Just Another Gay Sex Story

When most teenagers dreamed of marrying a CW television star, I dreamed of marrying an old money gentleman. My dream had nothing to do with a desire for a rich or intelligent husband; my parents’ pet stores provided me with an extravagant new money upbringing, and many heirs lack common sense. I was just a first generation American with a 560 on the math section of the SAT and a tendency to wear fishnet stockings: to me old money fags were exotic and exciting, the pinnacle of American society — everything I wasn’t.

After a one-night stand with Harvard Boy (a Wall Street banker’s closeted homosexual son) my first semester of college, I realized my dream was just a fantasy. Class forces old money queers to look straight: they will only marry beards or butt-boys who read n+1. I refused to pretend that I read Marco Roth; I wanted boys to accept me for who I was: a proud and out, sheer shirt wearing, Courtney Love quoting homosexual.

No matter how many places published my writing, no matter how much money I made, I was nothing more than a queen to have sex with, to old money gays. But teenage dreams are malleable. Rejection increased my desire for a gay American Aristocrat. Like the Little Mermaid, I would do anything to join their world and watch their lives unfold. By the end of my freshmen year of college, I was willing to suck any Ivy League legacy kid’s cock.

With this intention, I visited Philadelphia to see my middle school best friend Tyler, who dates a UPenn girl. On my first night there, Tyler’s girlfriend took us to the Blarney Stone — the type of bar where frat boys wear button shirts and the “females” wear Forever 21 cocktail dresses. A few dudes glanced at my cut off short-shorts with I-want-to-fuck-you-eyes, but I was only sort-of drunk. I was too nervous to talk to strangers, so I sat on a bench outside with Tyler, who wanted to escape the sound of Gotye.

Outside I drank beer till I was plastered. In the midst of my tunnel vision, I saw two yuppie boys standing in front of me. Dirty blondes with buzz cuts and matching cardigans, they were a mirage, my fantasy come to life. But like a circle jerk, the mirage didn’t last long.

“It’s really obvious you don’t go to UPenn,” one of the yuppies said.

“How do you know that?” Tyler asked.

He pointed at Tyler’s sweater (his girlfriend’s dirty UPenn sweater) and cut-offs. “Just look at you.”

I looked at Tyler. Like him, I wore an old sweater and cut-offs. The yuppie’s comment awakened all the anger past old money gays left me with after they ignored my calls. I stood up and punched the yuppie in the stomach.

“What’s your deal!?!” I screamed.

The yuppie stared at me and then sprinted down the street; his friend chased after him. I laughed, and then went back to drinking and talking to Tyler. We didn’t even discuss the yuppies. We were that drunk.

20 minutes later I looked to my side and realized that the guy I didn’t punch, the one who chased after his friend, was sitting next to me. He stared at my face, not blinking. I liked the attention; an arrogant boy with Harry Potter glasses is the ideal old money conquest.

‘Why are you looking at me?” I asked.

“You outed my friend,” he said.

“Huh?”

“You said, ‘What’s your deal to him?’”

“You’re—”

“You can’t just say, ‘What’s your deal?’ to him! He’s the president of a frat and his dad’s a famous billionaire. Everyone here thinks he’s straight.” He sounded like he was confessing to a priest, not yelling at a gay boy from out of town.

“I wasn’t outing him.”

“You weren’t outing him. Really? Really?”

“Really. I don’t even go here. Gosh.” I went back to my drink.

The yuppie kept looking at me; I looked out in the distance. My drunken haze brought me back to freshman year. Harvard Boy ignored me till I punched him in the stomach, making him think that I hated him. Many Ivy League gays will only sleep with a commoner if they think the liberal arts school queen doesn’t care about their Ivy League credentials. I turned to the yuppie with a plan that only a drunk person would consider a good idea.

“Where do you go to school?” I asked.

He brought his cardigan to my eye. Below the crest read, ‘Wharton School of Business.’ I laughed. “Of course you go to Wharton,” I said. “Wharton’s where all the douchebags go.”

Wharton Boy bit his lip; I rolled my eyes and turned back to Tyler.

“Where do you go to school?” he asked.

“Sarah Lawrence.”

He looked at my cut-offs and then at my Doc Martins. “Of course.”

He shook his head and then looked away from me. A second later, he resumed staring at me. Once again I said something both brilliant and stupid: “You’re looking at me, because you’re gay!”

“Well, I guess you could call me gay.”

