Adventures With My Roommate: MySpace Man, Part III
Ah, young love. So intense. So passionate. So tender.
A mere two weeks after semi-formal weekend, the Christian Sorority was back at it, throwing a honest-to-goodness formal. The theme was “A Night At the Oscars”; prom dresses and tuxes were the necessary attire.
Naturally, Will was coming back for the occasion.
A week prior to his arrival, my roommate sat me down for A Conversation.
“Detgen, you know that Will is coming this weekend.”
“And you know that last time, he slept here.”
God. Did I know.
“And last time, I had him sleep on the floor.”
In a manner of speaking. More specifically: if you call sandwiched between you and the wall the floor.
She took a deep breath. “I just wanted to know that—well, I’m bein’ silly, this won’t bother you, you don’t mind things like this—but I wanted you to know that this weekend, Will is goin’ to sleep in the bed.” Pause. “With me.”
“Of course it won’t bother me,” I agreed solemnly. Immoral beyond words, I am.
“But don’t tell my mama,”
Because I talk to her so often. “Of course not.”
And that was that.
The following Wednesday, I was informed that Will was not only coming for the weekend—he was coming for a four-day weekend. He would be arriving Thursday evening (driving himself, this time—he had been given limited driving privileges). The issue was that there would be no one to receive him on Thursday evening. My roommate was going to be attending a “mocktail” (only Satan has cocktails) party.
So, naturally, she asked me for a favor.
“Detgen,” she began, swiveling her chair towards me, “I’m going to need you to let Will in on Thursday night.”
I looked up, slightly confused. “Thursday?”
“Mmhm. He’s coming Thursday; he leaves Sunday.”
I managed to suppress the urge to point out that she had been being pretty liberal with the definition of “weekend” in our earlier conversations.
So this was the moment of truth. Lie and say that I was busy, or agree to let lover boy into the dorm.
I started to open my mouth to say that I’d let him in—but then I remembered that I did have a Thursday night engagement.
“I’m sorry,” I said, plastering on a face of Sincere Remorse. “I’m going to a drag show.”
She was speechless. Her jaw dropped; I smirked.
Luckily, she had other people—sorority sisters—to exploit. She roped Sorority Sister Stephanie into taking care of things. (Just for the record: Stephanie is roughly 6’3”, 160 pounds; she could beat me up, easy. In favorable company I call her ‘The Amazon.’)
So I didn’t have to cope with the guilt.
Unfortunately, I did have to cope with sleeping in a room for four nights with a girl and boy who are significantly less moral in practice than they are in theory; by one a.m., a ridiculous hour on a Thursday night even by my standards (particularly when I have eight a.m. classes), I was ready to tell them that if they did not disengage, I would do it for them. Thankfully, things came to an end right before I had to actually summon up the energy to issue my ultimatum.
Of course, that wasn’t the end of it. On Friday night I had to go grab a forgotten book from my room. I had been told that they were going to a concert that night, and would not be back until late; seeing as how it was only about ten o’clock, I figured I was safe. Just be sure, I made a great—noisy—show of unlocking the door, hoping that if they were doing anything, they would have time to spring apart and cover themselves.
Instead, two things happened: 1) they clung to each other like drowning lovers, and b) I discovered that Will has pierced nipples.
Elyse, the friend who had accompanied me on this ill-fated venture, took one look at the scenario—I had (stupidly) turned the lights on and the two of them were bathed in a fluorescent glow—and said in a dull, shocked voice: “I’ll wait outside.”
I scrambled furiously for various items, mumbled something about spending the night in aforementioned friend’s room, and left in a breathless hurry. As we were walking back down the hall, Elyse and I heard the click of the lock.
Once we were outside, we regained the ability to speak.
“You think she sucks on those rings?” she asked in an amused tone.
I stopped in my tracks and glared. “Do. Not. Speak. Of. Such. Things.”
Elyse chuckled and I rubbed my eyes, trying to force the image out of my vision.
“You don’t have to live with her,” I spat. Elyse had the decency to look slightly less amused.
The next day—a particularly sunny Saturday—found me back at my room at roughly two o’clock. I rationalized: two p.m. does not invite foreplay. I knocked on the door—loudly, with force—and waited for a voice. When I got nothing, I figured that it was perfectly fine to assume that the room was empty.
I opened the door—again, with a great show of unlocking
And was lucky enough to see Friday Night: Part Deux.
I couldn’t take it anymore. This was too much. I backed out of the room, slammed the door, and stood—threw myself—against the wall across from my doorway, looking around frantically.
I could hear them both calling to me: “Detgen, it’s okay,” chirped Roommate; and then, Will: “C’mon, Dutchin. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”
(And yet, it’s something that I never wanted to see again.)
I didn’t move. Will opened the door in a pair of boxers. “It’s okay, really,” he said, talking to me as if I were a nervous child. “We’re decent.”
(More in some ways than in others.)
I took a breath and walked inside, gathered up my things in a matter of minutes, and left without saying a word. I spent roughly six hours in the library that day. Upon my return, the two of them were again sitting awkwardly in her chair: her girth spreading on his lap, his arms failing to actually reach all the way around her.
I shot them a look that I hope conveyed a quarter of the rage that I was actually feeling, deposited my books, and left for dinner.
Will attempted to repair the damage later, on Sunday.
“Hey, I gotta question fer you. I dunno if you can answer it or not.” A pause, to let his challenge settle. “Okay, here goes. When a man, uh, becomes a woman—you know what I mean?”
“Uh huh.” (I admit to being a bit curious as to where this was going.)
“Okay. So, when that happens—can he—or she, whatever—have a baby?”
“No, Will. No.”
“Think about it.”
He screwed his face up; it looked rather painful. There was a moment of concentrated silence. “I don’ git it.”
He didn’t pursue the subject.
And then, later:
“So, d’you have a boyfriend?”
“D’you have an almost-boyfriend?”
I shot him a looked that—I hoped—would cause flowers to wither and die and replied, in my most venomous tones, “No. I do however, have a paper to write.”
We didn’t speak again. Monday morning he was gone by six o’clock. He had a construction job.
Next year I will be living—blissfully—alone, far away from my roommate and her idiot boyfriend. She’s actually gone already; her exams finished some time before mine.
Our parting words, spoken as we stood some feet apart, were sufficiently poignant:
“Well, Detgen have a good ”
“Yeah. It’s been interesting, Shelley. Have a nice life.”
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