I hope whoever coined the phrase "There's only one way to find out" died long-suffering from a debilitating disease. Is there really only one way to find out whether a friend has syphilis? No. You don't have to fuck them to find out, you can ask them, or if you're too shy, ask someone who's slept with them, you could even spy on them in the shower and see if they exhibit any symptoms.
Wondering if your mother's having an affair? You don't have to sit in the closet and wait for her and the postman to make a delivery to the dead letter office. You don't even have to set up a camera in their room. You could just ask her, or put a sleazy ad on Craigslist.org, or tell your father you heard her and his best friend jumping on the bed together while he was at work. There are always several methods to discover things. Yet, I found myself in Joey's bedroom, talking about the taste of cocks saying "There's only one way to find out."
I don't remember what his cock tasted like except that it probably tasted more or less like cock. This was after I discovered the taste of Altoids, but before I discovered when they could really be useful. So all cock tasted pretty much like cock.
There was nothing particularly interesting about sex with Joey. This is not a condemnation of him, merely a sad commentary on how much sex I had been having with assorted people that month. Were we to have met at any other month in my life, I probably would have been able to regale you with more details about what we did in he and his boyfriend's bedroom. As it was, I don't even remember what happened after we blew each other. I know at some point I must have left. Otherwise, I'd still be there now.