The day I arrived on campus for OA, my roommates and I sat in my room going through whatever forgettable awkward conversations roommates have when they first meet. I decided to drop the bomb the first day; I informed them that I am 90% gay. (They are three of the most accepting straight guys I’ve ever met—even the one from Texas.)

OA: dirt, grime, bonding, repeat, etc. Return to campus horny as hell after a week on the Appalachian Trail. After an extremely brief stop at the OA dance, I was off to the Street. The first night was boring—Charter beer sucks, and there wasn’t much dancing.

But Cloister, ah, Cloister, home to my frosh week sexcapades, opened the next evening. I didn’t quite know where to find gay guys, but I did go for a few guys in skinny jeans who turned out to be straight (that’s always awkward—sorry if that was you).

It was time to explore my ephemeral 10% heterosexuality. My search for women in the 10% (all of whom are lined up in my mind, picketing like occupy protesters saying “We are the 10%!”) began.

You’re probably expecting a story of pitiful failure—how could a gay guy possibly be good with women? That’s what my roommates were asking after I had hooked up with four girls. Yes, all four were on the dance floor (/Cloister patio), but that still counts, right?

Back when I was straight, I would have killed for this. There was a beautiful blonde sophomore way out of my league … and three others I can’t really remember. One girl in a beer-stained shirt shut me down, but she qualified her rejection by saying, “We’ll hook up soon—I have a boyfriend, but you’re really hot.” She and I are now good friends—at least I gained her friendship out my week of vapid sexual pursuits.

I’ve decided my unexpected success with women can be attributed to the fact that I was apathetic towards the outcome of my pursuits. My ultimate goal: boys, boys, boys. My brief pursuit of women was a product of boredom, horniness, and a desire for good stories to tell. By divorcing myself from any emotional attachment to my pursuits, I was able to brazenly flirt, grind, and smooch the night away. Many rejections, but drunken dance floor pursuits of women when you’re gay are a lot like baseball—if you’re batting .400, you’re in the hall of fame.

Since those crazy days I’ve settled down a bit. My era of heterosexual exploration has all but ended. While I’ve had a few moments when I wanted to return to the forbidden (or only biblically permitted) fruit called ladies—the boys can be cray—I’m happy to be home and sipping white wine under the rainbow flag.