“I love your house, too. You’ve got a really great style.” His eyes roamed around the kitchen, which had been renovated right before I bought the place about a year ago. There was an Italian countryside–inspired backsplash—all clean blues and whites swirling together in an intricate and repeating pattern—with a polished and eye-catching white marble countertop. The island had a leathered black top that matched the black door to the walk-in pantry, currently open and letting in the last dying sunlight of the day through an arching window.

“Thanks. I’ll give you a full tour once the book club’s over.”

“I’d like that,” he said, a slight gravel in his voice, the ember lighting into a full-blown bonfire. What the hell was going on with me? Jake was off-limits. I wasn’t a hundred percent sure on his sexuality, but the safest bet to make was that he was straight and likely just being nice to me.

Unfortunately, that didn’t mean much, considering I had the syndrome most gay men were afflicted with: Hetero-Cockholme Syndrome.

Sure, I’d made that up, but I would bet anything that it was an actual phenomenon.

It occurred whenever an even minimally attractive straight man was being nice to a thirsty gay guy, rewiring the gay guy’s brain and creating an explosion of rainbows and dick, making the gay guy think that the friendly and benign gesture (whether it was bringing an extra coffee to work because the barista accidentally made one or holding the elevator door open for you) meant that mind-blowingly great sex would immediately be had.

Somehow, someway, likely by the grace of glittery gay Jesus, I was able to pull myself out of the trance. We went back into the dining room with the wineglasses, the room full of laughter and warmth. I said hi to Jess and Tia, girlfriends whom we met at a Pride parade and became besties with ever since, and Yvette Gomez, one of my close friends from college. They gave me tight side hugs before I grabbed the moderator seat at the head of the table. This week, I’d been the one chosen to lead the discussions, which was usually a fun job since we all liked to get creative (and a little power-hungry) with the role.

Today, I had whipped up a drinking game for the group. “Okay,” I said, lowering the music so that it was just background noise. “Today’s game is Buzz Word. Each one of us has a secret word that only that person knows. Every time that word is said, you have to take a drink within five seconds. But be sneaky about it because if someone can guess your word, then you lose your chance at winning this twenty-five-dollar gift card.”