I got busy studying, my roommate got busy getting busy

Before coming to college I had been used to sharing a room. Ever since I was five, I’ve shared a room with my little brother. We got along well; I mean a room is just a place to sleep. Because of my experience sharing a room, I did not anticipate any problems sharing a room with a stranger in college. However, I quickly learned that sharing a room with a nineteen year old college freshman is a little bit different than sharing one with my thirteen year old brother. I do not mean to imply that I have not gotten along wonderfully with my roommate and floormates, there have just been some unusual occurrences that I feel compelled to share. To help explain my point, I will lead you through a chronology of what dorm life for me has been like.

One day I was at my desk working on a paper when my roommate asked me if it was okay if he listened to music while he studies. I consented and he was grateful.

“Thanks,” he told me. “I always listen to ‘Grinding’ by DJ Khaled when I study.”

What? I searched for a hint of sarcasm in his voice. None was detected. This was not upsetting or bothersome. It was just so incredibly unusual. Although I suppose I should be thanking him. DJ Khaled carried me to a good grade on my very first college paper. (Coincidentally, that’s the first time DJ Khaled, good grade, and college have all been mentioned in the same sentence.)

A few days later it was Wednesday night and on Thursday mornings I have class at 8:20. So, just as I did in high school, I go to bed by midnight Wednesday nights. However, my roommate does not have the same scheduling conflict. He asked if I would rather him stay in the room these nights so as not to disturb me coming home later on. But I insisted he go out and enjoy college. Contrary to popular belief, I am not a player hater.

So on this particular night my roommate went out and I went to bed at about 12:30. Unfortunately, my sleep did not go undisturbed. Some time later, I awoke to the sound of whispering. I assumed my roommate was on the phone with an old high school buddy, and I did not want him to feel guilty for waking me up, so I pretended to remain asleep. I was focusing myself to go fall back asleep when I was surprised by the sounds of another voice whispering in response. A female voice.

Rather than be upset by this, I was rather amused. But not wanting to be a cock block, I played along and pretended to be asleep. Over the next fifteen minutes I was sung a lullaby of incredibly unusual and graphic sounds.

The following morning produced a rather awkward few minutes when I told him I was awake for part of last night’s festivities. He was embarrassed, to say the least. However, I told him that I was not mad or angry or anything and not to worry about it. Based on his actions later that night, I think it is fair to say he really took what I told him to heart.

Later that night I stayed, again, to study for a test I had the following day. My roommate, again, offered to stay in but I told him to go out and enjoy himself. He listened. For the second time in two days, I was in bed by midnight and for the second time in two days I awoke to the sound of whispers. My roommate had brought another girl home.

This time, I grew a little upset. I was amused the first time, but the second time wasn’t as funny for me. Who did he think he was? Two nights in a row? This time I caught the tail end of the festivities and was kept awake by the hormone-fueled symphony. As I was slowly beginning to drift back asleep, I caught the end of a, given the circumstances, rather bizarre conversation.

Girl: “So…Do you like Fall Out Boy?

Roommate: “Yeah. Kinda.”

Me: “Same. I like their old stuff but not really the new stuff.”

The response that followed was an alternation of laughter and screams. The laughter was mostly mine. The screams belonged to my roommate’s and the girl.

There was a mad dash, a scramble for the door. I think I saw a butt cheek; I’m just not sure if it was the girl’s or my roommate’s. Either way, it was strangely sexy.

After the two of them had rushed out of the room I laid back in my bed, satisfied. If I wasn’t getting any, my roommate sure as hell wasn’t going to get some two nights in the row. One I could tolerate, but two? That’s showboating. That’s overkill.

No one shows me up. No one.

This column was originally published in The DePauw in October 2008.


2 Responses to “I got busy studying, my roommate got busy getting busy”

  1. 1 Will January 30, 2009 at 5:55 am

    As I read Peter’s memoir, I am reminded of my own beloved roommate. His name is Mundingus, but because that is too tedious to type, we will call him Mark.

    Mark is an exceptional fellow. Slow to anger, quick to ejaculate (as you’ll see later), he is the result of years of selective breeding and careful cultivation. He is funny, musical (girls fall to their knees when he strums his guitar), strikingly good-looking but hampered by a poor understanding of bureaucracy (case in point: when asked over the summer before freshman year which of the 12 seminar classes he wanted to take, instead of numbering them 1 to 12, as was suggested, he listed each class as his number one choice. “I couldn’t pick. I thought that making it a surprise would make it better.” He was wrong. He was put into a decrepit class called Languages of the Stage, a class that the registrar struggled to fill with late-comers and conveniently naive people. It focused on interpreting various plays and musicals, or, as he liked to say, taught him jack shit”.). He imbibes often, and this will prove to be a foundational and essential part of my stories.

    Mark has been wildly successful with the ladies. His tally eclipsed a baker’s dozen in the first semester, but apparently, the girls aren’t always enough. He has shown mild homoerotic tendencies. At Halloween, he (drunkenly) forced himself upon two of our male hallmates, kissing them passionately before being pulled off by horrified bystanders. They rebuked him quickly, swiftly and with the force of a thousand nations, but apparently, the admonition didn’t stick.

