Potential. It's all about potential, right?
Okay, picture this: I was in a drought, a Sahara of singledom, when an oasis shimmered on the horizon – a girls' trip to a major gay metropolis, practically in my backyard. The last time I dipped my toe in those waters was my very first full-blown Pride back in October. It was a glorious, glitter-drenched unknown. This time, though, I was a seasoned explorer. I even juiced up my phone at work, a crucial pre-game ritual because, let's be honest, those apps – Grindr, Sniffies – they suck the life out of my battery faster than I try to suck anything bigger than a Pringles Can. The main event? Clubbing. With a fresh crop of just-turned-21-year-olds. Now, my clubbing experience was… limited. Think more cozy bar corners than pulsating dance floors. But, like any good writer, I embraced the research. It was an education, a surprisingly fun one at that. But here's the thing about those incredible nights, the ones that sparkle with possibility: they often come with a hefty morning-after price tag. And did this glittering evening ultimately lead to a Monday morning that felt like wading through cement? And did the city's notoriously frisky fellas remain stubbornly… unfrisky? UGH.
![1744474690279.png]( "1744474690279.png")
And that’s when you can’t help but ask yourself, was it worth it? What was the alternative? An extra hour of sleep morphing into an even earlier rise, all so I could… clock in early? That was the dazzling counterpoint to a night of potential? Never. The potential for an amazing night, that electric hum of possibility, will always be enough to lure me in. Did that make any sense? Ugh. I think my writing is actually getting worse. This sexual diary is all about improving, but maybe it is all about regression.
Here's the thing about life, and dating, and well, just being – sometimes the universe throws you a curveball so unexpected that it feels like you've accidentally stumbled into a rom-com you definitely didn't audition for. Take, for instance, the subject of this very digital diary entry. It's a confession, a truth bomb I'm about to drop that feels as precarious as telling your favorite fling, "Honey, maybe get tested?" Because, voilà, this young gay undergrad has developed a rather inconvenient crush. On a straight man. I first encountered the enigma that is Mr. Rhodes during that hazy, slightly terrifying period known as freshman orientation. It was maybe our third awkward shuffle across campus. Our initial meeting? Painfully clumsy. In my mind, we never would've been friends. I was sure that outside of seeing him around campus, we would not know each other. When we awkwardly first met, I didn't even think he was that cute. My head was exploding from all the new hot men I thought I would be getting to know intimately over the next four years (I come into college double-majoring in delusion and naïvety). He was, quite simply, the last person on my radar. Our brief interaction left me convinced he harbored some deep-seated dislike, but honestly, I was too busy mentally curating my future dating roster to dwell on it. I was already setting my sights on another straight specimen I’d encountered at some pre-college mixer (a story for another entry). We never actually spoke, and I was perfectly content to keep it that way. Then, after we both signed up for a class to get a science credit out of the way, a friend of a friend introduced us, and we slowly started to get to know each other. At first, anytime I saw Mr. Rhodes around campus, I was convinced he was this awkward, angry jerk who wanted nothing to do with me. If I had been smart, I would've dropped that class, sat on the other side of the room, or just killed myself. But Mr. Rhodes? He’s a walking plot twist. I was perfectly content letting him exist in my mental landscape as this vaguely menacing straight figure, a campus gargoyle I’d occasionally nod at from a safe distance. But alas, the universe had other, more complicated plans. As the semester went on, this buff currly-haired asshole became my new campus crush. I wanted more than anything to be wrong about my feelings. See, here’s the kicker: he is, unequivocally, one of the straightest men I have ever encountered. Politically? Let’s just say our Venn diagrams of agreement have a rather significant space. He possesses the vocal cadence of a potentially transphobic “finance bro” who may or may not still be a virgin. He drives a truck the size of a small studio apartment, a fact that nearly earned him the moniker “Overcompensation” in this very entry. Every internal alarm bell is screaming, “RED FLAG, FAG! Abort! Abort!” Yet, despite all logical reasoning, we continued to… connect. Against all odds, against what felt like the natural order of things, we became friends. Even though, if I’m being brutally honest, I’m not entirely sure either of us wanted to. And that, my dear readers, is often where the most perplexing stories begin.
