"Straight guys who—" Delete Delete Delete
Holy Fuck… straight guys do anal for cash…. This is a thing???
A much safer Taylor Swift quiz judges me from my screen. I've already taken it twice because "Reputation Era" seemed wrong the first time. Got "Folklore Gay" on the second attempt, which isn't even a real term. The quiz maker definitely just made that up.
Another notification pops up. A new quiz: "Build a Sandwich, and We'll Tell You If You're a Top or a Bottom."
What does that even mean? How can food preferences possibly?—
But I'm already clicking it. For science. Data collection. Part of my comprehensive self-assessment.
My phone vibrates on the desk, dancing across the wood. I glance at the screen, Haru's name lights up with a message preview.
Haru
The movie night is starting soon. Will you be attending? We're voting between Predator and?—"
He even texts perfectly.
I flip the phone face down without reading the rest, cutting off the notification mid-sentence. The movement is sharper than necessary, bordering on aggressive. My psych textbook lies open in front of me, waiting to rescue me from whatever internet-induced crisis I'm currently experiencing. The Kinsey Scale diagram practically glows on the page, with its clean numbered spectrum and objective definitions.
Right. Back to actual psychology. The kind with peer-reviewed studies and controlled variables. Not the BuzzFeed variety that determines my entire sexual identity based on bread choices.
I force my eyes to focus on the chapter, reading the same paragraph about sexual orientation research three times without absorbing a single word. My brain refuses to cooperate, too busy replaying the sandwich quiz questions and wondering why I'd selected "extra mayo" when I don't even like mayo that much.
The Kinsey Scale stares back at me. Zero is exclusively heterosexual. Six is exclusively homosexual. I tap my pencil against the page, creating a nervous rhythm.
In high school, I was definitely a zero. Dated Courtney sophomore year, Madison senior year. Did all the things I was supposed to do. Prom. Homecoming. Making out under the bleachers after I blocked for the winning touchdown.
Except...
Except I spent more time thinking about the game than the girl. Except kissing felt like it was what I was supposed to do rather than something I wanted to do. Except I was always relieved when they wanted to "just cuddle."
The sandwich quiz blinks at me, waiting for input.
This is ridiculous.
But I click "sourdough" anyway.
My door flies open without warning.
"Time's up, GR!" Tyler waves a clipboard at me like it's a weapon. "Movie vote is happening NOW."
I blink at him, my brain still spinning from sandwich ingredients and whatever the hell they're supposed to reveal about me. The next question is still loading in the background, that little spinning wheel mocking me while Tyler stands in my doorway looking expectant.
"What?" I manage, hoping my voice sounds normal and not like I've just been having an existential crisis over whether choosing whole wheat makes me bicurious.
"Dude, are you okay?" His forehead wrinkles with concern. "You look like you just saw your GPA drop."
"I'm fine." My keyboard clacks as I minimize the browser window, probably with too much force. "Just... studying."
Tyler's eyes track the movement. "Sure. Studying." I think he knows I'm full of shit but doesn't push it. That's why he's my best friend. "So? Predator or Pitch Perfect?"
"Pitch Perfect," I answer automatically. "We've watched Arnold oil up enough times."
"THANK YOU!" Tyler throws his hands up in victory. "Finally, someone with taste. Though if they'd picked T2, different story, right?"
