I used to hate fraternities. As a closeted queer man, I didn’t feel particularly safe or welcomed at frat houses. Then, of course, there was the issue of—I’m not sure how to put this delicately—me wanting to lick their abs. Only I didn’t admit that I wanted to lick their abs. That latent desire existed right below the threshold of consciousness.
It definitely didn’t help that frat bros were always working out shirtless, grabbing each other’s asses, or engaging in other homoerotic behaviors (that have now become a staple of my porn viewing). That added a somewhat confusing element to my burgeoning sexuality and ambivalence toward hot frat boys.
All of which is to say, I typically avoided frat houses like the plague. Brothers often threw around homophobic slurs like hotcakes and any demonstration of femininity was deemed weak. Not ideal for a flamboyant man like myself whose wrists were perpetually limp.
But junior year, I visited my childhood friend at his school over winter break. He was hosting a big holiday blowout for his frat brothers and said I should come. He sensed my reservations (I had told him about the many men I’d hooked up with) and assured me these weren’t typical frat bros; I’d feel welcome—it would be fun.
Well, college Zach loved getting shit-faced, and lord knows alcohol would be flowing, so I agreed.
I introduced myself to the boys as they started trickling into the party. They all seemed like nice guys, but after they started pounding shots, the casual homophobic remarks began. The worst part was that the guys would see my face after a comment was made and you could tell they actually felt bad about shouting these slurs in my presence. Their faces would drop and they’d dart their eyes away from me. It was awkward for all parties involved.
Still, I did my best to have fun despite the vibes being...off. While making a round through the party, I noticed a boy in the corner of the living room with his arms crossed. He wasn’t partaking in the tomfoolery but was viewing from afar as a respectful spectator. There was something about him that reminded me of myself—and while it’s so obvious in hindsight what that je ne sais quoi was, I couldn’t put my finger on it at the time. I just knew I wanted to talk to him.
“Not trying to play beer pong?” I asked.
“No, I’m not really good at sports,” he said. “Although I’m not sure beer pong really counts as one.”
“I think these guys wish it counted as one.” We laughed. “Besides,” I continued, “I never need the excuse of a game to drink. We could, you know, just drink.”
He smiled at me and I smiled back. “Shots?” he suggested.
“My type of man,” I said.
We made our way to the bar and each pounded a shot. Then another. The hoots of boys echoed throughout the house, so we couldn’t hear each other well. This forced us to converse with our bodies and faces just inches apart. There was seemingly nowhere else we could look but into each other’s eyes. Luckily, there was no other place I wanted to look at that moment.
“I’m still having trouble hearing you,” I said. “Want to go somewhere quieter?”
I asked my childhood bestie if there was a private place the two of us could go to talk. He took one look at us, gave me a subtle nod, and said, “Go to my bedroom. Just don’t, under any circumstances, open the garage door.” (His bedroom was a converted garage.)
There was no place to sit in his room other than on the bed. And when two semi-closeted 20-year-old boys sit next to each other on a bed, removed from flagrant performances of toxic masculinity, they start making out. At first, our hands were by our sides—too afraid to touch one another, too afraid to fully embrace. Then I grabbed his face as we kissed and he wrapped his arms around mine. What started as nervous pecks evolved into a beautiful dance in each other’s mouths.
Eventually, we fell onto the bed. My body was on top of his and our legs were intertwined. I moved to straddle him and took off my shirt as our hunger for each other intensified. When I attempted to pull off his skinny jeans, they got caught around his ankles. We laughed together as I struggled to remove them. Once off, I quickly dropped my jeans—which, thankfully, were not skinny.
His bulge was pronounced in his tighty-whities. Such a big penis for a man with a tiny frame. I rubbed the palm of my hand slowly over his underwear, and he moaned. When I took off his undies, his penis made a loud “plop” sound as it smacked his stomach.
When I began to stroke him, he said he wanted to feel me, too. I took off my boxer briefs. For about an hour, we jerked each other off with ample cuddle and make-out breaks. There was something about hearing the fraternizing revelry mere feet away that made it even hotter. The brothers, just outside, were being ostensibly “straight,” however you’re defining the word. And the two of us, separated by a thin door, were being very gay.
After we both came, we realized that we would eventually have to emerge from our queer hideaway. Anyone with half a brain would know we had been fooling around. But without starting a new life in that garage, there was no way around it.
When we returned to the party, however, not a soul seemed to care. The guys were as we had left them, except now they were even more hammered. The only one who knew was my best friend, who gave me a big, all-knowing grin. I smiled back, thanking him for letting us use his room.
It’s funny how things change. Years after this experience, I can confidently say I do not hate fraternities. I don’t hate them one bit. In fact, looking back on this encounter, I’d go as far as to say I love them.
This essay was originally published online on December 15, 2022
