About a week ago, I wrote a piece about my roommate from hell during my freshman year of college. If you haven’t read it, you should—especially for the second part of the story about my moving into the French guy’s room. The reason I bring it up is because after publishing that post, I had been reliving some of the memories from that tumultuous year, and my reminiscence brought me back to another story from that year in my life that I wanted to write about here.
To be fair, though, I should maybe clarify something. The phrase, “(noun) from hell” typically denotes something of the worst kind, and in his defense, my “roommate from hell” wasn’t THAT bad. Sure, it was hard for me, but he could have been eons worse. In the end, however, he probably doesn’t deserve that title. (Or, perhaps in a more cheeky sense, he wasn’t WORTHY of the title.)
He was still pretty bad, though.
I do want to preface that this other roommate story I want to share is one of a considerably personal nature. I know there are people close to me reading this, so you’ve been warned and if you have a problem with it from this point on, it’s your own fault. Can’t blame me, fuckers! Mwahahahaha!
Anyway, this story takes place roughly a couple of months into the fall semester of my freshman year. The first semester. The toughest semester, for countless reasons. One of the things I found most difficult to cope with and adjust to was the overall lack of privacy when you begin living with a roommate. Up until that point, I’d always had my own room—it was the first time I had to share my room with somebody else, and I’m a guy who REALLY likes his privacy and REALLY values his alone time.
And it was even harder to balance that against someone with a polar opposite personality. I can remember spending countless nights sitting in my car in a parking garage on campus, armed with a legal pad and a pen, just to be by myself for a couple hours, and not around my party-happy roommate or his party-happy friends (who would often be present in our room). It was by no means a glamourous solution, but goddamn it: I was content enough and it gave me an extra thing to vent about in my vitriolic written diatribes.
But the most darkly comedic challenge within all of this delves into something a little more on the primal side.
Guys—and I’m speaking mainly to any actual guys reading this—let’s be frank and honest here: one of the hardest things to reconcile if you live with another guy is masturbation. It’s just one of those things. You gotta do it sometimes (and I assert that if you don’t do it at all, then you’re the REAL freak). If you live by yourself, it doesn’t matter when you do it, because you’re only responsible for yourself. But if you live with a roommate, you don’t want to do it with the other guy in the room, so you have to wait until he’s gone for a while to do the deed.
And sometimes, you miscalculate.
Before you jump to conclusions, allow me to state for the record that I never had any trouble timing my deeds. My roommate had a night class once a week that lasted at least two hours. It was great. My window was wide open. He would leave for class, I’d wait a half-hour, do the deed, wash up, and then go eat dinner. I could even go bowl a couple games at the campus bowling alley and be back in the room suffering my way through a Jane Austen novel before his class was even finished.
My roommate, on the other hand, had worse luck, because I walked in on him doing the deed on a fairly frequent basis—say, at least once every fortnight. The first couple of times, it was embarrassing for the both of us (from a guy standpoint, I was essentially blue-balling him). After a while, I stopped giving a fuck. I tried to be more diplomatic. I’d approach the door and turn my key extra slowly to give him a few more seconds to cover himself before I entered the room. It rarely worked.
One time, and I’ll never forget this: I walked in on him doing the deed, and as I opened the door, he immediately pulled up a Microsoft Word document and began to type randomly in an attempt to look like he was working on an essay of some sort. To the layman’s eye, it could have been a foolproof act of subterfuge.
However, in his haste, he neglected to pull up his pants.
I decided not to bust his balls about it (pardon the pun). I figured, since he went so far as to act like he was working on schoolwork, I’d go so far as to act like I hadn’t just seen him wackin’ it. But I played out the scenario in my head, and just let my imagination run wild:
“Dude, why is it that every time you’re working on an English paper, your pants are around your ankles?”
“Uh…it’s how I get into my zone…”
I never summoned the courage to actually ask him about it. I didn’t want to know the real answer. And I didn’t want the real answer to spoil the fantasy answer I concocted in my head.
I was content enough to pretend that I lived with a guy whose dick served as his muse.
Until next time,