The day I moved into my first apartment in Chicago, ready to start fresh and make new friends (not unlike the first day of kindergarten), I met a guy in the elevator. He creeped me out by insisting that he and his roommates cook me dinner (which they never did) and what felt like immediately thereafter, I became really close with the boys upstairs. I spent most of my time with them so it’s safe to say that when they moved out of the building nearly a year later, I was not pleased. I replaced them with a group of gay guys I met that summer at our rooftop pool. Not quite the same, though they were surprisingly paralleled in personalities.
My new gays were super attractive and I really enjoyed officially being a “fag hag.” I was most excited when a recently out friend of mine came to visit and I was able to play matchmaker. After all, just because two guys are gay automatically means they’ll like each other, right? To my surprise and delight, my friend and one of my new boys did hit it off. Unfortunately, the one my friend hit it off with was the heartthrob. All the boys wanted him and all the other boys wanted to be him.
One night, after a rousing evening in Boys Town, we all returned home and I left the boys to take care of business. I was half asleep when I heard banging on my front door accompanied by texts and phone calls. Apparently, one of Heartthrob’s groupies had followed them home and was making it difficult for Heartthrob and Orange Chicken (an appropriately offensive nickname given to my visiting Asian friend by the heartthrob) to get it on. As if the groupie wasn’t enough, Heartthrob already shared a studio apartment with a roommate who had, at this point, been asleep for hours, so the two escaped to my studio apartment. I lived alone.
I hastily offered to let them use my couch, promising to leave the TV on in a vain attempt to drown out their…noises.
“Thanks. Okay, but don’t watch.” Orange Chicken suddenly felt very shy in nothing but his tighty-whities.
“I mean…you’re hooking up on my couch. I’m going to peek. Let’s be honest.”
They began going at it as I pretended to watch late night Nickelodeon. Their pants, belts, shirts, shoes, and phones were all over my floor and by the light of the TV, all I could see were two pairs of underwear rolling around.
“This is too awkward. I can’t do this.” Orange Chicken interrupted my late-night programming.
He stood up, came over to my bed, and asked if they could get in. No. I thought live porn on my couch was generous. He signaled Heartthrob over to the bed and proceeded to try and convince me to engage in a three-way with them.
“Get off. My retainers are in.”
“I don’t care. It’ll be fun. We’ll focus on you," he insisted.
I was less than convinced; Heartthrob was in total disagreement. Orange Chicken started lifting my shirt and I smacked his hand.
“I am not losing my virginity to you and certainly not losing it in a gay three-way.”
“It’ll be a great story. I promise it’ll be fun!”
He once again tried to remove my shirt, unaffected by my retainers or the fact that I continued to reject the idea. Both giggling, I finally managed to convince him that this was not happening and regained my personal space. On to plan C. After some drunken logic, they concluded that the groupie must be asleep by now, allowing them to return upstairs to Heartthrob’s hallway or bathroom and finish what they had started.
Without grabbing any of their stuff, still in their underwear, and both at full attention, they pranced out of my apartment and up five flights of stairs. They thought taking the elevator would be too public.
I was already fast asleep when their plan failed a third time and they came back knocking on my door. I will say, however, I am impressed with their perseverance. After one, two, definitely three failed attempts, I would embarrass, decide getting some is not worth looking desperate, and call it a night. I’m not entirely sure how their night ended, but they sure did spend the rest of the weekend making up for lost time.
