Excerpt from Ways and Means by Daniel Lefferts, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

In the background he could hear the faraway roar of a motorcycle, which in its audibility and singularity betokened an otherwise soundless Binghamton evening. On Carey Street the sky would be almost dark, the first stars materializing, lamps going on across the way.

"Are you having fun?" Maura asked, by way of goodbye.

"I'm having fun," Alistair said, and then they hung up.

Admittedly Alistair was having some fun. He might have been a machine but he wasn't a monk. He rewarded himself for his studiousness by treating himself to New York City. He went out to dinner with the kids from Mumbai and, occasionally, so as to avoid becoming a complete social isolate, went barhopping with his fellow Sternies. But for the most part he spent his living-loan money on solo lunches, better clothes (he was relieved to find that the de rigueur uniform at Stern—Patagonia, Barbour, Charles Tyrwhitt—was more familiar to him from his time at St. Francis than the haute grunge worn by other NYU students), and gay bars. He selected the bar based on his mood.

If he wanted to find a guy with whom he could make minimal conversation he went to Phoenix or Barracuda or G Lounge. If he wanted to get wasted and have sex with whomever he went to Boxers or Industry or, with some nostalgia, the Rail.

He spent sweaty hours in Columbia dorms, New School dorms, and Hunter dorms. When he had no inclination to leave his own dorm, or when he returned from his excursions empty-handed, he went on Grindr. There were so many gay kids living in Third North that his app couldn't pick up anyone outside its walls. By night he dispensed with his condescension toward performing arts kids. There was no doubting the acrobatic talents of actors and dancers, no doubting the flatness of their abdomens or the firmness of their behinds. They also amazed him by their adventurousness. They rode him cowboy and then, without dislodging his dick, swiveled around and rode him reverse. They put their heads on the floor and their asses in the air and told him to go at them à la "dipstick." They told him he wasn't going hard enough. They told him he wasn't going fast enough. They took his come in their mouths and spit it onto his chest. Alistair was more of an away-game player, but every so often he had to kick Vidi out and use the home field. When Vidi would return, after biding his time in the basement common area, he'd say, "I don't know what it smells like in here, but I know I don't like it."

Because Alistair spent the bulk of his time either studying or chasing boys it was only natural that he should occasionally conflate the two, that his daytime exertions should become mixed up in his head with his nighttime ones. He once read the abbreviation for the London Interbank Bid Rate not as LIBID but as LIBIDO. The term "fat tail" called to mind his favored variety of tush. He defended his preference for one-night stands as a way of limiting his exposure to emotional risk. It was like the sexual equivalent of investing in T-Bills. In truth, though, he felt his twin preoccupations to be of a piece. Both were sources of recurrent victories. An A in Financial Accounting was the bedding of a Columbia rower was a long note of praise on his final project for Executive Management was a three-way with two Northwestern kids on spring break. He was a top dog in the classroom and a top dog in the bedroom. He felt there was no test he couldn't ace, no professor he couldn't impress, no job he couldn't effortlessly land, and he felt there was no boy he couldn't charm, no coital maneuver he couldn't master, no gay bar he couldn't for the duration of his visit be the star of.

When he returned home after his freshman year he declined to ask Target for summer work. His successes, he believed, were such that ringing up bath towels was now beneath him. He spent his days sitting in a plastic Adirondack chair in the backyard getting a head start on the next semester's reading. On weekends Maura joined him and made her way, for the second time, through the early novels of Henry James. Occasionally she'd peer over the top of The Portrait of a Lady and smirk at whatever textbook he'd buried his face in.

Excerpted from Ways and Means by Daniel Lefferts. Copyright © 2024 by Daniel Lefferts. Excerpted by permission of The Overlook Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.