![1744474946787.png]( "1744474946787.png")
Long and tragically pathetic story short, Mr. Rhodes started dating one of his coworkers. Isn't it so annoying how straight people just fuck around anywhere? I sucked a guy off in a Barnes & Noble parking lot, but I just can't get around an office romance to save my life. What's silly about this new relationship starring my campus crush, and excluding me, is that we started hanging out even more when he got a girlfriend. By the time Mr. Rhodes bid adieu to bachelorhood, our shared science class had also reached its natural conclusion. Somehow, we became such good friends that he started asking me to join him to run errends. He would visit me at work all the time. He brought me to his dorm and showed me his underwear... kind of a lot. Well, a lot more than you would expect any guy to show you their underwear. I loved all of it. Months went by, and I couldn't get over this stupid crush, but he was not helping. Months blurred into a frustrating montage of lingering glances and inside jokes. My ridiculous crush stubbornly refused to dissipate, and Mr. Rhodes, seemingly unintentionally, was doing absolutely nothing to help its slow demise. He’s well aware of my… proclivities. He knows I enjoy a bit of playful exploration. We share a surprising amount, we bicker, and the overall vibe is… perplexing, to say the least. He affectionately (I think?) calls me difficult. I retort with a well-placed “stupid.” And then there are these moments, these fleeting, charged silences where it feels like we can’t get enough of each other’s company.
And here we are. It's been almost a year since our solo hangouts began, and the emotional rollercoaster has been consistently inconsistent. But right now? Right now, things are… on. This is the most time we’ve ever spent together, and consequently, the most confused I have ever been. How can I be this monumentally confused when the primary topic of our conversations revolves around the women he’s interested in? There’s this undeniable comfort between us, a familiarity that feels both natural and completely inappropriate. We genuinely shouldn’t be this comfortable. It’s a friendship built on a foundation of mixed signals and unspoken (at least on his part) desires. And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way, even though it’s slowly driving me mad.
I guess the theme of this week's incredibly late blog post (seriously, these are supposed to be up every Monday at 5 pm) is that potential can be so exciting but exhausting. To illustrate this point with a flourish of slightly tragic irony, I orchestrated a weekend of… well, let's just call it high potential. Three orgies, to be precise. The vision in my head was practically a soft-focus montage of sensual encounters and shared intimacies. This weekend had all the earmarks of becoming legendary, a shimmering beacon in my otherwise, let's say, calm dating landscape. And the reality? A grand total of zero orgies materialized. Instead of a whirlwind of (consensual, of course) entanglement, I found myself ensnared in the tangled web of straight boy drama – a narrative I shouldn't even have a walk-on role in, let alone a starring one. My meticulously crafted schedule for the week is now undergoing a series of rather frantic revisions, so the punctuality of next week's entry is, shall we say, questionable. However, I think it will all be worth it. The goal for next weekend is to see Trixie Mattel's "Solid Pink Disco." I just have to put in a little work to make it happen. After that, I'm gonna try and make it home for the holiday, then it's back to our regularly scheduled dry spell.
![1744475096948.png]( "1744475096948.png")
Orgy or not, this has been... Everyone's Obsession.
Okay, picture this: I was in a drought, a Sahara of singledom, when an oasis shimmered on the horizon – a girls' trip to a major gay metropolis, practically in my backyard. The last time I dipped my toe in those waters was my very first full-blown Pride back in October. It was a glorious, glitter-drenched unknown. This time, though, I was a seasoned explorer. I even juiced up my phone at work, a crucial pre-game ritual because, let's be honest, those apps – Grindr, Sniffies – they suck the life out of my battery faster than I try to suck anything bigger than a Pringles Can. The main event? Clubbing. With a fresh crop of just-turned-21-year-olds. Now, my clubbing experience was… limited. Think more cozy bar corners than pulsating dance floors. But, like any good writer, I embraced the research. It was an education, a surprisingly fun one at that. But here's the thing about those incredible nights, the ones that sparkle with possibility: they often come with a hefty morning-after price tag. And did this glittering evening ultimately lead to a Monday morning that felt like wading through cement? And did the city's notoriously frisky fellas remain stubbornly… unfrisky? UGH.
And that’s when you can’t help but ask yourself, was it worth it? What was the alternative? An extra hour of sleep morphing into an even earlier rise, all so I could… clock in early? That was the dazzling counterpoint to a night of potential? Never. The potential for an amazing night, that electric hum of possibility, will always be enough to lure me in. Did that make any sense? Ugh. I think my writing is actually getting worse. This sexual diary is all about improving, but maybe it is all about regression.
