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All Lotta Tits wants for Christmas is a 16-inch-cock.
I joined the rugby team and began practicing again, right away. College necessitated another round of 'comings out,' if you want to call them that. It always threw me by how surprised people got when I told them I was gay or how often they came out with bullshit or dumb-ass things like 'Oh, I would never have known. You don't act gay, at all,' to which I would reply, 'Well, wait until you see me having sex. I'm pretty gay then.' Or, 'Oh, that's such a shame!' or something equally retarded. Sorry, I know I shouldn't use that word. But, seriously, people -- wise the fuck up.
One day, I was in my bedroom talking to a girl on my floor that I'd made friends with called Helen. She was Irish and very pretty, with light brown hair and blue eyes. She was complaining about a guy she'd hooked up with who wasn't calling her back and our first paper of the semester, which she was struggling with.
"Who's that?" she asked, pointing at a picture pinned on my noticeboard.
I glanced up from my chair. There were some photos of my family on there, too, and my high school rugby squad. But she was pointing at a photograph of me and Rory. It had been taken in December, at Daniel's new year's eve party. I had my arms around his waist and he was smiling. I didn't look too great, but he looked amazing. His big brown eyes were grinning out at me, in his navy cashmere sweater and beige chinos. I remembered how he smelt that night. At quick thud of anguish at the memory; quickly suppressed.
"That's my ex-boyfriend," I answered. I didn't like the way that sounded. "That's Rory."
"He's cute," she said. "Good for you, Seb!"
"Oh, you know me. Always the charmer!"
"How long were you two going together for?"
"Just over eight months," I said.
"Why'd you break up?" she asked. "Uni?"
For a second, I contemplated telling her the truth, but I couldn't quite bring myself to do it. I couldn't bear to have her think of me as 'that' guy and I also didn't want her to think Rory had done anything to push me into cheating.
"Kind of, yeah, but the whole thing was my fault. He's wonderful."
"I know. He doesn't, but I do."
"Do you think he'll come to visit?"
"I dunno," I said, knowing he wouldn't. "I hope so."
"Do you still love him?"
I laughed at her nosiness.
"Hey, don't judge me," Helen retorted. "Irish girls are raised by Irish mothers and they teach us that prying is a part of life."
I laughed. "You'd've liked Rory. He's awesome."
"I hope I'll get to meet him some day," she said, "although I can't imagine you with a boyfriend!"
"I hope you get to meet him someday soon," I replied and shifted a little to hide how much that boyfriend comment had upset me.
A lot of people might have freaked out after fucking Patrick, but I've never gotten too hung up on sex. Maybe it's the rugby guy mentality, who knows? Whatever it is, sex has never really bothered me too much. The only reason it meant so much with Rory was because I was in love with him. I was 19 years old; I was good looking; I was in college and I was healthy. As much as I would have preferred Rory in my bed, he wasn't and I didn't intend to live like a monk because of it.
My next sexual partner was actually someone who could roughly be termed my fuck buddy. A role that Joshua Peterly had once disingenuously offered to fill. His name was Will and he was the only other openly gay player on the rugby team. Obviously, we were therefore thrown into each other's path at every rugby social by every friendly and well-meaning member of the squad. After one successful game and partying after, one thing led to another and Will and I ended up in my bedroom. Luckily, in British colleges, it's rare to have a roommate.
Will was a tall guy -- maybe 6'4 or 6'5.