Honest Conversation Is Overrated
Actual Human Interactions Witnessed Or Overheard
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
I hate Divine. Forgetting the $1200 she owes me, the smell of the wretched food she cooks at three in the morning, and the way she blasts 'NSync and the Backstreet Boys when she thinks I'm not home (seriously, what year is this? 1998?), the real reason I don't like her is because...I don't like her. Not the way she looks, not the way she smells, not the way she acts, not the way she laughs, nothing.
Before I realized how much I despised her, we were talking about roommate boundaries. Not just the usual "don't eat my food" crap, or the "kindly don't wipe your gargantuan behind on my nice clean towels" plea, but the discussion of physical boundaries. Specifically, the door between our rooms. It's a French door. I don't mean it surrenders every time someone knocks on it, that it forces its tongue down your throat when you kiss, or that it creaks with an accent egu, I mean it's one of those doors that slides into the wall, instead of folding open and closed on hinges. It covers nearly the entire wall between my bedroom and hers. And while it closes enough to keep someone from accidentally getting a look into the other person's room, it does fuck all for preventing noise pollution. But, apart from the occasional pop music violation, it's usually not a problem.
A couple of months ago, I came back from visiting my racist grandmother at about two-thirty in the morning. I was exhaustired. I'd mowed her lawn, replaced he mailbox, walked her evil evil dog, and then gotten home just in time to miss the last T (the Boston subway) home, which meant I'd had to walk a couple of miles. When I got home, all I wanted to do was drop into a coma. So I took off my clothes, flopped on my bed, and...and I noticed the music in the background. The faint warbling of Carrie Underwood. I wondered why Jesus was at the wheel at this time of night. Then I heard a weird hiccuping of air. Imagine an asthmatic frog trying to run a marathon, and you have some idea of this fantastically odd sound coming from underneath the French Pocket door.
Of course, I had to investigate.
I threw on my bathrobe and crept toward the door. Carrie Underwood gave way to Whitney Houston. I peered through the crack between the doors, and saw my roommate shoving a gigantic dildo up her ass while jerking off to a porn DVD. MY PORN DVD. Oh, Whitney, while you are certainly correct in you're assertion that "It's not right", I beg to differ with you about your next contention. It's not okay.
I walked back over to my bed, turned my radio on (sadly, it was not playing anything that fit the situation), and called my boyfriend, loudly discussing my visit to racist grandma, and how distressed I was that my favorite porn DVD was missing. As soon as the radio clicked on, she let out a rather large hiccup, muted both the TV and her computer (from which the evil music was coming), and stopped producing any sound at all.
Now, at the time, Sora and I were doing the are we or aren't we dating, and even if we aren't how do we feel about fucking every now and then two step. We talked a lot on the phone, but rarely saw each other. This made me horny and irritable. Since my roommate owed me money, and had taken to hiding from me whenever I was home, she became the target of much of my rage. Still, if the bitch hadn't snuck into my room and stolen one of my porn DVDs (which, honestly, wasn't really my favorite), things might have gone differently.
A week after the night of hiccuping doom, I heard her talking on her cell phone. She told whoever was on the other end of the line how tired she'd been lately. How she had worked nine straight days (this was not true, she'd spent the entire previous day cowering in her room), and was really excited to have the next day off. "I'm totally sleeping in until four in the afternoon." She said.
The hell she was.
I grabbed my cell phone, walked outside, and called up Sora. "What are you doing tomorrow morning?" I asked.
"I dunno." He replied. "What are you doing tomorrow morning?"
He called me at five the next morning to let me know that he was just getting off the highway. I removed the lube and condoms from my desk. When he arrived, we spent about ten minutes loudly discussing our relationship, and how we could improve it.
"I wish you'd spank me more." He said.
I wasn't sure if he was serious, or trying to shock my roommate, who'd been making annoyed rustling sounds in her room since our discussion began.
I decided to err on the side of optimism, and yank him over my lap.
There was a loud thwap. This was followed by a "Oh, yeeeeeeeeah."
I giggled. Then I smacked his ass again. Then things got noisy. Smacks, sighs, grunts, the squishy squishy of lubricated skin in skin.
She turned her iTunes on.
We got louder.
She turned her computer volume to full blast.
We got louder.
At some point, the utter ridiculous level of our passion went from funny to really hot. No matter how loud her precious Justin Timberlake proclaimed that he was bringing sexy back, we brought it back louder and harder.
While I did register the slamming of her door, I didn't let it pause the best sex my Sora and I had had since...well, ever.
I don't know how long she was gone, or what she did while she was away. I just know that we were still going at it when I heard the front door slam shut, and a muffled "Are you fucken kidding me?" came from the hallway. Then the door shut again.
A few hours later, when we were both mostly spent, and watching Shin Chan episodes on his computer, Sora went into the kitchen to get something to drink.
When he came back in, he was wearing his evil grin that I find incredibly sexy. "Your roommate is in the kitchen." He whispered. "She doesn't look too happy."
"Why are we whispering?" I asked.
"Because I heard her say she was really looking forward to hanging out with whoever was on the other line of her phone, but she had to shower first."
I was puzzled. "So...why does that mean we have to whisper?"
"I figured now might be a good time for the two of us to take a long, hot, loud shower together."
Have I mentioned how much I love him?
So we were in the shower, finding interesting uses for the loofah, when I noticed her angrily shouting. I presumed it was into her call phone. "I know I told you I'd be there in an hour or so, but MY ASSHOLE FUCKEN ROOMMATE has been hogging the shower."
Sora laughed too, and began licking his way down my stomach. I had an idea where he was headed. I giggled to myself about how I'd turned headed into a sort of pun.
Sora wrapped his lips around my extremely happy and diligent cock. I let out a loud moan. Somewhere in the middle of my ear, I registered a sound. I couldn't place it, but I knew it carried a sort of foreboding. It was the sound of distant water running.
My body tensed as the water in the shower blasted from hot to cold. This was then followed by another unpleasant sensation: teeth. In the last place a guy wants to feel teeth.
I got louder.
And from the kitchen I heard my roommate getting the last laugh.
Mrs. Who Now?
Ok, seriously, what is it with my parents getting married without telling anyone?
I suppose, barring the death of their spouses, that this is the last time one of my parents will have the opportunity to get married (barring their embrace of Mormonism) and then casually drop that fact in conversation after the ceremony is over.
Now that I think about, I suppose my birth parents would each have the opportunity to do this to me. Let's call that another reason why I have no plans to get in touch with them.