CHAPTER 20
MATEO
THE THING ABOUT questioning your sexuality at twenty-one is you're armed with just enough knowledge to be eager but not enough to avoid making a complete fucking idiot of yourself.
Case in point: I'm currently sitting cross-legged on my bed at 2 AM, laptop balanced on my knees, while my browser history spirals into what can only be described as "Gay Sex For Complete Beginners: The Desperate Edition."
It started innocently enough. A casual search for " first time gay sex tips ." Reasonable, right? But three hours and seventeen tabs later, I've gone so far down the rabbit hole that I'm reading medical journal articles about the nerve endings in the male rectum. Because apparently when I panic-research, I go full academic.
My search history now includes such gems as:
" does anal hurt first time "
" best positions for beginners anal "
" how much lube is too much lube " (answer: there's no such thing, apparently)
" can you practice with fingers first "
And my personal favorite: " is gay sex supposed to feel good or am I doing it wrong ", because I don’t fucking know what I’m doing anymore.
I slam my laptop shut when that last search brings up detailed anatomical diagrams that make me feel like I'm studying for some bizarre sex exam I'm definitely going to fail.
This is ridiculous. I'm an anthropology student, for fuck's sake. I've read ethnographic studies on sexual practices across cultures. I've written papers on sexual identity formation in indigenous communities. I should be able to handle this without turning into a blushing Victorian maiden.
But this isn't academic. This is personal. This is me, Mateo Rossi, trying to figure out if I want Ansel Williams—professional hockey player, walking Greek statue, and my fake-turned-something-else boyfriend—to fuck me. And if so, how exactly that's supposed to work without me dying of embarrassment or actual physical injury.
Because what happened in his bed two nights ago? That was amazing. Mind-blowing. Universe-altering. But also just the tip of the iceberg. (Pun not intended, but now I can't unthink it. Great.)
I reopen my laptop, determined to be an adult about this. One more search: " how do you know if you're ready for anal sex ?"
The first article seems sensible enough. Communication. Trust. Lots of preparation. Go slowly. Use protection. Sounds like advice for defusing a bomb, which isn't entirely inaccurate.
I'm so engrossed in an unnecessarily detailed description of proper cleaning techniques that I don't hear my bedroom door open.
"Dude, can I borrow your—WHOA!"
I slam the laptop shut in record speed, but it's too late. Carlos is standing in my doorway, eyes wide as dinner plates, having clearly seen exactly what was on my screen.
"Ever heard of knocking?" I hiss, mortified beyond belief.
"The door was half-open!" he defends, then a slow, shit-eating grin spreads across his face. "Planning something special, Romeo?"
I shove the laptop under my pillow like it contains state secrets. "Shut up."
"No, no, this is educational." Carlos invites himself in, flopping onto the foot of my bed. "I'm learning so much about my roommate right now."
"I swear to god, Carlos, I will murder you in your sleep."
"With what? Your extensive knowledge of anal anatomy?"
I grab a pillow and chuck it at his head. He dodges, laughing.
"Come on, it's not a big deal," he says, tossing the pillow back. "Everyone googles this stuff."
"Do they google it at 2 AM while having an existential crisis?"
"The timing might be a bit extreme," he concedes. "But the rest tracks. So... you and Hockey Boy are taking things to the next level, huh?"
I groan, falling back on my bed and covering my face with both hands. "I don't know. Maybe? We haven't talked about it."
"But you want to," Carlos points out. "Hence the Anal Sex 101 search spree."
Put like that, it sounds so clinical. So calculated. But it's not just about the mechanics. It's about what it means. About stepping over a line I never thought I'd cross. About admitting that whatever is happening between Groover and me is more than just experimentation or curiosity.
"I just want to be prepared," I mumble through my fingers. "If it happens."
"When it happens," Carlos corrects with infuriating confidence. "Look, all I'm saying is, you guys clearly have chemistry. The way he looks at you could power a small country. So maybe instead of treating this like a research project, you could just... talk to him?"
"Right, because 'hey, want to fuck me in the ass?' is such a casual conversation starter." As soon as the words leave my mouth, I want to die. Since when do I say things like that out loud?
Since Groover, apparently.
Carlos just laughs. "Maybe save that for the third date. Just get the basics and go with the flow."
The basics. Right. Lube. Condoms. How hard can it be?
Famous last words.
***
THE ANSWER, IT turns out, is very hard. Buying lube and condoms when you've only ever purchased the latter for heterosexual activities is a special kind of humbling experience.
