Naked in the City (Doug’s story)

This is part of the story from Doug’s point of view, as well as a continuation.  It is actually partially true to what really happened.  After the slight raunchiness of the first section I wanted to make just a sweet love story that can even be read standalone.

 

Dear Amy,

    I know, I’ve been too busy to keep in touch, starting up in NYC with a new job has been really hectic, but I don’t want you to think I’ve forgotten about my favorite summer camp girl.  How are things in California?  Well, I’m in love.  Amy, I need your advice and encouragement.  I know you’ll ask, so I’ll just tell you the whole story.

    Girl number one is named Melinda.  She had an apartment but needed a roommate just as I was looking for a place.  So, we moved in together.  At first, I thought she was kind of an OCD queen; she wrote a long list of rules for me, like I was from another country and never even saw a girl, but she was cute enough and the apartment was nice enough that I decided to put up with it.

    She turned out to be pretty nice.  She does have the mouth of a sailor, and you know about me and casual cursing, but she was actually able to clean that up a little for me.  Works been tough, I’ve been really just trying to hang in there until I get promoted to management, and it’s been really great to come home every night and relax.  She’s really great at relaxing and makes unbelievable meatballs.

    We managed to avoid most of the usual problems that a guy and girl have living together.  I didn’t have any problem bringing a girl home, and she had a cool boyfriend.  We did end up seeing each other naked, but I got lucky with that too.  She saw me after a hot shower, and she had an ego boosting grin later; I saw her when I was leaning on a counter in the kitchenette and she ran from the bathroom to her room with just a towel around her head, so she doesn’t even know that I saw her.  I can already hear you calling me a perv and then asking how she looked.  Well, I’m not a perv, it was an accident, and she walks around half naked most of the time anyway.  Oh, and she’s a babe.

    I broke up with my old girlfriend, Ginger; you would have hated her if you ever met her.  You know me, I took it harder than I should have, and Melinda was really there for me.  I will not go into details but she definitely knew what I like to hear and see.  I think that was as close as we came to just doing it, but I was drunk and stupid.

    Then, well, I fell in love.

    I had to go to London for two weeks to report on the branch over there.  It was the best two weeks of my life.  On my flight, I met a girl.  If I try to describe her, it’s going to sound hokey.  When I sat down next to her, I had a breathe of her perfume, and it took real effort not to sigh.  She had on an over-sized brown, Irish knit sweater, with her long, slender neck just peeking out, and her delicate hands totally hidden as they cuffed each other.  This was juxtaposed by her frayed denim shorts, exposing the most perfect legs I’ve ever seen.  Early on, she caught me looking.  Laughing, she crossed them, and whispered, “If you feel like looking at my face, you can tell me your name.”  I was avoiding looking at her face, because I didn’t want to stare.

    Her face.  Can you spare a year while I talk about her face?  A tiny nose, with five freckles, just slightly upturned.  Well-manicured eyebrows that she plucks as a meditation.  Her lashes curl and flutter, endlessly flirting with me.  Brown eyes, like sipping on hot cocoa, sweet and warm.  Her ears are so kissable, I might be obsessed; each one has a single diamond stud, and five other pierced holes, abandoned from her youth; plump, succulent lobes.  She has the slightest, little dimple on her left cheek that appears only at her biggest, most genuine smiles.  I’m prepared to spend the rest of my life earning those smiles, emanating between her soft lips, from the mouth whose words and deeds make life worth living.  Her hair is so long and thick that my hand gets lost in it as I caress her golden brown locks.  Her cheeks are like blooming pink roses, she blushes at the slightest embarrassments.

    “Hello, my name is Gabriela, and then you say,” she smiled as I tried to fight my way out of awkwardness.

    “Hi.”

    “And your name is?” I actually thought it was going well, because she was still smiling.

    “Oh, I’m Doug, are you going to London?” I ask the girl sitting next to me on a flight to London.

