Saturday, July 13, 2013

The Sex Lives of Others

A neat trick I just figured out: If I move my chair closer to my bed, I can rest my feet on the bed while I hold my laptop atop my lap. A position conducive to relaxation. My iPod plugged into my radio, tuned to my Edith Piaf station on Pandora. Welcome to my Friday night.

I think I'm basically optimistic. Being uncertain about the future can be scary for some people, but I guess I find it comforting, the possibility that tomorrow will be better than today. I mean, there's a 100% certainty that I'm not going to have sex tonight, but the chance that I won't have sex tomorrow night might be more like 95%. In two days it might be 90%, and so on. The further into the future you try to predict, the less certain you can be. The less certainty, the more possibility.

When I came home tonight, I went downstairs to get the mail, as usual, and as I came back inside the apartment, my roommate was just coming out of her room to get something from the fridge, completely naked. A guy was in her room, as usual. I averted my eyes, but she wasn't alarmed in the slightest. She just laughed in feigned embarrassment and went back to her room. Who knows how drunk she was, but at least she's quiet when she has guys over (as opposed to the way she is when she has her best girlfriend over).

Now it sounds and smells like they're cooking a meal in the kitchen. It's midnight. The sound of silverware clatter and thudding drawers after a certain hour annoys the hell out of me.

And of course, other people having sex when I'm not having sex annoys the hell out of me. I've really started to dread weekends in this respect. In my imagination, this is the time when everyone I know is having sex. Friday and Saturday nights. And here I am, alone as usual, with a roommate whose sex moans I hear at least once a week if I happen to walk by her door at the right time. The other day—I think it was Saturday—I left the apartment in the morning, and I could hear her fucking as I left. Then that night, some ten hours later, I came home and the sound coming from behind her door was exactly the same as when I'd left. It was like they hadn't left the room all day, as if they'd sustained this constant rhythmic fucking the whole time I'd been out of the house.

Fuck the weekend.

Of course, when there's a good weekend, it can be very good. I finally had sex a couple weeks ago for the first time since last summer. A first date. We went to her place. I always prefer going to the other person's place. The other place is always nicer than my place. The tile in the bathroom is always more aesthetically pleasing. "Ooh, look at the tile," I think to myself every time I use the bathroom in a woman's apartment. Hotel quality tile, every time. My place? Not so much. Plus we have the cats here and their attendant bodily excretions and odors. Still, it would be nice one day to have a chance to dip into the huge sack of condoms—172, I counted—that my roommate brought home from the clinic where she works, this supply she was nice enough to offer me. For months now it's been sitting there untouched in my dresser, this bag of condoms, next to my socks and underwear. I haven't had the opportunity to use a single one.

In addition to the self-inflicted torture of imagining and envying the sex lives of others, I've also just finished reading a very sexy (and very shallow and silly) book called Tampa, about a hot 26-year-old teacher who has an affair with a 14-year-old male student. I read the whole thing in just four days because the sex kept me interested. It was entertaining, but would have been even more erotic if it had been more serious. Instead it's like a bad TV movie. (I can only imagine, however, how much I might have enjoyed it at age 14. Most likely my copy would have ended up unreadable as a result of all the pages being stuck together.)

Sigh. Okay weekend, whatever. Bring it on. Where optimism fails, porn steps in to save the day.

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