“You want me, cause you’re lonely,” I said. “Right? Right?”

He closed his eyes. “Yes.” A pause. “Are you a bottom?”

I wanted Wharton Boy to want me, and I had once let a Madison Avenue executive finger me up the butt (Wharton is much more exclusive than Madison Avenue), so I lied: “Yes. I’m a total bottom. Let’s go back to your place.”

I stood up before Wharton Boy agreed to my proposal. I told Tyler I was going home with a guy for quick sex. Since Tyler treats me like I’m his bro, he gave me a thumps up. Wharton Boy stood up and led me to his apartment. I felt powerful. Then I walked into his apartment building. I saw a doorman and marble tiles beneath my feet and remembered that I was just a boy a closeted Wharton student met at a bar.

Wharton Boy’s studio looked more like a state school student’s apartment than a palace. An empty fridge and a pile of dishes rising out of his sink; a music stand, and no couch — his framed name the only decoration on the wall. Something was off. I turned around to call Wharton Boy dirty, to reclaim my power, but I saw him lying in his bed — the type of plain pink bed you find in cheap motels — with his arms behind his head, as if he knew he was about to fuck me. I remembered my status as a first generation American and his as old money. I was successful enough to know our roles meant nothing, but I untied my shoes and crawled into his bed anyway.

We lay above the covers, not looking at each other. I wanted Wharton Boy to make the first move, so I laid a foot away from him. No response. I asked him his name. He told me his, but didn’t ask mine.

“I wish I could be with him,” Wharton Boy said.

“Huh?”

“The guy you outed. I wish I could be with him.”

“I didn’t out him—”

He ignored me. “His dad’s a famous billionaire. It’s not fair… I just… I just want to be domesticated!”

I felt sorry for him. His romantic misery sounded much worse than mine. But it was also 2012.

“I’m sorry, but you go to Wharton. You’re not some hick in the Midwest. If you want to be with a dude, be with a dude.”

“That’s the problem: we go to Wharton.”

“It’s an Ivy League school, not a prison.”

He rolled over in the bed. We sat in silence for five minutes, Wharton Boy annoyed and me feeling like I had screwed everything up. I knew I had no romantic potential with him, but I wanted to get laid (conquer an Ivy Leaguer). I asked a stupid question to break the tension: “What’s your name again?” A very long pause.

“Leave.”

“I just want to know your name.”

“Get out.”

“What?”

“How could you forget my name?”

“I just met you at a bar.”

“You have no respect for me!”

“I don’t know you!”

“I don’t care!”

“I’m drunk. I forgot your name.” Dead silence. “Isn’t your name Alex, or something like that?”

“GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!”

I slid off the bed and rushed to my shoes. He lay back down, shaking his head as I tied my shoes. I looked at the framed copy of his name on the wall. His name was Alex. It’s one thing to treat me as inferior — I don’t go to an Ivy, so I am inferior — but to lie about your name when it’s on the wall as if I’m stupid? I typically would have let this slide. Unfortunately, I’m a loud drunk.

“You know, you have no reason to kick me out. You have no reason to talk to me like a douchebag, regardless of if you’re some billionaire’s closeted son. I’m drunk; you brought me home from a bar. WE’RE THE SAME, AND YOU’RE GOING TO SLEEP WITH ME!” I untied my shoes. I felt powerful. God, I love being drunk.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was just looking for an excuse for you to leave.”

“You shouldn’t do that to people.”

“I know.” He looked like a child recently scolded by his mother; it was sweet. Then tears started rolling down his eyes.

“Are you kidding?” I asked. “You were being a dick. You needed to be screamed at.” I tried to relish having power over him, but he continued crying. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

“It’s not that. It just reminded me of… stuff.”

“Well, get over it.” I started walking toward his bed.

“I’m schizophrenic.”

“Don’t try another lie with me.”

“Look at the fridge.”

I walked across the apartment. A crumpled piece of paper hung on the fridge. “Take lithium three times a day at breakfast, lunch and dinner. Take Seroquel twice a day.” I remembered all the Crime TV specials I saw as a kid about men who murdered the women they took home. I thought of the deceased, and then I forgot them. Of course his old money genetics cursed him with a mental illness, I thought. You can’t have everything in life.

