I grew up in a Modern Orthodox Jewish family in New Jersey, where my “sex talk,” at 13, came in the form of my mother handing me a book of anatomical comics. Inside it, she placed post-it notes to indicate her feelings. In the masturbation section: “God does not approve of this.” In the gay sex section: “Definitely not.”
When I came out at 18, I had to learn everything on my own. Last year, as a 21-year-old college student, I got my hardest lesson.
Out one night in early 2012, I met a young, attractive lawyer, and we hooked up. The next day, he called me. He was tall, intriguing, and he had his own place. Within 24 hours of our first night, he wanted to see me again? Score! I soon found myself back inside his apartment. It was warm, the throw pillows intentionally haphazard, and beers lined up perfectly by the fridge. I smiled. Handsomer than I’d remembered, he ushered me inside.
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