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Coastal Connecticut was unseasonably warm last May as my Metro-North train rattled past the familiar landscape of my youth. Church steeples, colonial white houses, and country club greens whizzed by in a nostalgic blur as I looked around for a window to unseal. It wasn’t the weather that was getting to me, though. I was on my way to have sex with a miss for the first time since the Clinton administration.

Gazing out the window, I thought back to that long-ago experience. I had been 17, a virgin and determined not to be. I gave it my best go with a female classmate, even employing the hot tip I’d received from a more knowledgeable friend—something about forming the letters of the alphabet with my tongue. The whole thing was decidedly not for me, and I never did it again.

The next year, I fell in devotion with a fellow tenor in my all-male a cappella group at Yale, easily the gayest thing I’d done to date. In the decades since, I’ve come out to my mother, marched against California’s draconian Proposition 8, and begun moisturizing daily—confidently identifying as a gay dude.