People believe that being gay gives you a sixth sense for detecting other gays, the "gaydar." Even more, people believe that dominants have a submissive vision that allows us to detect submissives, and the same goes for dominants. What nonsense. But not as big as the nonsense that if you’re dominant enough, everyone will eventually fall for you. What nonsense. What you end up facing is a harassment complaint, or just harassment. And then, my career, meticulously planned down to the last millimeter, goes to hell.

There are many ways to know if someone is gay, and I had opted for the most pathetic one possible: stalking Alex's social media at three in the morning while downing my third gin and tonic. His Facebook was as aseptic as a politician's campaign resume. His Instagram: cats. Not a damn clue.

I paused on a photo where he was smiling while holding a kitten. For a moment, I imagined hugging him like that, protecting him while whispering that everything was going to be alright... Damn, the gin was turning me into a real softy. I closed Instagram with a slap.

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The next morning, with a hangover that was splitting my head, I decided to be more direct. I found him in the coffee room, wearing those jeans that fit him way too well for my mental health. I positioned myself strategically between him and the door, as I always did when I wanted to control a situation.

"How was your weekend?" I asked, subtly invading his personal space until his back was nearly against the wall.

"Quiet, sir," he responded, and I noticed how he unconsciously made himself smaller, adopting that stance that drove me crazy. His shirt tightened slightly over his chest as he held his breath. "I went to the movies."

"With your girlfriend?" The words came out before I could stop them.

"I don't have a girlfriend," he replied, and the flush that covered his neck made me want to bite him right then and there. But what was interesting wasn't the flush—it was how his eyes darted quickly to my mouth before dropping to the floor.

"Boyfriend?"

Alex nearly spilled his coffee. His fingers trembled around the cup as he murmured an barely audible "not that either." His voice came out so soft, so submissive, that I had to clench my fists to keep from grabbing him by the chin and forcing him to look me in the eyes. But I noticed something more: the way he held his breath at the word "boyfriend," infinitely more than he had with "girlfriend," as if the question had affected him more than he wanted to show.

I found myself leaning closer until I could feel the heat radiating from his body. His hands trembled slightly as he tried to keep the coffee steady. The space between us had shrunk so much that I could smell the sweet aroma of his shampoo—what straight guy uses cherry shampoo, anyway?

"I wouldn't mind if it was a boyfriend instead of a girlfriend." My voice ...