Caffeine made me talk a mile a minute, so I ordered decaf; my nerves made me talk a mile a minute, anyway. Michael seemed to think this was cute. I’d say one thing and he’d ask me to say more. I told him about growing up as the only out gay kid in my tiny southern Idaho town, where the hottest teen nightspots were the retention pond north of Larsen’s potato farm, evangelical revivals, and dances at the Mormon stake center—none of which were good places to find a boyfriend. I told him about the Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy gay fanfiction I used to write in high school as my only escape. I told him about happily losing my virginity to another guy’s hand at three in the morning on the bus ride from Idaho Falls to Boston when I came out for my first semester of college.
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