Episode One: My Date With My Roommate’s Girlfriend

Bad Decisions I Make When I’m H*rny, Drunk or Both

I have a problem.

My love life is like the Olympics. Every four years or so, I start dating someone. It’s usually at least fairly serious, quickly becomes exclusive, and lasts a decent bit of time.

Let’s call them the Winter Games.

But there are also Summer Games. Jesus Christ, the recurring port-a-potty of the Summer Games.

The Summer Games happen every four years but staggered with the Winter Games. I get involved with someone, and the circumstances are crazy. It’s usually super hot and over fairly quickly. But it’s always because I made a trulybad decision.

I’m a man. Bad decisions have historically been our burden and de facto the burden of the women who care about us. But my decisions usually have one thing in common. They happen because I was drunk, horny, or both.

Here’s but one of my stories of sheer stupidity…

My Date With My Roommate’s Girlfriend

I lived with three dudes my Freshman year. My roommate Nat was the only one of us with a girlfriend back home. Raj and I were just completely clueless when it came to women, and Mark and his ex had ended things amicably the summer before college.

But Nat had a girlfriend at home. Her name was Amy. And she was freaking hot.

About three months into the semester — just after Thanksgiving I think — Amy came up from Connecticut to visit. She was a high school senior with long wavy red hair, pleasant curves, and a penchant for tight black leggings.

Raj was like a 15 year-old girl meeting Paul McCartney. When Amy was in the room, he talked way too loudly and laughed at anything she said. If she asked for the remote control, he cackled like Shaquille O’Neal at an All Star Comedy Roast. I kept my distance. She hadn’t seen her boyfriend in three months. They deserved quality time.

But in retrospect, I think I read the terrain incorrectly. 18 year-old girls have a tendency to notice the one guy in the room who isn’t paying attention to them.

Over the course of the next couple of months Nat got busier and busier with campus activities, while I had no life really. That meant that often when Amy called the room, Nat was out, and I’d take a message. But after we met in person, she wouldn’t hang up right away and we’d chat. Our talks were completely innocent, albeit peppered with my lame attempts at charm.

I did have a moral compass. It all felt wrong. But I was weak when it came to women. Remember. 18 year-old dude. We do stupid things. And this was about three years before my night with the girl in the overalls, which means I was still “The World’s Lamest Virgin.”

One Spring day Nat dropped the news…

Amy was visiting again.

I felt this weird combination of anticipation, nervousness, and guilt. Why was I excited to see my roommate’s girlfriend — the stunning redhead who talked to me on the phone for ten minutes every week and laughed at all my jokes? Oh yeah, that’s why. Makes total sense now.

Mark told us that two of his high school buddies were coming the same weekend. The memory of the small intimate gathering from her previous visit went out the window. It would be six guys packed in dorm room with one pretty girl.

Things got weird fast. One of Mark’s friends was a high school senior who was nerdy even for our group — and that’s saying something. He acted like he had never seen a girl. At one point he turned to leave the room, but forgot to stop looking at her and almost hit a wall.

He’d brought a vial pure ethanol from the chemistry lab at his high school (you can’t make this up), and they were trying to figure out how to portion it without killing themselves. Meanwhile Nat, Amy, and I drank from a bottle of cheap Scotch that had sat on our mantle for months. Pretty soon everyone in the room was somewhere on the road to being smashed.

Mark and his friends decided to go to a party, but I wasn’t up to it. I’d gone through the Scotch way too fast, and the room was spinning. I curled into a ball on the futon — which was going to be my home for the night anyway because I shared a bedroom with Nat.

The guys left, Nat and Amy retired to the bedroom, and I lay in the dark with the room still spinning.

I don’t know how much time had passed, but I was roused by Nat leaving the bedroom and closing the door behind him. He padded toward the bathroom in his boxers. I heard the shower go on and then the door close, and the common room was dark and silent again.

A creaking door woke me again. It was the bedroom door not the bathroom. I craned my head, and Amy stood in the doorway. The distant street lights made her snow white skin glow a faint blue. Every inch of her skin. She was completely naked.

“I wanted to say goodnight,” she said.

I couldn’t have scripted this if I were writing an erotic novel. The shower was still going — I registered that much. Am I that guy who fools around with his roommate’s girlfriend?

Yeah. I guess I am. I stood up, slipped my hands to her waist, and slid them up her back where they disappeared under her long hair. We kissed, and she wrapped her arms around my neck. We tumbled to the futon, and she straddled my legs, kissing my neck and pulled my shirt over my head to kiss my chest. And I kissed hers. I was standing on “second base” for the first time in my life, it was with my roommate’s girlfriend, and he was 25 feet away in the shower.

I was sliding into third (yes I’m aware of the word choice) when the shower stopped. We both started as if from a car backfired. Amy jumped two long strides from the futon to the bedroom, and her door closed just as the bathroom opened. I was safely curled back into a ball on the futon, although now without my shirt and reeking of Amy’s perfume.

The next night, Amy and Nat went to dinner. Mark took the guys up to the Quad to see the upperclass houses there. We all ended up back in the room before midnight. We played video games for a while, drank some more, and then we all crashed — me on the futon and Mark’s friends on the common room floor.

An hour later the bedroom door creaked, and I expected to see Nat thread through the sleeping bodies to the bathroom. But it was Amy. She was thankfully clothed in an oversized t-shirt. Her boyfriend was sleeping off his refractory period two feet away from her, and two drunk dudes were sleeping on the floor next to the futon. Clearly teenaged drinking had deadened the risk-reward center in her brain.

She motioned to me, and I shook my head — my eyes so wide I thought my eyelids would flip over top and slide down the back of my head. She pulled at the t-shirt, and I could see the delicate strings of her underwear, her hips and her stomach, and I cursed the two dudes sleeping on the floor. I hated them with the fury of a thousand suns. Harrowing moments later, she gave up. Her head sunk, and she quietly slipped back into the bedroom.

And I slipped into my cocoon of drunk and horny shame.www.lastdon.org