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I moved into a shared house, and one night, I went for a drink with one of the guys. We came back, and he put Sexcetera on. I remember thinking it was odd, but within ten minutes, we were topless, making out on the couch.
Being the sensible one, I stopped it dead and said something along the lines of, "We shouldn’t be shitting where we eat." He agreed eventually, and told me that he was going to bed but that he would be waiting for me, “should I change my mind.”
Fifteen minutes later, I realized he'd borrowed my phone charger earlier and that it was still in his room. I knocked on the door. "I knew you'd come," he said, naked on the bed, posing like a Playmate. I walked past him, grabbed my charger, and walked back out, trying not to laugh as he lay there, bedroom eyes quickly turning to puppy-dog eyes; the condom he'd already put on shriveling around his now-flaccid penis. He couldn't look at me for weeks.
My college roommate and I had fairly active sex lives in our two years living together, so we had eventually worked out a solid system that would help us not walk in on each other. Early one day, he sent me a text warning that I should probably be out of the room around eight for an hour, so I made plans to go to the bar with my friend Molly. Around midnight, we drunkenly made our way back to my room. I sent my roommate two warning texts saying that I was almost back. When we got to the door, I made sure to loudly fumble with the keys while talking boisterously, giving him one last signal that I was on my way in.
We opened the door to see my roommate, along with another guy, on their knees, giving a third guy a blowjob. We all looked at each other, and then very slowly, Molly and I turned around and booked it down the hallway. From that one-second-that-feels-like-forever moment, the other thing I distinctly remember was that Wicked was playing on our TV in the background.
I later found out that the guy getting the blowjob had never gotten one before. My roommate and the other guy got in an argument over who gave the best head, so they figured he’d be a good judge in this proposed competition. In the end, it turned out my roommate won.
I was tiptoeing down the stairs in our terrible duplex in the terrible college renters’ neighborhood because I knew my roommate Drew had a girl over to “watch a movie.” The couch they were sitting on was located under the stairs in a kind of nook, and so I didn’t see her bobbing head positioned over Drew’s crotch until it was too late. She didn’t look up; apparently she was too absorbed in her task. He did, and wordlessly, reached back through the banister for a high-five.
Living with a sibling is always a gutsy choice. I moved into my sister’s railroad apartment in Brooklyn with high expectations: uncensored conversation, a shared wardrobe, and an awesomely stocked refrigerator. It would have been the Shangri-La of accommodations had my sister not had her new boyfriend stay over every single night. From day one, I experienced no reprieve from his sweaty presence.
Exclamations of “Oh my God,” and “I’m going to come,” emerged from her French doors every evening and morning at a volume appropriate for the closed-captioning set. Wrapped in towels, hair matted down, they’d shuffle through my room mere minutes after I’d heard their performances (railroad-style, remember?), like shamed dogs tracking mud on the floor.
I was getting pretty annoyed, but I can sometimes have a crippling sense of forgiveness and understanding. This thread of understanding snapped when I asked to use my sister’s computer one day to print something out. I flipped open her laptop, only to be met with a picture of my sister’s boyfriend, in bed with her, his dick looming in the foreground. Someone (I’m hoping my sister) had Photoshopped bunny ears around his penis.
I asked my sister to meet for a serious conversation. I never told her what I saw, nor do I ever need to. After our talk, her boyfriend gave me money to pay for the cable bill that month, decreased his sleepovers to three times a week, and only dated my sister for another few months.
The worst part is, after all that visual strife, I found out why they never spent the night at his place: he was living with the woman he was still “in the middle of breaking up with.”
As the holidays approach, many of you will no doubt be meeting your S.O.'s parents and extended family for the first time. So, we'd like to mine some of your past emotional pain as you prepare for the coming months. What's your best story about "meeting the parents?" Send your best story, in 200-300 words, over to email@example.com.