Editor’s Note: Say hello to the Sexosopher, our new dating/sex columnist. Here’s his intro: The writer is on the brink of graduation from FoBo’s premier university. Having spent too much of the last four years studying the dismal histories and mechanisms of the world required for a BA, so he has decided to spend sometime reflecting on the more tangible and less disputable fundamentals of existence: sex. He believes that his frequent and diverse of application of these fundamentals will lead to blog posts that will, “definitely either elicit [the] reader’s interest, or make them exceptionally uncomfortable… Hopefully both.”
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Like most Thursday nights-out with my heterosexual group of friends, this one was much the same. The evening started with some extensive pre-gaming followed by an overstuffed cab ride to the District’s nether regions. After falling out of the cab into a cloud of cigarette smoke, we worked our way upstairs. I’d found myself compelled to gratuitously gyrate with my cock-starved female companions to pulsating bass and seizure-inducing lights. (I blame this embarrassing, yet reoccurring situation, on the mixture of alcohol and pheromone drenched bodies that find themselves in my life on these evenings). The women that grabbed straight men violently ground their asses into their crotches, and my few friends with any sense of civilization were standing around the bar trying to grab the bartenders attention, hoping that more booze could make all of it acceptable. I howerver, was consumed by a feeling of Rome (circa 470AD): unconcerned, lusty and ignorant.
None of that was out of the ordinary for a weekend out. But, after all, it’s the possibility of a surprise twist that keeps people going out at night at all.
Just as Shakira’s hips’ declaration of sincerity stopped playing , a serial male “bar-stander” friend (here on referred to as Anonymous) grabbed my right shoulder and pantomimed that we should move towards the rooms in the back. I had not planned for a particularly sexy night out, but something struck me as being not-so-platonic about that grab and my (till then) lazy lustiness was given some very specific direction. Anonymous was well built and good-looking. He was almost hyper masculine and had hooked up with enough women that his tight pants, v-necks and had a penchant for scarves were benignly acceptable and damningly ignorable. As we walked toward the back my mind was flooded by the all of the reasons that might poke holes in Anonymous’ stated sexuality, but I tried to mentally counter all of them. I knew that the second I believed it, it would be gone.
We sat down on the couches and only half to my rising surprise, he began to explain his desire to make sure he didn’t miss out on anything in life. Then he leaned in, kissed me and said, “That was good. Let’s go to your place.”
I was at a loss for words, so I used letters: “OK… CAB?”
We both headed outside, he pulled out a cigarette and I hailed a cab. We made innocuous conversation on the way home, and I paid. I closed the door to my apartment and he pushed me against it, standing on his toes to kiss me again. Then he asked for a drink, while I was getting it he opened my computer and made a playlist. While the conversation started out about our similar geographical backgrounds, it ended with, “You know, I’ve never done anything like this before.”
This time I leaned in, but he threw me around, kneeled over me and pushed my head against the wall. Counting Crows’ Chelsea came up and he slipped down to the floor, pushing my coffee table out of the way and unbuttoning my pants. This is a side note, but I am now certain; technique can blow itself, the key to excellent oral sex is sheer, uninhibited enthusiasm.
We quickly relocated to the bedroom and to hi-jinx. Things went all of the way, but there was another twist in store for me. It turns out it really wasn’t “his thing” anyway. I guess I can’t criticize because it never was more than a fleeting fantasy anyway- one that I was surprised to be able to indulge in in the first place.
I suppose there are several morals here to be learned:
First, when out, always have return cab fare immediately handy: don’t miss a discrete opportunity because you needed to find an ATM. Secondly, to the openly gay of collegedom, reap your rewards for having had the grit to come out sooner rather than later. It is to you, the proudly uncloseted, that seniors fearing the brink of graduation will turn when they realize that they still haven’t “experimented” in college.
To the college seniors still feeling a need to experiment, get it out of the way now before you’re married with kids. And to Anonymous, please save yourself the painful reminder: when you’re office is having a blood donation some years from now don’t forget that the American Red Cross still thinks you’re gay.