    Two hours later, I regained my confidence and ease.  We discovered that we were both staying at the same hotel for the same two weeks.  Half way over the Atlantic she had all my free time planned out, knowing all the best bars, clubs, and restaurants in London.  She kept touching my arm as she talked, laughing and blushing as I smiled at her every word.  I longed for every instance of turbulence as she would grab my hand, blush and apologize.  My great act of courage came five hours into the flight, when I took her hand after she pulled away.  She just smiled at me, like someone given a gift; in half a second, she gave me a peck on the lips.

    I said, “Glad I did that.”

    She said, “Silly bear,” which turned out to be my new pet name.

    Amy, I went for it, I just completely fought through any trepidation and went for it.  I’m getting ahead of myself.

    When we were descending, she put her head on my shoulder and hummed, she does it to distract herself.  After we landed, she reached over and we had our first real kiss.  We agreed to meet at the taxi stand, just in case we got separated, and share a cab to the hotel.  In the cab, that’s when I just said exactly what I wanted to happen.  I asked her if she wanted to share a room that night, and just take it by ear the next day.  She had a small smile, tapped her fingers on my shoulder, and tilted her head while she thought.  She said that it sounded like a good idea, but that she would need to rest from the plane, so I couldn’t expect any fun stuff.

    Gabriela was able to convince the front desk that our reservation was messed up, and that we were supposed to just have one room.  We ended up using her per diem, which was not receipt based, on entertainment and going to nicer restaurants while we were there, but I’m jumping again.  I chickened out and crashed on the room’s couch, while she curled up on the bed.

    We awoke at 3am, London time, and just wandered around the hotel’s garden.  We had breakfast together, and then went our separate ways to work.  That night, I couldn’t wait to see her, and, well…it was a lot of fun.  And that’s the way it went for two weeks, two incredible, passionate, sweet weeks.

    I’m not sure when it was exactly that I fell in love, maybe it was the first time I made her laugh or when she agreed to stay with me.  I realized that I was in love with her when I was working.  Normally, on these trips, I just want to get all my work done and hope that I can go home a few days early, but that was exactly what I didn’t want this time.  When I finished all my scheduled work early for a day, I didn’t want to stay and try to get further ahead, I wanted to get back to the hotel and hope that Gabriela was already there.  For the first time in my life, when I woke up next to a girl, I wanted to stay there; I wanted to keep my arms wrapped around her.

    It was two days before we would both be leaving.  We had both said that we loved each other, and she had the most delicate glow as we were walking through a village that she knew had a romantic little tea house that she was never able to go to before.  We were discussing our schedules to figure out when we would be able to see each other again in the coming months.  She lives in Chicago but was willing to make the trip to come to New York for the weekend.  That’s when I said, “Why don’t we just get married.”  She stopped in her tracks, and I immediately tried to convince her, telling her that I really loved her, and that I could get a transfer to Chicago.

    She smiled and I shut up, “Silly bear, mister lawyer man, try to be more romantic.”

    So, I got on one knee and proposed to her properly, and she said yes, and we had tea as fiancés.  My bosses are very understanding of family men, and I knew that they’d let me transfer to our Chicago branch, even if I would still have to come back to New York regularly.  I would have to give up a lot moving half way across the country, but Gabriela was worth it, even if I had to quit my job.

    Saying goodbye was really difficult, she had four more weeks of traveling to go, while I was coming back to the States.  She’s going to come here in two weeks, and we’ll plan out everything.  It’s been real tough, time zones and work have made even phone calls difficult, but nothing is changing, it’s not the kind of love that hurts, it’s the kind that lets me know we’ll be together soon.

    So, now I’m reverting back to my old self with other people, shy and timid.  I’m having real trouble telling Melinda what’s going to happen, that I’ll be moving out.  The past two weeks, I’ve planned it three times, I was going to get her drunk and relaxed, with a good movie, and just tell her, but I chickened out.  The thing is, I’m afraid that she’s going to get pissed at me for leaving after a few months and just throw me out, and I’m still going to need this apartment for a while.  So, I need one of your patented motivational speeches, a little kick to say what needs to be said.  Thanks Amy.