I stand in the personal care aisle of the convenience store near campus, staring at the overwhelming array of options like I'm decoding hieroglyphics. Water-based. Silicone-based. Flavored. Warming. Tingling. Since when did lubricant require a doctoral thesis to select?
After fifteen excruciating minutes of reading tiny print on bottles—while trying to look like I'm just casually browsing and not having a sexual identity crisis in public—I grab a water-based option that claims to be "extra long-lasting" and move on to condoms.
At least this territory is somewhat familiar, even if the context is entirely new. I pick a box of Trojans, then second-guess myself and grab a second variety pack. Better safe than sorry, right?
Arms full of sexual preparedness products, I head for the checkout, rehearsing casual facial expressions that say " Yes, I buy these all the time, nothing to see here, fellow adults ."
The universe, never missing an opportunity to humble me further, ensures the cashier is a girl who looks vaguely familiar. It takes me a moment to place her—she's in my Anthropological Methods seminar.
Of course she is.
I consider abandoning my purchases and fleeing the store, but my need to be prepared outweighs my embarrassment. I place the items on the counter, avoiding eye contact.
"Oh my god," she says, eyes widening in recognition. "You're the hockey boyfriend guy!"
Jesus fucking Christ.
"Um," I respond eloquently.
"I saw you on Instagram! You're dating that player... Groover, right?" She's practically bouncing with excitement. "My boyfriend is obsessed with the Wolves. He's going to freak when I tell him you shop here!"
Panic kicks in. If she recognizes me, that means other people might too. Which means the contents of my basket could end up as gossip fodder. Which means the whole world might know I'm planning anal adventures with my hockey player not-quite-boyfriend.
"Actually, I'm not—"
"Ring those up for you?" she interrupts, already scanning the lube with the enthusiasm of someone who has no concept of personal boundaries.
In a moment of pure fight-or-flight idiocy, I grab random items from the nearby display and add them to the counter.
"These too," I say, voice strangled.
She raises an eyebrow but scans my panic purchases: a twelve-pack of Mountain Dew, a garden hose attachment, a bag of premium cat food (I don't own a cat), and a fly swatter.
"Big weekend planned?" she asks, the corner of her mouth twitching.
"Just... restocking the essentials," I manage, swiping my card so fast I almost break the machine.
"Right. The essentials." She hands me the bag, eyes dancing with amusement. "Have fun with Groover!"
I mumble something that might be "thanks" or might be "please kill me" and sprint out of the store, clutching my bag of shame.
***
BACK IN THE safety of my apartment, I dump my purchases on the bed and try to figure out what the hell I'm going to do with a garden hose attachment when we live in a third-floor apartment with no yard.
Carlos finds me staring at my haul, contemplating my life choices.
"Rough shopping trip?" he asks, eyeing the cat food.
"The cashier recognized me as 'hockey boyfriend guy,'" I explain. "I panicked."
"So naturally you bought... cat supplies? For our non-existent cat?"
"It was the closest thing on the shelf!" I defend. "I just grabbed whatever I could reach."
"And the garden hose?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
Carlos shakes his head, laughing. "You're a disaster, Rossi. A beautiful, bisexual disaster."
I freeze at the label. Bisexual. I thought it, of course, but hearing it out loud still feels like someone turned up the gravity in the room.
"Am I though?" I ask quietly, sitting on the edge of my bed. "Bisexual?"
Carlos's expression softens. "Dude, you spent three hours researching gay sex because you want to bang your very male not-fake boyfriend. I'm not saying you need to pick a label right this second, but... if the condom fits, you know?"
I snort despite myself. "That was terrible."
"Made you laugh though."
He saunters to the kitchen just as my phone buzzes on the nightstand—a text from my father that makes everything even more complicated.
Dad : Just checking on spring break plans. Mom wants to know if you're flying home or driving with Elena .
Spring break. Home. Family. The real world outside the bubble Groover and I have created.
I sigh. At some point, I'll have to reconcile these two worlds—the one where I'm exploring something new and exciting with Groover, and the one where I'm my parents' straight son with a fake boyfriend for publicity reasons.
But not tonight. Tonight, I'll just text my dad that I'll figure out my spring break plans soon. I'll hide my purchases in my desk drawer. I'll try not to overthink what it means that I want Groover in ways I've never wanted anyone before.
One step at a time. One search query at a time. One panic purchase at a time.
The rest will have to wait. At least until after I figure out what to do with a garden hose attachment and premium cat food.