Like my car running out of gas in the street in front of a gas station, Iv once again found myself in a lucky twist of fate or the cruelest joke ever, I’m boning The Dude Next Door. As a friend and former colleague of mine, I tried keeping myself away from what would be another regrettable decision. But what’s one more bad decision in a sea of thousands? One night I accidentally tripped, stumbled, double back flipped, salchowed, and fell into my neighbor’s bed. Somehow all my clothes came off in the process and that was that.
Now the most obvious perk of this arrangement is the convenience factor. Whether you’re into some ATM (azz 2 mouth), DTA (down to analingus), or a good old dead fish missionary style bone, convenient sex is like a low grade bottom shelf margarita from the rustic Mexican
voodoo rape den restaurant down the street from me, even when it’s bad, it’s good.
Geographically, my walk of shame has been reduced to a few meager pavement squares. Which is fucking great, A. because after living in white suburbia for most of my existence on this planet, my neighborhood is downright scary. Not only do people not even have driveways with Volvos in them, but the drug dealers aren’t even rich college kids with too much money and too little to do. Today I risked my precious life chasing a dog that was in the street to save it from getting caught by China Wok and turned into Beef and Broccoli. An extra block’s walk in this town could lead me straight into the clutches of someone asking for money, or worse, my iPhone B. After a long night of chugging vodka waters (vodka sodas are for fatties. ew.), looking like a cross between the Crypt Keeper and a pile of dead weave carcasses is bound to happen. Basically, a dime minus nine. Instead of letting him see me as a hot mess with a face not even a mother could love, it’s SO easy to sneak home for a predawn makeup
touch up Extreme Makeover then stealthily crawl back into bed.
Not having to play the Not Caring Game is an added bonus. When you live next door to someone, there’s really no fucking point. Carrying on the charade that your life is busy and jam packed with activities and social events is virtually impossible. I.e. when your special friend runs into your roommate and she blows your cover that you’re out with friends. Instead she tells him the cold hard truth that you’re at home. Watching Lifetime movies. Eating Cheetos. In your bath robe. With your retainer in. Luckily this works both ways because avoiding me becomes harder to do than stopping the demise of the modern day Titanic, aka BBM.
Now not playing the Not Caring Game does not mean a certain amount of undetected spying goes unwarranted. Like most things, the intricacies of giving someone enough space who lives a baby’s breath away elude me. Finding out what girls I heard coming over last night at 2am becomes an intricate game of 21 questions with more skill than the Behavior Analysis Unit in Criminal Minds.
Of course, I’m stuck with the unsettling paranoia that there is no escape from each other. When things go inevitably sour, unfortunately all I can do is make an 11:11 wish and hope he’ll spontaneously combust and go away forever. That once prime piece of real estate for weeknight anger bangs has suddenly become a 5 bedroom concrete reminder of my inability to convince someone I’m more than just a stone cold weirdo. Luckily, my deck is within perfect range for throwing shit off of it. Lady Karma is a vengeful mistress and she will be dishing out payback in the form of month old tofu splattered all over a certain doorstep.
In the event that something embarrassing happens like you wet the bed, have a cavernous genny cave, or accidentally got your nuva ring sucked out, be prepared for these things to be aired in the open to his roommates, friends, and fellow neighbs. Especially if you’re telling your friends he has a small peen in hopes they wont try and cross pollinate the same flower. In short, enjoy your fleeting glimpses of happiness now before shit gets real weird. Brush up on your Not Caring Game sparknotes when you have a moment from pretending you’re busy or BYOB dinners. Look forward to things like the release of Hunger Games, Day Glow, getting your period and celebrating another month you made it without getting knocked up, and of course, the Holy Grail of all debauchery in the month of March thanks to my people getting invaded by snakes or some shit and for being alchies; St Patties day.