 

Doug

 

PS Save the date of July 14^th

How to be Naked in the City Without Being Noticed (day 103)

Day 103

    Hmm, Doug has started a new ritual that could be real trouble.  Thursday nights, I play a rough, overly serious tennis game with the girls.  I come home, take a long shower, while Doug watches TV.  When I come out, sans makeup or hairpins, wearing just an old boyfriend’s boxers and a favorite half Tee, he scoots over and pulls a pillow over for me to collapse onto it.  Then, whoever is closest to the remote switches to TMC for the weekly Marx Brothers’ movie.  Usually, he’ll make some popcorn and turn off the lights, it’s actually, unfortunately quite romantic.  I wish I could delude myself into thinking that my brain is shut down and my body is exhausted, but the awful truth is that I look forward to it the rest of the week.

    At some point, early on, I cup my shoulder and murmur a bit, it’s more of an order than a request.  His hands actually spread out to be wider than my whole back, and he can work about a quarter of my back muscles at once.  He is really ambidextrous, but he must also be ambi-fingered too, he can rub each muscle differently at the same time.

    We sit and watch the movie, while he absentmindedly brings me lovely pleasure.  Sometimes leftover wine is involved, but not enough that I get to blame that.  He steals, I give, little feels of side boob, nothing overtly sexual, but certainly not innocent.  All I do is barely lift my arms so he can rub my sides, then I don’t move forward as his hands rise up, there might be just the slightest bit of sinking on my part, but I’m relaxed, and maybe just a little fired up from tennis.  That blood is flowing, my muscles are aching, and I won’t be ashamed of getting or giving a cheap thrill.  The truth is: I’ve had male masseurs rub more than that, but that’s different, and I can’t use it as an excuse.

    The other two times, there was a boring musical interlude, I laid my head down on the pillow and he rubbed my temples.  Then, he’d do my neck, my left shoulder, arm, and hand, which is always the more sore side after tennis.  He could actually grab my tits and twizzle my nipples, and it wouldn’t feel nearly as excruciatingly, intensely intimate as him rubbing my hand.  He was far too slow, far too soft, it reminded me of being back in middle school, when some young punk was working his way up to first base.

    That was my torture the last two weeks.  This time, the Marx Brothers betrayed me with a lack of love songs.  When he greeted me as I came home, I had mentioned that the match was especially brutal.  I chose to wear a long wife beater and my lounging panties (pink, pretty, comfortable, more material than a bikini bottom, a bit indecent without the T-shirt covering it).  Half way through the movie, two wine glasses in, back completely rubbed, he asked me if anything was hurting especially bad.  As nonchalantly as a deer walks in front of a truck, I told him my legs were burning.  He grabbed some sports muscle lotion, and I swung around my legs, putting my calves on his lap, lying back on the couch, my head turned to the TV so I wasn’t looking at him.  He took a pillow and put it in between my legs and his lap.  I laughed, and asked if he was afraid I’d feel “Little Doogie.”

    “Shut up and watch the movie, I’m trying to make you comfortable.”

    I just laid there, quietly smiling and laughing, blaming the Brothers, as he rubbed my calves and my thighs.  He started at my right ankle, working his way up my legs, rubbing all around them.  My ability to pretend that he couldn’t see all the way above my panties from when I slid around was destroyed when he reached my hip, gave my navel a little tickle, and continued to my left hip.  Dammit, I was probably showing him a cameltoe, and he probably had a boner under that pillow.

    He didn’t really rub my feet, just my heels.  I had a fleeting hope that the movie would end with a solid conclusion, but it ended with the same anarchy and confusion that was happening to my stupid willpower.

    “Thanks Doug, thanks miracle hands.  You’re the best.”

    “No problem, Mel, same time next week?”

    “Absolutely.”

    The reason my willpower is “stupid” is that sometimes I wish I could just give up, grab some delight, and get on with my life.  Doug will occasionally rub my shoulders, but our little, old married couple, ritual is what I look forward to the rest of the week.  I can only hope that the same cauldron of desire is boiling over in his mind also.  If it isn’t, then I’m just a lonely girl with a crush.  On the other hand, if he isn’t into me, after he just spent ten minutes rubbing my thighs, he’s gay and I’m repugnant.

