John Newman, an eighteen-year-old bicurious man

“My name’s John Newman?” You mumble to yourself, feeling faintly familiar with the name. “Right… and I’m bicurious? Are you sure I wrote that down?”

The woman at the desk, tutted and rolled her eyes. “Yes, honey. John Newman, eighteen years old and bicurious. Why else would that be written down on here?”

She was right, or at least she had to be. It was still peculiar, though. Other than your name, the ‘bicurious’ part didn’t make much sense. You didn’t think you were attracted to guys, but could you be mistaken? What if the sheet was mistaken and your name wasn’t even John Newman? This place was ever-so-slightly strange, but not enough to allow you to put your finger on it, other than the amnesia.

“Sweetie, are you okay?” The woman snapped her fingers yet again, smirking. “Lost in your thoughts again? Don’t tell me, you were questioning the system. John, it’s all genuine. Anyway, now that’s out the way, is there something you needed help with?”