Starting college was supposed to be a fresh start, a way of forgetting high school and what being hot and gay came with it. Spoiler: it wasn’t.

See, everyone tells you, “Oh, college is where you reinvent yourself, babe. New city, new people, new chances to be whoever you want.” And maybe that works if you’re the type who can magically decide you’re into crochet or suddenly start calling yourself Sebastian because it “sounds more academic.” But me? Nah. I showed up to campus the exact same messy, sarcastic, horny bastard I’d been at seventeen — only now with the added pressure of pretending like I wasn’t traumatised by four years of high school thirst traps and questionable decisions.

Because being hot and gay sounds brilliant in theory. Trust me, I’ve read the Twitter threads. “Slay, king,” and all that. But in reality? It’s constant admin. The stares, the rumours, the expectation that just because you’re the designated hot queer you’re basically a community service shag for every confused straight lad with a jawline and a cheap six-pack of lager. High school had been one long conveyor belt of “I swear I’m not gay but can I come over after footie practice?” Like, sorry lads, I’m not Tesco Express — open 24/7 for your sexual awakening.

So yeah, I was banking on college being different. A reset. A chance to actually date someone instead of auditioning to be some bloke’s dirty little secret. But within the first week? Nope. Back in the same cycle. First party I went to, some rugby twink in a backwards cap cornered me in the kitchen, whispered “Don’t tell anyone,” and tried to snog me next to the hummus platter. Christ above, déjà fucking vu.

And the worst part? I let him. Because apparently, my dumb arse hadn’t learned a single thing.

And then, Monday came again and my biology teacher (because yes, I was a masochist studying biology) was a new one, younger, the kind of young where you’re like, surely this lad was in uni with us two years ago and just didn’t leave? He had that whole “academic heartthrob” look — scruffy brown hair, rolled-up sleeves like he was auditioning for Professor But Make It Pornhub, and this annoyingly confident smirk every time he spoke, like he knew half the class was daydreaming about him saying “mitosis” in their ear.

And Jesus Christ, did my gay little brain short-circuit. Because nothing — nothing — is worse than an authority figure who looks like they belong on the cover of Men’s Health. That’s just cruel. I came here to learn about cells and ecosystems, not to wrestle with whether or not I’d risk expulsion for a morally questionable lab partner fantasy.

The kicker? He knew. Not just about me, but about himself. You could tell. He had that aura of a man very aware he was fit, the kind who casually leans on the desk while explaining photosynthesis like he’s shooting an ad for cologne called “Chlorophyll.” Half the class was drooling, the other half pretending not to.

And me? I was sat there, doodling dicks in the margin of my notebook, thinking, brilliant — week one of college and I’m already halfway to a teacher-student scandal.

Because here’s the thing: high school had been me constantly fending off sweaty lads who wanted to kiss me behind the bleachers. College, apparently, was going to be me battling God’s cruel sense of humour