We’re deep in the mountains, but the tallest peak is in my buddy’s underwear. It’s the first thing I see when I wake up in our cramped tent—his morning wood, obscenely outlined. I freeze, pulse hammering, staring at the thick, hard flesh straining against the fabric. But I’m straight, and so is he. So why can’t I look away? Why do I want to wrap my lips around it? I’m starting to think this camping trip was a terrible idea.