Why I Won’t Fuck A Girl Again

Last week I was lucky enough to see LCD Soundsystem’s final show. Afterwards, drinking with friends, I mentioned that I met two straight girls who were nice enough to both let me stand with them for a while, for they had better seats than I, and who also spent an hour hitting on me before ascertaining that I “liked boys.” They were cute about the whole thing and it made for a nice memory. While recounting that memory, though, an equally cute straight guy asked why I didn’t take said 19 year-old breeder up on her offer.

I don’t remember if he was talking about me fucking her or just getting a bj, but the general presumption was that a gay guy could suck it up, close his eyes, and just enjoy the thrill of someplace warm to put the proverbial it. My reply to that – which wasn’t even sarcastic – was to ask if he’d let me blow him. I’ve never had much luck with on-the-fence straight guys and I thought it was too good to pass up. I told him that by his logic he could let a dude blow him. He said no, as I more or less expected.

The easy answer to why I wouldn’t do anything with a girl, no matter how cute or sweet, is because I’m gay. Lesbians don’t turn because they’re bored of dick, straight guys aren’t just waiting for the right male bottom and I know – from personal experience – that if you’re 100% gay the Queen of Sheba’s pussy itself couldn’t turn you.

I spent high school and my first year of college subscribing to the “you have to get it somewhere” school of human sexuality. That is, I wasn’t out and was too old for daily wet dreams so I pursued and “had relations” with ladies. I had fun, and it helped me learn what a blowjob was like before my penis grew back into itself from disuse, but it wasn’t what I would’ve chosen in an ideal world. I spent my summer after high school graduation doing everything-but with my first boyfriend but then my first year of college got confusing.

I was one of about ten gay men at an extremely small, stiflingly rural Ohio college and had to balance what I was against what I wanted. I was hiding under the banner of “bi now, gay later” (as my first gay friend put it) I slept with guys here and there, when I could find them, and messed around with girls when the urge and/or the need to keep my friends confused about my sexuality struck.

It worked as a temporary solution in that my testicles didn’t explode in the middle of an IPHS class and I got to stay as under-the-radar as any skinny, un-stubbled, pink-shirt-wearing, gay-friend-having, Belle-and-Sebastian-listening, 19 year-old protofag could. Though I found out later that the small-world nature of my campus had my roommate knowing I was a homo before he even met me, but he was a good sport about seeming surprised when I let the non-cat out of the non-bag.

I used to take a lot of pride in not being a gold-star gay. 19 year-old me was even more aggressively, obnoxiously anti-gay-culture than I was now. The creeping rot of the closet had me rejecting everything that I thought “gay guys did.” I complained that 4 or 5 of the gay seniors always had dinner together in the dining hall. (Don’t they have other friends?), were active in queer issues (What are they, like, only gay?) and went to GLBT campus support meetings (No thanks, I have frat parties to attend.) So my ultimate public act of rebellion, oddly enough, was acting straight.

It wasn’t like girls did nothing for me. I had some crushes, some lust objects, some angry, ranting nights when a date went poorly. But I knew what I really was after and which of my actions would be left in the dust with my baseball caps and girl-on-girl porn. As a guy who hates unfinshed business, can’t stand doing anything haflway, I made myself a promise: I would hold onto my bi identity until I could go all the way with a girl. I figured (unlike an actual bisexual person) that I could just get lady-sex out of the way once before moving on to the thing I actually, exclusively liked.

And wow was it not fun for either party. I woke up on the morning of March 23rd, 2003, and proclaimed to my friends “I’m tired of being a virgin. Tonight’s the night.” In the resulting severe case of “careful what you wish for” (and I’ll spare you all the gory details) I had clumsy, obtrusive, lucky-I-knew-where-to-put-it sex with a gorgeous, smart friend of mine who really deserved a better way to end her Saturday night. Though much about the event was unfortunate (on my part, to her chagrin) the only thing you really need to know is that I ended up sleeping in the condom and then slinking into a woman’s bathroom the next day to throw it out.

I’ve since made peace with the woman in question, which is lucky because there aren’t enough apologies in the world for an unsuspecting straight girl who fell into the path of a curious gay man’s heterosexual explorations. That was the last time any part of me touched any part of a girl that wouldn’t already have been exposed at a museum gala or business lunch. I didn’t feel like explaining that to the guy from after the LCD show, but I figured why not tell three thousand strangers online?

This post originally appeared on The New Gay. Republished with permission.

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