(Any resemblance of any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Except for that one person. You know who you are.)
The first time I knew I was straight, it was like waking up from a bad dream. Everything seemed clear: I realized I like nipples on top of mounds. I realized I like my nipples breasted. They are better as a part of a functional mammary gland. I am a cis-gender, white, heterosexual male, and I’m proud of it. It wasn’t a choice I made, but I’ve accepted it. I can’t change, even if I wanted to, even if I tried. But it wasn’t always this easy.
When I arrived at Grinnell College, I thought it would be just like high school: dates in public, pulsating testosterone in the locker rooms of hot, steamy male bodies, the deep throatin’ under the bleachers, and the friend we all thought was really straight all along. I never thought it would actually be me. But here I am, world.
But anyways, back to Grinnell. Everything changed when I started musical theater: the chorus lines, the show stopping tunes, and most of all, the curves. Ah, the curves! At first I thought I wanted to be friends with her. Then, I wanted to be her. BUT THEN! I realized I wanted something more. That thing they call “penis in vagina sex.” Intercourse. Coitus. Such taboo words I’d seen scribbled on dumpsters in back alleys but never dared to utter aloud. But how could it be sex if procreation was involved? Was this really living? What would my gay fathers think of this? Would they still love me?
The tension continued day after day as we slowly grew fonder. It all had to be in secret, no one could ever know. Seeking solace, I snuck over to the SRC. But it turns out, the Straight Resource Center didn’t exist. None of them were straight like me! Who could I turn to? I felt so marginalized in that moment I didn’t know what to do. Did PornHub even have straight porn? What app should I use other than Grindr? How will I meet hot chicks with sick racks? How can I tell if this girl is straight? What are the signs? Does her long hair make her straight? They never taught me these things about being straight in school, so how was I supposed to know what to do?
While rehearsing the final number, my hand lingered on the back of her bra for a moment too long. Did she notice?
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that,” I muttered.
“No, it’s fine,” she replied, as she averted her eyes quickly and acted as if nothing happened.
As I left rehearsal, I couldn’t help but gaze longingly at the massive jugs dangling from her chest, barely supported by her bra. That’s when I noticed her staring at the large lump protruding from my crotch. My dick was lit. It was very hard.
She asked, “What’s that?” as she pointed at my pitched tent.
“Come into this closet with me, and I’ll show you, but no one can know,” I responded.
We stumbled into the nearby closet, and closed and locked the door, out of sight. We immediately disrobed and gazed for a moment at the ugly beauty of the opposite sex’s body. Her front butt was Medusa and turned my wee-wee into stone. The veins stood out a lot on my pecker, which was like a compass, which pointed directly at her fuzz-covered pleasure center. I wasn’t sure what it was, but I knew that I wanted it. I wanted my man meat to rest on her sheath biscuit.
But immediately, we ran into a problem. Which hole should I take? There were somewhere between two and four holes down there, and it was very unclear which one was the fun tunnel. I poked around for a while, “What do I do?” There was a sound like paper ripping, as my peen machine entered the station. I felt tension, and I heard a noise.
“Excuse me–was that an orgasm?” I asked curiously.
“Yes, I think? Or maybe not. It’s unclear. It might have been gas. I had taco for lunch,” she replied.
We continued furiously. All of a sudden my nuts felt like they were happily on fire (which had never happened with another man) and I felt a surge of viscous fluid rushing up the urethra of my dong shooting onto her like a stepped-on mayonnaise packet and squirting onto her glee lentil-and-quinoa taco. It immediately hardened into a hard coating of the prodigious number of spermatozoa that my vas deferens had secreted onto her body that cemented her legs in place. With one moan, she looked at me, then looked at her frosted donut, and did dual gasp of pleasure and horror.
“I have to go, softball practice starts soon,” she uttered, and grabbed her frilly, lacy thong, and dashed out as I put on my Hanes boxer briefs and poorly-fitted jeans (which I realize now was a dead giveaway of my straightness) and sulked out of the closet. I reentered a world where my lifestyle was not legitimate. I felt immediately ashamed, but also liberated and thrilled. My wiener was satisfied, but the world stayed the same. I had the feeling at Grinnell, I could change things. I could be the real me, I could be a real man. I could be straight. Maybe.
*Special thanks to our straight consultant, Hannah Lieberman ’16, for providing endless accurate depictions of her typical lifestyle and experiences as a straight individual.