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I sighed heavily, and I reached over and attempted to turn the fan up to a higher setting. However, relief from the Californian heat was not in my future.

My first month living in San Francisco was going just peachy: the air conditioning in my apartment broke and I had been without cool air for about a week and a half now; I couldn't find one of the textbooks for my class, no matter how hard I looked; and I still had no boyfriend.

The last one wasn't exclusive to San Francisco, though. I was an eighteen year old boy who had never had a partner, boy or otherwise. In high school, I was the nerdy kid with glasses and braces that only talked to two people. I was the starter pack for awkward high school virgins: acne everywhere, thick glasses, and, for a few moments there during freshman year, headgear with my braces. Once the impediments were gone, I still never got a boyfriend. Not even when I got contacts or anything of the sort. New York was so homophobic, in my experience, and I had kept my sexuality a tight secret. Not even my best friend, Saoirse, knew.

That was the main reason I moved to San Francisco. The city had such a history of gay culture and I wanted to live in that and experience that kind of life. I had become different since moving to San Fran: most notably, I wore makeup. It was just some eyeliner and pink lipstick, stuff I stole from Pauline before she went to college, but it was a change. I had worn makeup before— live theatre required that— but never out in public. I was too nervous to wear anything more than that.

I got off of the couch, my bare thighs sticking to the leather for a moment, and I went to the kitchen to refill my glass with ice, but the ice-maker had other plans. It made a hissing noise, then a loud rumbling, and it dispensed a large hailstone of ice. "Fuck!" I cried out of a sudden burst of anger, and I threw the door to the freezer closed. I trudged back to the living room, but I bypassed the couch, instead heading to the window. I unlocked it and threw it open, and I took a deep breath of the air.

I had an intense vision then. My parents always claimed that my imagination was far too active, because I could conjure up images that were nearly impossible: dragons scaling the New York skyscrapers and how I would look if I grew my hair out or if Saoirse had a decent tan. I saw myself at a bar, my fingers playing with some mystery man's tie. He would order me a drink, and we would talk, and I would lose my innocence at the hands of this man. It was then that I decided that I would go out that night. I would find the most fabulous bar that I could illegally enter, I would drink, and, hopefully, if all went right, I go home with someone. I would wear tight jeans and a scandalous top and pounds of makeup, and I would be the person I dreamed of being.

I got dressed in a hurry. Tight jeans went on my toned legs, and a blue top graced my torso. I pulled out white tennis shoes, and I put those on as well. Black eyeliner winged out past my eyes, and I wore a soft pink lipstick, very flirty but not slutty. Slutty could come later, once I had some alcohol in me. In my opinion, I looked cute; very twinkish and very fuckable. The last was my goal, and I think I thoroughly achieved it.

It didn't take long for me to find a club. It was a mere two blocks from my apartment— I could have walked, if not for the acute heat. The bass of the music pumped through my veins, making me feel more alive than any other time I could remember in my miserable life, and I immediately ordered a rum and Coke. Luckily, the bartender didn't try to card me, and he gave me the drink in a flash.

By the end of the first hour, I was drunk. I sat texting Saoirse for a majority of the time, enjoying the music, and then the bartender slid me a martini. I didn't drink often and, when I did, it definitely was not gin that I reached for. "Oh, I didn't order this," I said, and I tried to smother the slurred vowels.

"Compliments of the gentleman at the end," the bartender told me, and I followed his gaze to see a man sitting there. Late-twenties, maybe. He was dressed nice, in a blazer and dress pants, but with ragged tennis shoes that were so contrasting to the rest of the outfit. Sharp features, broad shoulders, and fucking tall. Yes, this was the man I was to lose my virginity to.

I gave the man a smile, hoping that I looked cute and not so young that he held reservations against me, and the other stood up and made his way over to me. "Hi," I said with another mature smile.

"Hey," the guy said with a good-natured smile. "I'm Armie."

"I'm Timmy," I replied. Armie. Figures; guy's built like a military man.

"Are you sure you're twenty-one?" Armie asked. "You look really young."

"I'm not," I said. I pushed the martini away from me, and I added, "I'm also not a gin drinker."

"Good to know that," Armie said. "Why're you here?"

"I don't know," I shrugged nonchalantly, and I gently put my hand on Armie's chest. The fabric of his shirt that I now saw as a light blue was soft against my fingers, and I smiled at the thought that it would be on the floor in a matter of minutes. "Why're you here?"

"To fuck," Armie answered swiftly. Damn. He really didn't beat around the bush.

"Well, babe, that's why I'm here," I giggled. I was much more drunk that I first thought. "We must have been destined to meet."

"Or maybe I wanted to snatch you up before anyone else here did," Armie said. "I'm gonna guess... Bottom?"

"Maybe," I replied. I rubbed the collar of Armie's shirt in between my fingers, and I said, "I can be whatever you want me to be."

"Well, first off," Armie began. "I want you to be legal. You are legal, right, darling?"

"I am," I nodded. Then I added, "Perfectly legal."

Armie carefully slid his hand up my thigh, and my heart skipped. Was it really that easy to get laid? Why hadn't I done this before? Was I really this cute or did Armie just have fantastically low standards?

"So, what is it that you do?" I asked.

If I, Timothée Chalamet, the English major, wasn't drunk and had paid attention to anything other than Armie's chest, I would have fully comprehended Armie's answer: "I'm a college professor. American Lit 101."

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