I always hated stereotypes. At least, that was my excuse for resenting anyone who assumed I was gay. A guy can be fabulous and into clothes and still be attracted to the opposite sex. And I have been attracted to girls as far back as I can remember--that's no bullshit. Girls love a guy they can go shopping with. "Metrosexual" was what they called me, and I was fine with that mantle. It meant they recognized my good taste, refined appearance, superior grooming, and upscale tastes. It was when people called me "gay" that I got frustrated. I'm not gay. Properly, I'm bi.
I had been reveling in Talia Dean's need for me. She came, practically on her knees, to get me to give it up to her. Considering I was a scrawny 150-pound nobody, it was nice. Here she was, the star quarterback's girlfriend in my room almost every night telling me how much she needed me and how much she appreciated me slipping it to her on the side.
I had just recently broken up with my boyfriend. I was sitting on my bed in my dorm room talking to my roommate, Robyn. We were discussing him and his shortcomings (I had done the breaking up because he was a jerk) and we got to talking about our sex life. Yes guys, that's right, us girls talk about this stuff too. I was telling Robyn how Mike, my ex, would never go down on me, even though he expected me to go down on him. Somehow it came out that I had never had a guy go down on me, and Robyn looked incredulous.