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.
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CHAPTER ONE: ORIENTATION
Wesley Bower looked around the campus, more than a little nervous. He was seeing his college campus for the first time since his visit, and now he was having second thoughts. Why did I pick a school so far from everyone I've ever known? he wondered, feeling disconsolate and alone. Well, no use having second thoughts, he decided, stretching his arms, turning to survey the people around him.
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This one's for my twin sister, Chelle. My muse.
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From the first second I saw him I knew I wanted him. He had a phone pressed between his shoulder and his ear, eating from a bowl of cereal as he walked around the pool in his backyard. The baggie board-shorts he wore would dip a little with each step revealing the paler skin of his ass and top of his crack. I kept half an eye on him from the concealment of my sunglasses while I worked.
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I hate camping; I think that it is the stupidest thing ever. Why would people want to go out into the wilderness and with no bathroom, no shower, and no electricity? But despite that my Dad would insist once a year that he and I went out to this obscure little clearing in the woods which wasn't even a real campsite. We would go out pitch a tent; eat fish that he caught in the lake, and sleep on the cold hard ground.
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Francis had friends round watching the football when I got home from university. I wanted them to go away. I didn't know what Francis had told them about me and our relationship but they kept watching me, I could sense them looking at me when I wasn't paying attention to them.
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As a psychology major, it never ceases to surprise me how deep human loathing can go. Often times the most screwed up ones are ourselves. For every ten people that you meet, eight hate everyone, six hate themselves, but blame everyone else, three loathe themselves with depths unfathomable, and one or two out of those ten will never let you know just how disturbed they really are.
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I was meeting close friends John and Ryan at the club. They were bringing Mark, a friend of John's from university who'd recently moved to the city. That might sound like they were trying to hook us up but I'd never needed their help. They knew I'd end the evening with him anyway, as long as he was reasonably good-looking.
He was better, but much too controlled for my tastes. The green-hazel eyes were calm and probing, all at the same time, the mouth with its thin upper lip and full lower lip didn't get a lot of exercise as if he thought through every thing before he spoke, not a single blond strand out of place.
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From the first second I saw him I knew I wanted him. He had a phone pressed between his shoulder and his ear, eating from a bowl of cereal as he walked around the pool in his backyard. The baggie board-shorts he wore would dip a little with each step revealing the paler skin of his ass and top of his crack. I kept half an eye on him from the concealment of my sunglasses while I worked.
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It was my freshman year in college. While I had a scholarship that paid most of my school expenses, if I wanted to have a social life or even a Big Mac, I had to get a job. As in any other college town, good jobs are hard to come by, so I took what I could get. In this case, I worked with the maintenance department at the local mall.
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When I got to college, I was the only freshman in the senior dorm. I had planned to go to another school but at the last minute I changed my mind. Richards Institute where I had originally planned to go had a wonderful fine arts program, which was my field; but I had been accepted at Rodgers University, and when push came to shove I just couldn't give up the opportunity to go to one of the Big League schools. So by the time I decided to go to Rodgers and applied for a room, the freshman dorms were all filled.
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