Here's the thing about life, and dating, and well, just being – sometimes the universe throws you a curveball so unexpected that it feels like you've accidentally stumbled into a rom-com you definitely didn't audition for. Take, for instance, the subject of this very digital diary entry. It's a confession, a truth bomb I'm about to drop that feels as precarious as telling your favorite fling, "Honey, maybe get tested?" Because, voilà, this young gay undergrad has developed a rather inconvenient crush. On a straight man. I first encountered the enigma that is Mr. Rhodes during that hazy, slightly terrifying period known as freshman orientation. It was maybe our third awkward shuffle across campus. Our initial meeting? Painfully clumsy. In my mind, we never would've been friends. I was sure that outside of seeing him around campus, we would not know each other. When we awkwardly first met, I didn't even think he was that cute. My head was exploding from all the new hot men I thought I would be getting to know intimately over the next four years (I come into college double-majoring in delusion and naïvety). He was, quite simply, the last person on my radar. Our brief interaction left me convinced he harbored some deep-seated dislike, but honestly, I was too busy mentally curating my future dating roster to dwell on it. I was already setting my sights on another straight specimen I’d encountered at some pre-college mixer (a story for another entry). We never actually spoke, and I was perfectly content to keep it that way. Then, after we both signed up for a class to get a science credit out of the way, a friend of a friend introduced us, and we slowly started to get to know each other. At first, anytime I saw Mr. Rhodes around campus, I was convinced he was this awkward, angry jerk who wanted nothing to do with me. If I had been smart, I would've dropped that class, sat on the other side of the room, or just killed myself. But Mr. Rhodes? He’s a walking plot twist. I was perfectly content letting him exist in my mental landscape as this vaguely menacing straight figure, a campus gargoyle I’d occasionally nod at from a safe distance. But alas, the universe had other, more complicated plans. As the semester went on, this buff currly-haired asshole became my new campus crush. I wanted more than anything to be wrong about my feelings. See, here’s the kicker: he is, unequivocally, one of the straightest men I have ever encountered. Politically? Let’s just say our Venn diagrams of agreement have a rather significant space. He possesses the vocal cadence of a potentially transphobic “finance bro” who may or may not still be a virgin. He drives a truck the size of a small studio apartment, a fact that nearly earned him the moniker “Overcompensation” in this very entry. Every internal alarm bell is screaming, “RED FLAG, FAG! Abort! Abort!” Yet, despite all logical reasoning, we continued to… connect. Against all odds, against what felt like the natural order of things, we became friends. Even though, if I’m being brutally honest, I’m not entirely sure either of us wanted to. And that, my dear readers, is often where the most perplexing stories begin.
Long and tragically pathetic story short, Mr. Rhodes started dating one of his coworkers. Isn't it so annoying how straight people just fuck around anywhere? I sucked a guy off in a Barnes & Noble parking lot, but I just can't get around an office romance to save my life. What's silly about this new relationship starring my campus crush, and excluding me, is that we started hanging out even more when he got a girlfriend. By the time Mr. Rhodes bid adieu to bachelorhood, our shared science class had also reached its natural conclusion. Somehow, we became such good friends that he started asking me to join him to run errends. He would visit me at work all the time. He brought me to his dorm and showed me his underwear... kind of a lot. Well, a lot more than you would expect any guy to show you their underwear. I loved all of it. Months went by, and I couldn't get over this stupid crush, but he was not helping. Months blurred into a frustrating montage of lingering glances and inside jokes. My ridiculous crush stubbornly refused to dissipate, and Mr. Rhodes, seemingly unintentionally, was doing absolutely nothing to help its slow demise. He’s well aware of my… proclivities. He knows I enjoy a bit of playful exploration. We share a surprising amount, we bicker, and the overall vibe is… perplexing, to say the least. He affectionately (I think?) calls me difficult. I retort with a well-placed “stupid.” And then there are these moments, these fleeting, charged silences where it feels like we can’t get enough of each other’s company.
And here we are. It's been almost a year since our solo hangouts began, and the emotional rollercoaster has been consistently inconsistent. But right now? Right now, things are… on. This is the most time we’ve ever spent together, and consequently, the most confused I have ever been. How can I be this monumentally confused when the primary topic of our conversations revolves around the women he’s interested in? There’s this undeniable comfort between us, a familiarity that feels both natural and completely inappropriate. We genuinely shouldn’t be this comfortable. It’s a friendship built on a foundation of mixed signals and unspoken (at least on his part) desires. And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way, even though it’s slowly driving me mad.
I guess the theme of this week's incredibly late blog post (seriously, these are supposed to be up every Monday at 5 pm) is that potential can be so exciting but exhausting. To illustrate this point with a flourish of slightly tragic irony, I orchestrated a weekend of… well, let's just call it high potential. Three orgies, to be precise. The vision in my head was practically a soft-focus montage of sensual encounters and shared intimacies. This weekend had all the earmarks of becoming legendary, a shimmering beacon in my otherwise, let's say, calm dating landscape. And the reality? A grand total of zero orgies materialized. Instead of a whirlwind of (consensual, of course) entanglement, I found myself ensnared in the tangled web of straight boy drama – a narrative I shouldn't even have a walk-on role in, let alone a starring one. My meticulously crafted schedule for the week is now undergoing a series of rather frantic revisions, so the punctuality of next week's entry is, shall we say, questionable. However, I think it will all be worth it. The goal for next weekend is to see Trixie Mattel's "Solid Pink Disco." I just have to put in a little work to make it happen. After that, I'm gonna try and make it home for the holiday, then it's back to our regularly scheduled dry spell.
Orgy or not, this has been... Everyone's Obsession.
