I was twenty-five the first time I kissed another man. It wasn't a playful peck or some proto-ironic beso, this was an open-mouthed salivary exchange. It was during a game of spin the bottle so it wasn't exactly arousing, but I still remember it very clearly. I had thought kissing a male mouth would feel like a cross between a garbage disposal and beef jerky. In the world of the sports-consuming, beer guzzling straight man, the concept of sexualizing another man is a revolting threat to the status quo. ESPN fans talk about women with the same fixated affection that they reserve for fine cuts of steak. The tales of their sexual exploits sound like a pre-historic hunting yarn that culminates in some blushing attempt at bravura. "Let's just say she had a good time," you might overhear from the next table at a Hooters on game day. As I was moving in for the final approach to kiss this man, I felt apprehension and a flickering revolt. "This is going to be gross," I thought.
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