I don't usually like to talk about guys in terms of "types"--it seems unnecessarily reductive. But, if I must say that I have a type, I would say that I like my guys extra gay.

You know what I mean. I like them on the nellie side, I like them sparkly, I like them singing musicals and quoting RuPaul's Drag Race and wearing skin-tight pants because for so many years of my life I pined for the straight ones and broke my own heart with it.

I came out fully the summer before college, not because of uncertainty in my sexuality, but because of all the time I was spending in completely hetero locker rooms before then. I was my school's best half-miler and a decent cross-country runner, so the time spent in communal showers in Bumfuck, Oklahoma didn't lend itself to me shouting about how much I loved licking a guy's taint (hypothetically, of course, since I had done no taint-licking then). All of my friends were straight jocks, my best friend the jockiest of all, with broad shoulders and strong arms and long legs that just drove me wild on nights when I couldn't keep the gay away and longed in my bed.

I yearned to be with him, to feel his arms around me and his mouth on mine. Reading stories on this very site didn't help--I was so wound up that even our play wrestling and random weightlifting sessions had me even more in love with the thought of him I'd built up. So thorough was my own self-afflicted heartbreak that I have since gone 100% to the other side, preferring instead to go after the especially gay ones now that I can find them. (As an aside, DC is the best place in the world to live if you like that type.)

My roommate is a graduate student, which comes with the perk of getting to meet and hang around with other cool grad students. We go to bar trivias together, we hang around and play video games, but most fun of all there is a core group of us that gets together to watch football. That's how I met Nick, and how I somehow made it back to the same exact position I was in at the age of 15, when I could still feel the burning sensation in my cheeks of stealing glances at my best friend's body and hoping in vain for a miracle, that he would realize his love for me and we would spend forever together. Thinking about it now just leaves me embarrassed.

My tiny crush on Nick started innocently. His apartment is very close to mine, so we walk home together after outings, and he's a few inches shorter than me, and funny, and wicked smart. He was cute, and very obviously athletic--strong calves atop high black socks were displayed underneath his loose football shorts. But it was nothing more than passing interest, and maybe some glances at his strong, tan forearms. We became quick friends, and see each other often.

Today, the core six of us got together to watch football, a regular Saturday activity, but today at Nick's apartment. We did some drinking, perhaps a little too heavily, and I found myself drifting farther and farther towards him. While we were talking, for the first time I really noticed his eyes--which are stunning, a sort of amber color against his curly, dark brown hair. He made some joke about the Split-T and I chuckled weakly, trying to get myself together.

At some point, I'm not sure how, his foot moved towards my thigh. And I spent a bit too long looking into his eyes. And now, I can't seem to stop replaying it in my mind--despite my best efforts, I'm crushing on a straight friend again. Something about how he looked at me made me feel it all over, even though I know it's all in my head, I know it's all pointless and will get me nowhere. What's that sor Juana line? "'Tis corpse and dust, 'tis shadow and nothingness."

So, all this is to say that crushing on straight guys is just the worst. But, I can at least spend a little time hoping for a miracle, right?