I turned around to watch Wharton Boy’s real life Bravo reality show. (I love a sad little rich girl.) Behind Wharton Boy’s glasses, his eyes looked red. I expected myself to laugh. Instead I felt bittersweet. Watching an heiress cry on television is funny. Watching an heiress self-destruct in real life is tragic. Watching someone that considers himself superior to you self-destruct is exciting.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he said. “To lose your mind. To forget who you are. I was in Bellevue for eight months. My doctors want me to drop out of school.”

“Well, why don’t you drop out for a while and just do you?”

He laughed at my new age, new money advice. “Don’t you understand?” he shrieked. “I sold a company at 18. I can’t just sit around and do nothing. To do me is to have ambition! To do me is to go to Wharton!”

I didn’t know how to respond, so I went to the bathroom to pee. Tyler texted me. He wanted to know where I was, but I didn’t respond. Wharton Boy was an old money douchebag, but he sounded like a young version of the crazy rejects who ride the C train. I felt powerful. Yet, he was also old money. I still wanted him to fuck me, to want me. I checked for zits in the mirror, popped a pimple, and then returned to the bedroom.

Wharton Boy jumped out of his bed and ran toward me.

“Who are you? Who are you?”

“Huh?”

“Who do you think you are, robbing me!?! Robbing ME?!?”

I remembered Crime TV’s dead heroines. I stayed calm. “Don’t worry. I’m not robbing you. You brought me home.”

“What? I brought you home? I brought you home?”

“Yes, you brought me home. We were at the Blarney Stone.”

“I was at the Blarney Stone? Me at the Blarney Stone?”

“Yes. You were with your boyfriend. You thought I outed him. You were sad because he can’t be in a relationship with you. You brought me home as a sad lay.”

“I went to that bar? I was going to sleep with you? I told you about him? Why?”

“You were sad and wanted to have sad sex.”

He blinked several times; his eyes rolled behind his head. He closed his eyes and then opened them. He squinted, as if he just woke up and I was a burning sun.

“What’s my name?” he asked. “Who am I? Who am I? Who are you?”

“You just met me at a bar, and you brought me home. Your name’s Alex. Look at the wall! Your name is on the wall!”

“Alex? Really? My name’s Alex? Did I take my pills?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know you. We just met.” I should have panicked, but I was drunk. I listened to intuition.

He walked across the room to his kitchen cabinet. Worried he might do something crazy, I chased after him. He pulled a pill bottle from the cabinet, opened it, and started swallowing pill after pill, without water.

“Are you supposed to take that many?” I asked.

“It’s fine. I’m good at pills.”

“You should really follow the directions on the fridge.”

He laid a pill in his palm and brought it to my face. “Would you like a lithium?”

“I don’t think that’s a recreational drug.”

“It could be.”

I thought about snatching his pills, but I remembered my own life — if provoked, Wharton Boy might kill me. I saw Natalie Holloway, Elizabeth Smart, and every other blonde chick Nancy Grace ever loved. But my teenage dream overshadowed them. God damn it! I thought. I want Wharton Boy badly! I want him to love me! I want him now!

I watched Wharton Boy stumble to his bed as he swallowed pills. I looked at him for a very long time. To me he looked like Snow White waiting in a shitty motel bed for her prince to come. I knew I shouldn’t be his prince; he was nuts. So I just looked at him, with sympathy, lust, and schadenfreude. Then Tyler called me. He screamed at me, telling me he was worried sick and I needed to come home. Slightly sober, I understood what he said. I hung up.

“I think I should go,” I said.

“That’s probably a good idea,” Wharton Boy said.

Wharton Boy didn’t walk me to the door. We didn’t say goodbye. I just left. I ran down the stairs, laughing. I saw someone swallow too many pills; I met a Wharton student with a life worse than mine. A Wharton student brought me home. I called Tyler to tell him what had happened.

“You’re so stupid,” he said. “You’ve been gone for two hours. Why didn’t you leave?”

I tried to rationalize what I had done. I blamed lust, my first generation American syndrome, and journalistic inquiry. Tyler thought they were poor excuses; I laughed. The next day we read about the Batman massacre, which had happened 24 hours earlier, and then Googled Wharton Boy. His Facebook profile pictures showed him playing with different guns. What had happened finally hit me. My teenage dreams were more than malleable. They were dangerous and dumb.

“You could have died,” Tyler said.

I knew I could have died. I could have died that time I rode in the car with a drunk driver. I could have died that time I went home with a stripper on New Years Eve. I could have died a thousand times, because I never listened to people’s warning. I’m young; I wanna have fun, I said. I need to explore this big, sexy world. But really I was just dumb.
 TC mark

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