    I have to get a new boyfriend, and I have to set Doug up with one of my slutty/desperate friends that stare at his butt when he’s in his jogging shorts.  Perhaps, I can get him and Diane drunk, and hook them up, just for a night.  As for me, I’m sure something will come up, and I won’t have to fantasize about Doug anymore, maybe, someday.  In the mean time, we’ll have our mutual fantasies, and our own hands and toys to go that extra distance that we can’t go together.

    Now, I have a question to ponder.  Phone sex is two people, a thousand miles away, making love with words through a silly phone, and that’s called sex.  So, what if the two people aren’t talking while they do it, but they’re thinking about each other, with just a single wall between them, is that sex?

How to be Naked in the City Without Being Noticed (day 82)

Day 82  The Day the Earth Stood Still

 

    Well, it finally happened.  I saw “Little Doogie.”  I supposed it was inevitable, living with a guy in such a small space, I would eventually see him naked.  It was late, I had to pee, and we usually keep the light in the bathroom lit, so I just walked through the open door.  And there it was, hanging there.  I was shocked, but I looked longer than I should, then I gagged on my own tongue, he turned to see me, and I backed out.

    I still really had to pee, so I had to wait for him to finish up.  A minute later, he came out, and started apologizing for leaving the door open.  I just had to laugh, I thought I would have to apologize for walking in on him.  I told him it was “okay,” and went to do my thing.

    Naked men are gross, but he wasn’t too bad.  Now, I’m just worried that he’ll inevitably see me naked.

How to be Naked in the City Without Being Noticed (day 77)

Day 77  The Prodigal Dude Returns

 

    He’s back!  He brought me another bottle of sake, which, I have to admit, is pretty darn funny, since he went to Tokyo last time, and London this time.  In what has become our tradition, we went out for a little bite and a quick drink.

    I did something silly.  These creeps were staring at me when I walked up to the counter.  When I sat back down, I mentioned to Doug that the place was getting a bit sketchy.  He agreed, and we were getting up to leave when a couple of the creeps looked like they were coming over.  I grabbed Doug’s hand and held it close, near my bosom as we walked out.  I let go as soon as we left, and he made fun of me, because the guys must had assumed we were together anyway, since we were drinking together.

    I definitely would have done the same thing with any of my guy friends, but it was stupid with Doug.  I guess it just felt too intimate.  He just keeps smiling, it’s so sweet.

How to be Naked in the City Without Being Noticed (day 75)

Day 75  I’ve grown accustomed to his face

 

    Another two weeks away.  Pete has stayed over quite a few times, so my loneliness and anxieties were abated, but I’m beginning to think that relationship has degraded to little more than booty calls.  Possible, previously unforeseen problem: Pete and Doug get along great; they’ve had quite a few dude dates with Pete’s Mets season passes.  So, are they going to remain friends, after we break up?  Doug is such a friendly guy, now I’m afraid all of my boyfriends are going to become his friends, and he’ll have a little collection of men that I’ve screwed, screwed over, and have been screwed over by.

    I miss him.  He’s my friend, that I see everyday.  He’s my old man, who’s there in the morning to steam up the bathroom before I use it, and who’s there at night, to say “goodnight” before I go to sleep.  He’s my eye candy, coming home after running, all sweaty in a tight t-shirt and shorts.  He’s my personal masseur, cook, and plumber.  He’s my helpless little boy, whose tie is always tied over his collar.  He’s the guy who’s always there.

How to be Naked in the City Without Being Noticed (day 56)

Day 56  Breaking Up is Hard to Do

 

    Doug broke up with his girl.  Like I have said before, I’m not really into that whole ‘talking about stuff’ thing.  So, I listened, as well as I can.  This is really a deficit on my part, and I’ve always known it to be one.  I get annoyed when people bring me their problems, and I’m just starting to realize that it’s more of an annoyance with myself for not knowing what to say.  But I promised that this memoir was going to be about me and Doug, not my own mental issues.

    The bad part of that part of the evening was that I had to tell him all the good things about him and all the reasons why he’s going to attract another woman.  I.E. “Gee, Doug, any girl would want to do you, and make babies with you, just not me.”

