An ill-fated night at Bridge, perhaps? Freshers’ week had seen no action for yours truly, a young gay man, whose few sexual experiences had previously entailed a Grindr-based, and wholly unsatisfying, series of sexts (oops, do you think the Tories will arrest me? Thank God for anonymity, eh?) and the odd kiss from a straight and questioning friend. I arrived at Bridge, surrounded by new Fresher friends – the week’s conversations had seemed to revolve around who Tina had pulled and what Sammy had gotten up to with that guy from Camera the night before. A series of complaints saw a large number of wing-men and women convincing me, reassuring me, doing their best. Telling me it will be alright; you’re not unattractive. Platitudes of this ilk seemed to have confronted me all week, as once again your author thought to himself, oh, if only if I was quiche. Your author is no longer the naïve fresher who went to Bridge with Tina and Sammy – he wouldn’t do either now. Oh Freshers’ Week regrets, eh – more to come. 

So, we’re in Bridge. I’ve downed a pitcher of Sex on the Beach – a cruel substitute, I thought. Suddenly, the rugby team from one of the colleges entered, having just completed initiations. This is the end, I thought. Bridge, this surprisingly tiny and inadequate club everyone in the year above idolises as a college tradition, was now overrun with the rugger lads – what hope is there for a potentially nice and friendly little gayman who will reconfirm my confidence? Oh, so little. Not that little, as it turned out. Suddenly, a new-friend approached, bringing along a rugby pal. It feels like a school-friend reunion so we all look on and think how ‘nice’ it is that at Oxford some people have half their school with them. (Lovely. Hmm.) We dance. We dance more and more – in fact, I catch the two talking. He looks at me and suddenly I can feel the sex on the beach flood through my veins. Coincidentally this is the date which made me realise that maybe a pitcher was too much. 

We dance together and kiss. He asks me to go home straightaway and naturally I assent – thank God, finally some action, I thought. We walk home and just outside Worcester (a red herring, perhaps?) we kiss again, only this time I start to realise that perhaps it wasn’t a very good kiss. Still hopeful we plow on and arrive back at mine where we go upstairs and get off a bit more before we decide mutually this was a mistake and move straight to sex. As he mounts, I suddenly realise there is no way this is going to work. No one is in the mood anymore. Him lying on top of me, I grab my phone. He continues to attempt some kind of oral pleasure on me, but I’m much more interested in Doodlejump. A high score. Perhaps the night wasn’t as wasted as I thought.

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