You had absolutely zero interest in becoming an investment banker, but your father, a principal at McKinsey, forced you to come.
“I want to work for a non-profit,” you continued.
I looked at you in silence, almost in awe, realizing how I never considered that a selfless heart should also be a must-have in a mate. Before you could notice my idolizing stare, your phone vibrated.
“Listen, my dealer’s downstairs, would you like to find a room upstairs and smoke a joint with me?” And just like that, I found myself smoking pot with a nice, down-to-earth Princeton boy whose dreams of helping the world outweighed the desire to stuff his wallet. We snuck upstairs and found an empty bedroom with a large window leading out to the fire escape. I turned on the desk lamp and took my coat off. You took off your, and we both tossed them neatly on the bed. Together, we huddled on the ledge by the open window and lit your poorly rolled joint. As I took a hit, I envisioned my future life with this trophy of a man.
“Why are you looking at me that way?” You asked, suddenly self-aware, taking the joint from my sticky fingers.
“Because you’re gorgeous,” I said. Your head dropped with grace, and I could tell you were blushing. I placed my hand on your shoulder and leaned in, eyes closed, lips perched, desiring to kiss you. But I never reached your mouth. I opened my eyes and instead saw how you had retracted away from me, your hand clutching onto my forearm, barricading me from moving in any further.
“Is there something wrong?” I asked, confused, unsure of what to do with this great sudden need to be close to you.
“I’m sorry,” you sprung up from the ledge and began to pace frantically around the empty room. “I can’t believe I’m actually doing this. It’s not at all what you think.”
“I don’t know what to think.”
I shrugged, “I’m a socialist.”
Oscar Raymundo is Queerty’s marketing and communications manager.