    Seriously, it was actually a nightmare for me.  He caught his girlfriend shagging one of her coworkers, and when he confronted her, she said some really cruel things to him.  So, I had to boost his ego in multiple, personal areas; from his job not being degrading and a dead end, to his clothing not being dated, to his intelligence being more than just knowing big words.  I rubbed his big, muscular shoulders, and told him how he is such a great guy.  I was doing a terrible job.  And my nightmare was just beginning.

    In the end, I did the only sensible thing, I took him to a strip club and bought him a lap dance.  I actually get a bit of a thrill from going to a club like that, on the few occasions that I have gone to one.  It’s so amazing, how all these women expose themselves, bump and grind, seduce a hundred men a night, and are able to make each one feel attractive and special.  And all these men, just sitting there, allowing themselves to fall into a fantasy world, or the other men, trying to look macho, in their own fantasy world, for their friends and business clients.  And the bouncers, who have to keep guard over the fantasy.  I could sit and watch them all day, writing my book.  It would make a great sitcom.  But I digress, and avoid.

    The girl grabbed my hand and pulled me as she guided Doug into one of the back rooms.  I would have been perfectly happy to stay on the main floor, and just watch the menagerie of humanity.  I was more than a little uncomfortable watching Doug get huge naked fake boobs and an incredibly taut butt rubbed in his face, but I called back to my college acting classes, and put on a smile.  Christie, the stripper, felt the need to tell me when “Little Doogie,” (her name for it) was getting excited, and all I said was, “Great!”

    The next part of the night is one that my intelligent bit regrets, while my dumbass bit thinks it was a good life experience.  Basically, as Doug’s five minutes was up, she reached over to me, and I let her pull me in and give me a total porn star kiss, tongues wagging like dogs licking at a fire hydrant, like all guys think is hot.  It was totally awkward, and felt like a big nothing, but he just stared with his big, stupid mouth open.

    So, I brought him to the club to let some professional women do my work, that I’m supposed to be able to do as a friend.  They were supposed to make him feel attractive, and give him some eye candy to get him off later.  Instead, because God thinks it’s funny to see me squirm, I put on a show for him with a gay-for-pay stripper.  Now, I can be sure that he’s on the other side of this wall, abusing himself while he thinks about me and another woman.  Disgusting pig.

    That’s a bit too harsh.  I brought this on myself.  No, he is a disgusting pig, but I’m the one that put the food in his trough.

    One other thing sucks major league donkey balls.  We each had a few drinks before we went to the club, and we each had a couple of strong ones when we were there; apparently some clever manager figured out that drunk customers spend more money.  We were quite drunk, and talking very raunchy, which was actually kind of refreshing, coming from clean mouthed Doug.  At some point, while Christie was trying to sell us on a lap dance, she said something about bringing a hot girl to a strip club was like bringing sand to the beach.  I was drunk and quiet, so I just sat back while they discussed my hotness.  No, I was loud and stupid.

    “Doug thinks my tits are small.”

    “No I don’t!”

    “Yes, you do, jerk!  You told one of your moron friends that, the other night when you thought I was sleeping.”

    “That was just Vinnie, if I told him you had great tits he’d want to be all over you.”

    So, that happened.  First of all, I spend a whole night trying to make him feel better about every little bit of himself, and, in return, all I get is a “Great tits,” remark.  Secondly, “Thank you!”  Thirdly, “Screw you, pig.”  And fourthly, I guess it’s all kind of funny, I should learn my lesson about trying to be a guy’s best friend, and move on.

How to be Naked in the City Without Being Noticed (Day 52)

Day 52   Some People just don’t Appreciate what they have in front of them

 

    Doug came home late last night.  A couple of his boys came in for a few minutes.  One of them, I assume he has a very furry uni brow that did little to cover his giant, Neanderthal’s forehead, said, “Doog, what your roommate like, she hot?”

    I suppose Doug thought I was asleep.  His reply was, “Yeah, kind of, all right rack, but a killer ass.”

