rolled my eyes at my friends. As unsure of everything as I was, I had known this was the first thing I wanted to do. I wanted to inspect it further — I mean, how many dicks have I gotten to see up close? Our arms and legs were strewn across a ratty futon. They sputtered in haste to explain this plot twist in what had been a relatively stable narrative.
My bunk at summer camp was a clear adolescent antecedent of a frat.