    The next week, at a cowboy-themed party, Mark was belligerent (and drunk). At this point, the details get a little fuzzy. Mark claims that when he saw the unnamed mystery man, he was intrigued, and wanted to talk to him up close. According to various third-party onlookers, rather than whisper into the mystery man’s ear, Mark whispered rather sloppily into his mouth. The mystery man’s eyes glaze over, and bloodlust fills him with rage. It is important to note the comparative size of Mark and his mystery man. Mark is about 5’11”, 160 pounds and athletic. The mystery man was about 5’9″, 200 pounds, muscular, and clearly someone who had killed before. Before he was able to swing, and probably knock Mark out, he was held back by his friends, and I, along with some of my hallmates, held Mark back, who at this point was shouting incendiary remarks along the lines of, “I would kick your ass you fucking pussy!” and, “You’re a little baby bitch!” As tumultuous as our night had been, it was only just beginning.

    Later that night, I was hanging out in my hall with a few friends as they sobered up and recounted the night’s near-fight. Mark appeared at the end of the hall, heroic and still very intoxicated under the harsh fluorescent lights. With him was a girl. He had visited both sides of the pasture, and had chosen the cows over the bulls. As he walked her to our room, my friends and I began to clap and cheer, like the mature and supportive hallmates we are. The girl blushed and stood awkwardly, slumping and leaning on the wall as Mark unlocked our room. At this point, disaster strikes. Mark is extremely messy, and during the course of an average day will pile his bed with guitars, guitar cases, his laptop, clothes, books, binders, folders and even various fruits and vegetables. This night was no exception. Luckily, we have a futon, but unluckily for Mark, it was in another room that night. Instead of clearing off his bed (or, God forbid, using mine), he shuffled down the hall, into a room (where he was met with shouts of surprise as the slumbering residents awoke), and emerged dragging our large, dark green futon down the hall. He threw the futon down inside, flopped down on top of it, and passed out for a few minutes, while the girl stood awkwardly shifting her gaze between us (still cheering) and her unconscious Romeo. Eventually he awoke, pulled her in, turned on the Beatles and proceeded to christen the futon.

    Some hours later, as I sat with some friends debating the advantages of having 15 small, grape-sized testicles as opposed to one, coconut-sized testicle, Mark appeared. His eyes were red and milky, his hair ruffled and he wore a self-satisfied smile that could only mean one thing.

    “Will. I’m going to bed.”

    It was only now that I noticed he was naked. And still very drunk.

    “Okay. I’ll be in soon.”

    With that, he turned and sprinted wildly down the hall before disappearing into our room and shutting the door. A few minutes later, I realized I didn’t have my key, and if the door was locked, I wouldn’t be able to get in. I rushed to the room, afraid he had passed out already. I tried the handle and, sure enough, it was locked.

    I pounded on the door, yelling for him to get up. After a few seconds of banging, I stopped and listened.

    “Shh…” came a whisper from inside.

    “Mark! Open the fucking door! I’m locked out!”



    I tried again.


    The door swung open, and he looked at me bleary-eyed.

    “Shut up! I’m trying to sleep!”

    He shut the door in my face before I could react. I slept in the lounge that night.

    Mark’s finale, his piece de resistance, if you will, came near the end of the first semester. Following a concert by E-40, where Mark was seen draped over a girl as he attempted to dance, he did a deed that could only be described as legendary. As I socialized with some friends in my room, I realized that Mark was nowhere to be found. It was late, and I was worried. He had been unbelievably drunk (even for him), and so I was afraid he had passed out in a ditch somewhere or had fallen into one of the many fountains that dot our campus. I tried his phone. There was no answer. I asked everyone I met if they had seen him. No one had. I slept fitfully that night, waking up every so often to look over at his cluttered, unoccupied bed.

    The next morning, imagine my joy when he appeared, as if from the heavens, carrying his shirt, belt and missing a shoe. He gathered the men of our hall, and sat down to tell a tale that would have been perfectly at home in the age of the Vikings:

    “I woke up this morning, naked, in a strange room. There was a girl, also naked, next to me. I couldn’t remember her name, so I crept out of bed and prowled around the room before I finally found it on one of her lab reports. It was Helen. Slowly, things came back to me. I remember flashes of the concert, where I apparently met her and started making out with her. We went back to her room, and started hooking up. Clothes started coming off, and she went down to give me head. She was really bad at it, and I guess her mouth was dry, so she went to the bathroom to get a drink of water.

    Now, you have to remember I’m still pretty drunk at this point. I am not interested in hooking up with this girl. I just want to go to sleep. I’m horny, and I’m still naked. I sit down on her bed, and start doing what she couldn’t. I pleasured myself. All over her sheets, and I’m pretty sure at least a little bit onto her wall. Then, I passed out in her bed before she got back from the bathroom.

    Fast-forward to this morning. Helen wakes up, and I see how ugly she is. I mean, really see. And let me tell you, it hits me hard. She is disgusting. But, now that we’re sober, we start hooking up again. She’s still bad, but very eager to please. She starts going down on me again, and pauses, again, to go get a drink of water.

    At this point, I’ve had enough. I get my boxers on, pants on and gather what I think are the remainder of my clothes before sprinting out of her room before she can get back. She’s probably just getting back now actually. Anyway, I lost a shoe.”

    But you gained a story. To recap: Mark, drunk, refuses a girl’s attempt to give him head. Instead, he masturbates while she is out of the room and finishes all over her bed and blankets. He then passes out before she returns. The next morning, he wakes up, sober. He refuses head another time, and escapes while the girl is, again, out of the room.

    We salute you, Mark.

  1. 1 Pretzel Day turns one month « Pretzel Day Trackback on February 28, 2009 at 10:54 pm

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

January 2009
    Feb »


Blog Stats

  • 86,485 trillion hits

%d bloggers like this: