“Are you a Princeton student?” asked the headless, chiseled, hairy torso of a middle-aged Caucasian male on the application’s crowded, black screen, filled with unopened messages from blank profiles and photos of men older than my parents.

Startled at the abruptness of his question and unclear whether that was a misguided pickup line, I replied, “Why do you ask?”

“I am staying at the Nassau Inn for the next two nights until Saturday and am looking for some fun,” said the older man.

“Lol, what brings you here?” I asked.

“An alumni convention. It starts tomorrow. Hope to see you ;-).”

Creeped out, I blocked him and moved on with my day.

… 

Walking past Richardson Thursday morning, it clicked. 

“That was what the white tent was for,” I thought. “The convention.”

I Googled Princeton alumni events on campus and found what brought him into town.

“Thursday night (tonight), 8:30-10:30 PM, Edwards Courtyard: Drinks & Reception” read the browser.

…

Later that night, unable to resist the temptation of an open bar and meeting alumni, I found myself at the reception.

“A glass of sauvignon—make that prosecco, please,” I told the droopy-faced bartender with the crooked glasses.

He gave a quick nod and poured the golden-colored wine into a shiny flute. I was elated, and amused by the bartender’s assumption that I was a legal drinking-age alum rather than a twinkish college freshman. I managed to maintain my composure, though, savoring the unexpected confidence the moment brought, not having to pull my wallet out of my khaki corduroys and show him the Connecticut ID I keep in a secret pocket. 

Leaning on the makeshift bar table, I began to sip on my drink, scanning the tent and keeping an eye out for anyone particularly bodacious. Much to my chagrin, the majority of the people I could find were either too old, oversized, or occupied in heavy discussion. At least there weren’t any other students as far as I could tell, so if someone were to turn up, I would have a decent shot. 

“The thing that always gets me each time I come back to visit,” resounded a deep, alluring voice near where I stood, “is how this place never changes. Of course, the buildings and construction are new, but the atmosphere, the bubble of this place, never goes away.”

Several voices chimed in affirmation, and I slowly turned around to face a group of four men, ranging from late 20s to mid-40s. 

Nodding my head, I turned to the speaker of the group—a nice-looking, six-foot-tall, athletically toned but not too muscular, clean-shaven, hopefully hung verse-top who appeared to be in his early 30s. Admiring his sculpted jawline and piercing blue eyes, I put my hand out to be shaken and politely stated, “Asher Cohen, freshman, Class of 2028, a pleasure to meet you.”

“Grayson Fletcher, senior plus 16, Class of ’09, the pleasure is all mine,” replied the man, as his firm hand enveloped mine.

I felt a pit forming in my stomach and my breathing hasten. I could still feel his hand, reflected in the jitters I felt within my core. And his voice—so masculine, so…seductive. I had never been so enticed by anyone before. I mean, I had my stints with other guys my age and the no-strings-attached hookups, but the thought of getting with someone nearly twenty years my senior was beyond comparison. I liked it. Scratch that. I loved it. The thought of it at least: an experienced, professional, clean-cut man who went to the same school I attended and was visiting here to reflect on his time at college.

Resisting the urge to be silent and admire Grayson, I decided to ask the group of guys about their experiences at college and their careers. The oldest of them, Raphael, Class of ’04, was a big investment banker and tech founder in California and had a husband who was coming up to visit on Saturday. Raphael always knew he was gay, but in college, he was fully closeted and never told a soul—except for some of the other closeted men he hooked up with. The other two guys, both gay, spoke about their careers, and I listened half-heartedly, tuning out their words and thinking of Grayson. Once they finally finished discussing what felt like their entire life stories, I asked Grayson about his time at Princeton and whether he knew he was gay during his years here.

“I guess I was so far in the closet that I had no idea that I could possibly be anything other than straight,” answered Grayson. 

“I was an officer in Charter, and I would black out with my lax buddies every weekend.” He paused for a moment and then added, “But now, yeah, I’m pretty open; most people know I’m gay.” 

With a wry smile forming on his lips, he remarked, “It’s no longer a thing I conceal.”

I nodded my head and thanked him. Vulnerability is hot. Meanwhile, the prosecco was getting dryer by the second, and I lifted the glass to my quenched lips. But before I could even swallow, Grayson’s friends asked if I were open about my sexuality.

“I never have to tell anyone. People just get it. It’s…lovely,” I stated.

“Well,” started Grayson. “A bunch of us are going to the Yankee Doodle Tap Room tonight at the Nassau Inn, if you’re interested. You’re more than welcome to come.”

Shrugging my shoulders, I replied, “Why not?” and we exchanged numbers.

…

“Come on!! We have to go,” I proclaimed to my friends Aurora and Emerald in the cramped hallway of our antiquated dorm.

“When will we ever get this chance again?” I asked.

“When will you ever get this chance again, you mean,” retorted Aurora. 

The air in the room vanished for a moment until Emerald broke the silence: “Okay, fine. We’ll aid and abet in slutting you out.”

…

“Three pornstar martinis, please,” I whispered into the ear of an old, shiny-headed bald man I had no interest in.

A few minutes later, when I had reunited with Aurora and Emerald, the bartender handed us our golden-yellow-colored drinks, and I decided to set my sights on Grayson. Across the floor, Grayson was standing with another 30-something man—leaving no room for Jesus, or whatever entity.

Approaching Grayson and the other man, I casually greeted the two of them with a drink in hand. 

“Nice maneuver,” Grayson remarked, gesturing to my martini, half-finished by now.

Beaming with pride from Grayson’s validation, my legs stiffened, and I felt a warm rush radiate through my body, filling me with a sense of accomplishment and acceptance. I thanked him and turned my attention to the other man’s hands, one of which was fully grabbing Grayson’s waist and the other stroking his head and ear.

Envious of the two of them and feeling the effect of my non-watered-down cocktail, I blurted in a sultry, suggestive tone, “So are you guys open or closed?”

“We both have husbands,” replied the other man, and they leaned in for a passionate kiss.

My heart sank. 

And then Grayson pulled away from the guy, leaned into me, and pulled me in for a kiss.

It was perfect.

With Grayson’s breath tasting of alcohol and his tongue teasing my mouth, I was transfixed. I was in heaven. 

His jaunt hand brushed the curly lock of hair behind my ear, and he caressed my cheek, flush as a summer sunset. 

I opened my eyes, and it was over. The moment ended, but it never went away.

…

I woke up the next morning and checked my phone for any texts.

“ Asher, it was very nice to meet you last night ;-)” read a text.      

Grayson! 

A yelp of joy erupted from me, and I rushed to text back: “Likewise. By the way, Charter is hosting tonight if you want to come. You were an officer, right? You should be good. Come and bring your friends. It’ll be a lot of fun.”

…

At 11:30 PM, outside the club, I was admitted, while Grayson was told by the bouncer that he needed to prove he was an officer by showing his name and photo on a class placard. An easy feat, Grayson pointed his name and year on the Charter wall and was allowed to stay.

Thrilled at his success and aroused at his determination, I drank and danced with him in the packed basement—and didn’t leave any space for anyone.

His eyes glued on mine, his arms wrapped around mine, his mouth pressing against mine. It was even better than the previous night.

I didn’t care about the other people watching us or people giving questioning looks wondering why he was here or why I was with someone older. He was perfect. We were perfect. We were perfect together. 

The time flew by, and before we knew it, we were on the street, sharing one final kiss. He made me promise to text him when I got back home safely, and he told me he would reach out in the morning for breakfast plans before heading back home.

…

The next day, I woke up and quickly checked my phone, only to find zero missed calls or messages.

“This has to be a mistake,” I thought, as I frantically sent Grayson a message: “Hey, hope you’re well. Still on for breakfast?”

No response.

An hour passed. Still nothing.

“He’s probably asleep—or his phone is dead,” I justified to myself and sent him another message: “Wanted to see you before you left. Hope you’re not too busy.”

Another hour passed. Then another. And another. Still no response.

It became clear, that even though he didn’t have the courage to say it, he had already headed back, to a life with his husband, while I was left behind, still waiting to find someone like him.