Why it’s sometimes a good idea to bang your roommate

Everyone told me it’d be a bad idea to sleep with my roommate, so I slept with my roommate. I mean, come on, it’s New York and who can afford a place on their own? And when I’m living in such close proximity to the tall, and most-darkest-of-handsome body of the opposite sex, I’d be crazy to turn it down. Honestly, I think I deserve a bit of credit considering I lived a whole year wondering what was underneath that blue towel he’d so perfectly position right below that last muscle of his six-pack and right above his one-eyed dragon I’d been on a quest to slay.

“Hey,” he’d say, as he glided by suavely from the shower and into his room. My eyes always followed that last droplet of water easing its way down his chest in a straight path of sex and seduction as if it knew just what to do.

“Hey,” I’d reply. The tension was high.

I didn’t plan for it to happen. I was just a young and lonely divorcee who moved from Pennsylvania to the Big Apple for a little bit of fun. I answered a Craigslist ad and signed a check to move into a Bushwick loft with three complete strangers. But then one moved out and the other spent all of his time at his girlfriend’s place right up the street. So our four-bedroom apartment turned into a lust loft basically overnight, just me and this mysterious New York City DJ who had me full of hope he’d be turning me over on our table soon. It was like we were meant to happen, and who am I to stop fate?

It all went down on a Sunday, our movie night. I showered up fresh and put on a dress to go into the next room.

“Hey,” I breathed, that one loaded word that danced off my tongue and into the air with a suggestiveness I’d hoped he picked up on.

“Hey.” He sent it right back and it was then that I knew this was my night. So much can be said in one small word and he always said it best when he said nothing at all.

He patted the seat on the couch next to him and suggested we sit closer than we ever have before. We sat like two high-school kids waiting for the other to make the first move. And then it happened. As the credits rolled on screen, I rolled over and nuzzled my face into the couch letting out a tired moan. I tucked my knees into my stomach so that he’d have no choice but to check out that elliptical-aided backside I’d been sculpting at a level 16 (on the hill setting nonetheless) like a warrior at the gym. My $20 membership to Planet Fitness paid off the moment he launched me out of this world.

“Is this weird?” he questioned as he wrapped his arm around me. I could feel his heart racing in anticipation of what would happen next.

I answered in the only way I knew how, by turning around and laying the juiciest of kisses on him, even making that obnoxious smooching sound as his succulent lips enveloped mine. For the next few hours we spoke to each other in a body language that communicated all those words left unspoken between our casual “heys” we would mumble to each other in passing.

But then that bastard brought another woman home not even 48 hours later. I couldn’t believe it. I had lived with him the whole year and he’d never brought a girl back to our place, except for one that he’d been dating on-and-off. I was actually surprised by his lack of promiscuity given his natural, good looks and the over abundance of ladies in the club that surrounded him when he was just trying to werk. Erm, work.

So, naturally, I plotted my revenge by devising the best murder/suicide scheme possible as I listened to the footsteps in their post-sex scurry to the shower, the two laughing all the way. He was just fake laughing though, because she wasn’t even that funny. I know because I listened in on their date. The whole thing. I should have just left, but for some reason, I couldn’t get out of my mind let alone my room. How am I to blame when he’s the one that chose to bring her back to our loft with the paper-thin walls? He’s an idiot. As I was forced to listen, I literally felt my heart doing something it had never done before. People describe heartache like it’s metaphorical, but that night I really felt the pain. Before those excruciating hours, I had never felt so replaceable.

You always think they laugh the most at your jokes and the conversation always just flows better when it’s you who’s around. That’s the first night I figured I’d been fooling myself all along when I thought of the very few men I had felt “it” with. I heard him talk dirty to her the way he did to me. I heard her moan. I heard everything.

The next day, I could feel the tension creeping through our bedroom walls and imagined the expression of regret he was wearing as he laid on his couch alone. He didn’t go to work that day and not once did I hear him laugh or sing, an occurrence so rare in our otherwise light-hearted and energetic home.

“Can we talk?” His voice finally broke our silence as he made his way into my room without waiting for a response.

I sat still and quiet waiting for him to speak while I attempted to hide any evidence of the anguish he caused me. He apologized and we talked things through. I explained that before anything else, I demand respect that, even without our sexual relationship, our friendship warranted. I wasn’t sure if he knew before then that his companionship was something I depended on while still in the hazy aftershock of divorce that I was still dealing with years later. We made a promise to each other that from then on, we’d set ground rules, expecting open communication from one another. We both agreed that while neither of us was ready for something serious, we did really care for each other. We agreed we could both can see other people so long as none of them stepped foot in our apartment. If and when the day comes where he or I choose someone else’s company over that pact, our sexual adventures will cease to exist, but we’ll remain friends, the best relationship of all.

It’s been five months post-first coitus and besides that one horrific obstacle, it’s been the best use of my down time and a really great way to let off some steam after a long day. Not to mention, when you have a roommate that looks like him, and you have full reign to touch him whenever you like, it makes those increasing rent checks a little more tolerable. Set your ground rules first, but if you find yourself living with the reincarnation of Adonis himself, there’s a really happy woman in Brooklyn urging you to get on your roommate to get off.

Follow Kari for more love advice at @KariDAway2388 

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