    So I’m perturbed, and I’m perturbed for the reasons that I’m perturbed.  Yes, it would have been nice if he shut the conversation down, but I couldn’t expect chivalry without any known “trim” around to impress.  I actually give a damn what he thinks about me, and it really pisses me off.  I really would have expected his appraisal to be much more glowing and definitely more encompassing than just my T and A.  I realize/I hope that his inner most thoughts are deeper than what he tells his gang of morons, but it just would had been nice to be a little more defended.  And exactly what criteria was he using in his judgment of my assets, was he comparing me to the porn stars and strippers that are the only females his friends know?

    He has seen me braless, in just a T-shirt, headlights blazing from the air conditioning, many times.  Sure, they’re more peaches than grapefruits, but my twins are perky and happy fellows, and they get plenty of attention without even trying.  If he doesn’t like them so much, he shouldn’t be staring at them whenever he thinks he can get away with it; that friggin’ pig, he can probably list every bra I own from peaking every single time I bend over.

    Anyway, my tits are what the Good Lord done gave me, there’s not much I can do about them.  On the other hand, I work quite hard to have a nice butt, mainly because that little bit of annoying low self-esteem makes me think that it’s not so hot.  I’ve been a bit queasy when I’ve caught him checking it out, again thinking that it’s not quite good enough.  So, instead of being malevolent toward him for his near negative comments, I’m going to feel flattered and sexy because of his compliment.  Yes, I can be that self-deluded.

How to be Naked in the City Without Being Noticed (day 40)

Day 40  The Slacker on the Couch

 

    I had been meaning to complain that he keeps falling asleep on the couch, how he’ll plop down there as soon as he gets home, or wake up on a Sunday and move to the couch for no reason to sleep for another hour.  Sometimes, I’ll cover him with a blanket, it’s just part of my naturally mothering concern.  He’s actually kind of cute, just sleeping there, totally defenseless, I could totally murder him and he couldn’t do anything to stop me.  But, he also takes up the entire couch, so I can’t sit there or watch TV, and I have to fibreeze the couch every day.

    The reason why I can’t complain any more is that I fell asleep on it last night.  Gone with the Wind was on TV, and I fell asleep right after that slut made a dress out of curtains.  The thing is, when I woke up, I had a blanket on me, and I just think that was really sweet of him.

Naked in the City day 3

The Television Debate

    The great move has ended.  One problem has occurred, and perhaps I was a bit too yielding in my opposition.  I did not want to start off on the wrong foot by arguing about something that is not a major concern, and is much more a decorative issue.  Now, it’s possible that I have given up too easily and he will take more liberties and change the apartment to further suit his needs.

    The issue is the unannounced appearance of a very large flat screen television hanging on the wall in front of the couch.  This actually wouldn’t be a problem at all if it were a preexisting purchase that he brought with him.  I had approved the stereo system that cost more than my car, because he already owned it, and I do like good music.  No, he went out and bought it after he was almost entirely moved into my apartment.  He decided on a major change without asking me.

    Further problems follow.  My opposition to the TV now only exists in theory.  I had always thought of myself as being perfectly happy with a 13-inch screen, rabbit ears even if I didn’t need them, on a shelf, out of the way.  It’s just there for award shows and NY1; movies were watched on my lovely laptop.  The rest of my cheap entertainment comes from a well-worn library card, and a favorite chair, named Charlie, at B & N.

    I like the TV.  It’s cool.  It’s wide.  It’s clear.  It’s like I’m eating breakfast with Audrey Hepburn right in my living room.  I don’t want to give it up.

    So, now I’m stuck in a quagmire; does this dude, who isn’t supposed to be romance, or even fuck buddy, material, get me?  Not only that, does he get me in a way that’s even better than how I get me?

    The jerk just assumed I would like the TV, and he was right.  He also bought a DVD of images from the Louvre, with 1930’s expat jazz as background music.  His exact words were, “Here, I thought you might like this while you’re drinking tea.”  And I friggin’ do, I love it, it’s so relaxing, it’s like a meditation.

