I had a feeling my roommate situation was going to be interesting this year when the first thing she tells me after meeting me is, “I like to sleep naked.”
It all started on an innocent Sunday night in my routine of “Get up, survive, go back to bed.” I had a math test to cram into my brain for Monday afternoon, so I was in the dorm room jamming away on my calculator and re-learning weeks of notes when I heard the door open. My roommate sauntered into the room with a friend. A man-friend. A man-friend who I’ve never met before. A man-friend who I earlier heard her on the phone arguing with.
I knew she had bad taste in guys but, God damn! This guy was sprawled out on my futon (as in the futon I bought myself, but we share because that’s what roommates do) telling her he wanted the Gatorade he saw (MY Gatorade) and making fun of playfully teasing her. Nice guy, eh? I was blatantly annoyed and semi-nauseated seeing them canoodling on the futon while it was plainly obvious I had an assload of work to do.
I decided the only way I could avoid hearing them make out so I could study for my exam keep my sanity was to leave the room and let them play doctor, or whatever it was they felt like doing (probably angry make-up sex).
I spent the next two and a half hours being sexiled in the downstairs dorm lobby studying for math and pining for a sex life of my own. Key words being “two and a half hours.” That’s what athletes probably call a marathon of bone-age. But good for her, I guess; at least one of us was getting some action.
Finally, as I was nearly passing out on my notebook, I saw the guy step off the elevator. I returned to my room, peeled off my sweats and put on my sleeping sweats, and went to bed.
A week later I came back to my dorm with a man-friend of my own on a late night. Except for the difference being he is purely a FRIEND, meaning he slept on the futon and I slept in my bed. The next morning he woke up, and while putting on his shirt he noticed something on the futon.
“Uh.” He turned to me. “Did you know you have a jizz stain on the futon?”
“No way,” I replied, walking over to him.
“Oh that’s jizz alright. Trust me, I’m a guy.”
I followed his pointing finger and there it was: a dried white stain the size of a quarter right in the middle of my green futon. MINE. I was furious. I was disgusted. Really, really disgusted. I mean, the girl had her own bed. WTF?
I wanted to fist pump my roommate in the face. Unfortunately, I only used my words. But that must have worked, because I haven’t seen that asshat since. And hopefully I never will because he’s too busy skeeting on SOMEONE ELSE’S futon.