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.
Read more at http://thoughtcatalog.com/2012/just-another-gay-sex-story/#F1gEB6KglpT7wucA.99
