Excuse me, do you know where...?
Yes, Gay Street,
that way!
By: Albaloo Pollo
Sometimes surprises propitiously fall onto your lap and carry with them joy or fortune. Other times, surprises hit you in the head, cause internal bleeding and result in nothing less than emotional and physical brain damage. Generally, the latter form of surprises applies to those closeted gay guys, who everyone in the whole world suspects of batting for his own team, but still refuse to accept the colorful reality that in their lives, rainbows don’t just appear after torrential downpours.
At universities all across the US, a phenomenon known as “sophomore surprise” grips all second year students as externally “straight” guys make their apocalyptic conversion to the gay side. While it has only been three weeks since moving back into the dormitories, my only affairs have been with “straight” guys who have yet to officially come out. These surprises may be liberating for the caged souls that for years have been secretly stealing glimpses of the male anatomy in locker rooms, self-deprecatingly watching easy access porn at the wee hours of the night, and frantically keeping their sexual impulses at bay when a picturesque boy’s arm accidentally rubs against theirs, but for the already established gays, the surprises often bring nothing but drama and confusion. At least, this has been the case in hide and seek game lately.
Not too long ago did I have my first sexual experience with a hidden diva. At the beginning of this year, when students had yet to start trickling back to campus, a friend of a friend had invited me over to, in his words, “get to know more about each other.” Unbeknownst to me, I had been invited to a private gathering in a dorm where the only “connection” he sought to build was one under the decent phrase. Somehow, even though he was purported to be gay by various social cliques, my gay-dar had experienced an abysmal and shameful fail; I walked over to his room with no thoughts or even desires of starting anything more than a platonic friendship. How wrong I was!
After he opens the door and welcomes me into his room, the surprises just start punching at my crotch, yet I notice nothing.
INDICATION ONE: he immediately tells me to get comfortable, sit on his bed, and relax. Cordiality, not sexuality struck me for the reason of his overtures.
Sometimes surprises propitiously fall onto your lap and carry with them joy or fortune. Other times, surprises hit you in the head, cause internal bleeding and result in nothing less than emotional and physical brain damage. Generally, the latter form of surprises applies to those closeted gay guys, who everyone in the whole world suspects of batting for his own team, but still refuse to accept the colorful reality that in their lives, rainbows don’t just appear after torrential downpours.
At universities all across the US, a phenomenon known as “sophomore surprise” grips all second year students as externally “straight” guys make their apocalyptic conversion to the gay side. While it has only been three weeks since moving back into the dormitories, my only affairs have been with “straight” guys who have yet to officially come out. These surprises may be liberating for the caged souls that for years have been secretly stealing glimpses of the male anatomy in locker rooms, self-deprecatingly watching easy access porn at the wee hours of the night, and frantically keeping their sexual impulses at bay when a picturesque boy’s arm accidentally rubs against theirs, but for the already established gays, the surprises often bring nothing but drama and confusion. At least, this has been the case in hide and seek game lately.
Not too long ago did I have my first sexual experience with a hidden diva. At the beginning of this year, when students had yet to start trickling back to campus, a friend of a friend had invited me over to, in his words, “get to know more about each other.” Unbeknownst to me, I had been invited to a private gathering in a dorm where the only “connection” he sought to build was one under the decent phrase. Somehow, even though he was purported to be gay by various social cliques, my gay-dar had experienced an abysmal and shameful fail; I walked over to his room with no thoughts or even desires of starting anything more than a platonic friendship. How wrong I was!
After he opens the door and welcomes me into his room, the surprises just start punching at my crotch, yet I notice nothing.
INDICATION ONE: he immediately tells me to get comfortable, sit on his bed, and relax. Cordiality, not sexuality struck me for the reason of his overtures.
'...he jumps on the bed, proceeds to lay parallel to my body, and starts uttering irrelevant judgments about all and the sundry'
INDICATION TWO: we entered a conversation in which he starts criticizing President Obama’s diplomatic dialogue with Palestine, Iran, and other Middle Eastern countries, and I calmly, in hopes of not starting a confrontation, refute all his points. Yet, every time I aired my political opinions, he pretended to agree in a comforting and empathetic tone, as if he actually enjoyed my rant. He was quiet the slick!
INDICATION THREE: he exaggerates a yawn as it nears 1 AM. Somehow, after I am done talking, he smoothly manages to switch subjects and starts gossiping. He proposes we look at his facebook, which requires his laptop that just so happens to be lying beside me. He jumps on the bed, proceeds to lay parallel to my body, and starts uttering non-essential and irrelevant judgments about all and the sundry. Literally, he strings sentences and words together that make no sense. At this point, I tune out, and think about how much I want to leave. As I ponder my agenda for the next day, I notice something is touching my thigh. All thoughts freeze. While his mouth babbles on inconsequentially, his hand is doing the real talking and subtly rubbing my crotch. Suddenly, I jolt and freeze. I want to leave, but have no idea how. For some reason, I try to justify his hand motion as just a poorly placed body part. For one whole hour I sit their motionless, praying and hoping that the pact between hand and crotch is as heterosexual as a hug.
INDICATION THREE: he exaggerates a yawn as it nears 1 AM. Somehow, after I am done talking, he smoothly manages to switch subjects and starts gossiping. He proposes we look at his facebook, which requires his laptop that just so happens to be lying beside me. He jumps on the bed, proceeds to lay parallel to my body, and starts uttering non-essential and irrelevant judgments about all and the sundry. Literally, he strings sentences and words together that make no sense. At this point, I tune out, and think about how much I want to leave. As I ponder my agenda for the next day, I notice something is touching my thigh. All thoughts freeze. While his mouth babbles on inconsequentially, his hand is doing the real talking and subtly rubbing my crotch. Suddenly, I jolt and freeze. I want to leave, but have no idea how. For some reason, I try to justify his hand motion as just a poorly placed body part. For one whole hour I sit their motionless, praying and hoping that the pact between hand and crotch is as heterosexual as a hug.