The Frat Pack

One night out in San Francisco, I was approached by a cocksure Tucker Max-type. He was more masculine than handsome, and looked to be 30 but was only 21.

He was a senior at Cal Berkeley, where he lived in his fraternity house. None of his frat brothers knew he was gay, nor that he was out at a gay bar. (Yes, I realized this couldn't have been a hotter scenario if I'd have scripted it myself.)

The guy gave me his phone number, stressing that he hated the gay scene and gay culture. He wished he could just skip it all, find a boyfriend, and move to the suburbs.

For the record, I’ve not yet met a gay guy who wholeheartedly endorses “the scene.” But there’s little choice. It’s generally the only place to go where you won’t bark up the wrong tree.

Not that it’s ever stopped me. If there’s one straight guy in a gay bar, the odds are pretty good that’s the one I’ll approach. My record is three in one night. On three separate nights.

Now I just pass out a card that reads, “Please check the appropriate box. I’m: Straight ☐, Taken ☐, Not Interested ☐.” It limits the stress on my vocal cords from trying to talk over Katy Perry.

But back to Gay Tucker Max.

We hung out the following night, and he kept trying to get me drunk. I refrained. He put away shots like it was Drinkin’ with Lincoln at a college sports bar.

We capped the night back at his place; rather, his friend’s place where he was crashing that night. We started making out, and it was clear that Gay Tucker Max wanted to get physical, mostly because he had managed to take off his shirt and lose his belt while our lips were still locked.

I told him if he were serious about dating, then I wasn’t going to hook up our first night out. I’d finally learned that the longer we abstain from sex, the more we get an accurate impression of the person we’re interested in. I’d have been fine hooking up if that were all he wanted, but he’d sold me a different story.

The friend he was staying with saw us from the doorway and pleaded not to hook up on his straight roommate’s duvet. He cautioned if we were going to get physical, then we should do it under the covers, or on the sofa.

So Gay Tucker Max takes my hand and drags me into his friend’s bedroom for a ménage a trois.

These were not the covers I was imagining. Nor was it a ménage a trois, as his friend already had a trick in his bed.

This was a ménage a quatre.

There I stood before a queen-size bed of three naked people when one of them voiced what I was thinking, “Well this is awkward.”

You bet it was. And not because Steven Petrow failed to mention such an occasion in The Complete Gay & Lesbian Manners.

It wasn’t even awkward for the reason I thought.

“You still have your clothes on,” said the trick.

On that note, I tried to relieve the awkwardness.

I bid adieu.

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