    Okay, what if he was a girl?  If he was a girl, I’d be okay with all of this.  I would be thinking about how great it was that she took the initiative and improved the apartment in a very generous way.  I would say, “You totally understand me, we’re going to get along so well.”

How to be Naked in the City Without Being Noticed (a fake blog in progress)

An introduction to my delusions of actual problems

 

    The dilemmas of a single woman in the city, and such.  The major dilemma I am dealing with here is the one which involves finding a new roommate, and the fact that my most potential option is a man.  First though, before writing about that, I must decide whether or not I actually want to write about that, at all.  Do I really want to write a blog?

    Well?  No, I don’t.  I don’t want to contribute another brick in the wall of self important trite that permeates the internet worst than porn.  The world does not need another blog of someone whining about their need to be loved or how mean the world is to them.  By the way, it’s not real, everything gets filtered through the writer anyway.

    So, that was my little rant against the raging wind.  Life sucks pretty often, and I tend to rant when it’ll do the least good.  Getting back to my grand life experiences, I promise this won’t be about my day to day life, I already have a diary, just about this one problem that many people go through.  It’ll be nice to know, if this all falls apart, exactly how that happened; you don’t usually get to know the very moment you made a huge mistake, and maybe it’ll make a good story:

    I needed a new roommate.  Two bedrooms, one full bath, and a cute little kitchen that I can truthfully call “cozy.”  It’s a nice little place that I enjoyed living in but couldn’t afford to live in on my own.

    The guy’s name is Doug.  He dated a friend of mine in college, and he reentered my life just as I was looking for a roommate and I was not looking for a boyfriend.  We chatted over coffee until we found out that we both had a problem and a solution.  He needs to find a place to move into in the next week.  He’s a guy though, and I’m not so sure if I can live like that.  I only have a couple of days before he needs to know what he’s doing and I’ll have to pay rent, so I’m feeling quite hurried to make up my mind.

    I suppose I’m going to end up letting him move in, but I do have concerns.  My last roommate, Tara, was not perfect.  Thinking back to her, I might actually prefer living with a man.  Let’s just say, I appreciate other people’s privacy even more than my own, and I don’t want to see used hygiene products or traces of blood in the bathroom.  But, do I really want to trade that in for the pubic hair and chronic masturbation that a man brings with him?

    He’s a nice guy; if I tell him that I don’t want sex or romance, he won’t try anything.  On the other hand, I’m not above getting horny, and I’m going to need to make a good show of willpower by not taking advantage of a willing dick right down the hall.  It’s not that I would never have a fun little interlude with a friend; I just don’t think it would work with a roommate.  You can’t live with a guy every day, and allow him the goodies only on certain occasions like you can with a fuck buddy across town.  A guy would want sex constantly, especially with no strings attached, when it’s available down the hall, while I would only crave it when the mood arises, and I don’t want to have to constantly be turning him down.  It’s not like I didn’t live in a coed dorm in college, with all the fun that came with it, but this is real life now, and I can’t just have a good time and move on without consequences any more.

    If we hook up seriously, it’ll end, possibly shortly, and then I’ll be back to needing another roommate.  Also, there would most likely be additional problems with real dates, if they find out about any privileges.

    One positive possibility: an increase in privacy.  I’m no wallflower, or shrouded prude, hell, I can be down right raunchy, but I do like my privacy.  Girls expect girls to be open and honest 24/7.  With a guy, I can just plead “chick problems” or close my door to inquiries whenever his concerns infringe upon me.  Hopefully, he’ll turn out to be very macho, keep his problems bottled up, and never want to talk to me about anything personal.

Pros:

I’ll feel safer with a guy here

Opening bottles

Killing things

Fixing stuff (he worked as a mechanic in college)

Increased privacy

Shoulder rubs

His work takes him away for long periods, quite often

I don’t have to be friends with his guy friends

Cons:

Unashamed smelliness

Naked men are disgusting

We’ll end up screwing, then breakup, and he’ll leave

I don’t want to find evidence of constant male masturbation

His guy friends will be over often, and annoying

    So, I think I can deal with all the cons.  I’m going to tell him he can start moving into the apartment.  Now, I’m going to have to work on the rules.