Kavinsky smiled a little bit. It was a vague, wishful thing. As much as he and Peter joked about they didn't know straight people, what Kavinsky was finding more and more was that he didn't know gay people, either. A small, single-handed count, a knot of people that Kavinsky could hardly speak to, because none of them had gone through things he had, or he didn't trust, or didn't like him enough for him to be open hearted.

What a curious thing. He'd always been terrified of being out, of what it would mean. Now he lived in a place where it seemed like it was more rare to be straight than queer of some variety, but he still felt like an outlier, because he couldn't get it up for women.