08 November 2010

Guard Dog

Having a roommate definitely has its positives and negatives. On the plus side, if you are trying to live in a semi-posh, up-scale, or any other hyphenated descriptor of a nice neighborhood and you don't have the funds to back up your lifestyle, you may want to look into getting an apartment with a roommate(s). The down side, you never have your privacy when you want it. Oh . . . that's it.

After living on my own for about three years, I thought it was more responsible to find a roommate and save up some dough to build some equity. I decided to give up my freedom to cook curry at 10pm; my desire to buzz in a hook-up without shame at 3am; and my want to be alone whilst I put on my eating dress after ordering the left side of the Chinese food menu all for the sake of saving up for my dream Chelsea townhouse with exposed brick and bondage room.

I have my fair share of stories with each of my ex-flatmates. One story was when I came home from my birthday party at a bar. I totally remember walking in hammered, but having enough time to pop open a bottle of wine and partaking in a celebratory glass with her - we shared the same birth day. The next morning, I woke up to her standing in my room doorway, staring at me asking

Bea: Do you remember what you did last night?
DeeCue: No?
Bea: You walked into my room and peed all over me. Happy birthday to me. [dramatic exit]

Although, by far, my first roommate was one to remember. He was intelligent, sociable, and a Power Gay. Power Gay, noun: A male homosexual with an extremely active lifestyle or viewed by his peers as holding a position of high social stature. Example: Just look at that body, money and social life -- what a power gay! That was him. Not to mention good-looking - dirty blonde hair and blue-eyed guy with a personality that would not quit.

He has and always will be the most financially secure person in his early 30s I know. Even today, I like to call him my financial adviser - sorry, Suze. He gave sound advice when I was trying to lay out my options for getting out of the five-figure debt I crawled into during my collegiate years. The best option he offered was moving in with him (insert Dance of Joy). More about him another post . . .

We lived in an up-and-coming neighborhood in New Jersey which is to say gentrification was in and ESL was out. Part of the appeal to living with him was that he, "the unattainable," was made attainable (at least in my mind) in the proximity-sense and my infatuation with the guy who contacted me mainly through IM chat had been terminated; he was now in the next room. The thrill of the chase was over and it was time to be a grown-up about my financial issues if I wanted to one day be crowned Power Gay of the Middle Class - of the People if you will. Only 3 months in, I was already better-off than I was having consolidated my debt and saved a little along the way which in turn helped me go out more. So, I was heading in the direction of the "power," I just had to maintain the "gay." And maintain I did.

Like I said earlier, I gave up the privacy I once had. Bringing a guy home anymore had judgment written all over it, especially if it was more than twice a week - I mean, I'd judge myself. My roommate even asked me at one point, "Hey, DeeCue? I don't mind you bringing guys home, but are you tricking?" To which replied, "I'm still in debt." Now, we joke about it today and he swears he didn't ever judge me and the times I brought someone home, but all he ever said after a Gentleman Caller left and when I tried to make polite and slightly-embarrassed conversation was "Mmmhmmm"  which translates into "I'm judging you."

After a month, it wasn't such a big deal anymore. If anything, after I walked a guy up to my room, I could only picture a Leave it to Beaver-type of knowing smile that only June Cleaver had when the Beave was at it again with his hi-jinx. Not to say I didn't try my darnedest to keep the frequency of guys coming into and out of the apartment on the hush tip. But that was a task since he also had a dog. Not an ankle-biter, a DOG.

So there was this dog . . . Tig - short for Tigger because of the blue stripes he had in his grey hair - was a 90-pound pit bull who thought he was a Chihuahua and who was endearingly called "Doodle-Butt" by his master. Don't ask; it was cute. But what wasn't cute was every time I brought someone over - normally late night - as quiet as I would try to be and as deep into REM as my roommate was, Tig would announce to the neighborhood in low, guttural barks that I was a hussy, a tramp, a whore; that I had someone coming into the apartment, up the stairs, through the apartment, and into my room. How mortifying! Without fail, even if I pleaded with Tig before anyone came over, he would sit there and wait until the doorbell rang. He was the Pavlov's dog of calling fuckers out!

I had a plan - which was found out by my roommate eventually: only hook-up after I got home from work and before my roommate showed up. So my two-hour window was almost always there and I was on a Craigslist, Manhunt, Adam4Adam hook-up frenzy every time. It was comical, so much that I usually just stopped and laughed and hung out with Tig instead. But what happened when a guy came over? I escorted Tig into his crate for a few moments, frolicked, and all was great in the world with not a peep from him. Well, that's until he fetched a condom wrapper and presented it to my roommate. Ugh.

Point of the conversation: Do it loud and proud.

- DeeCue


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