I’m pretty sure all my roommate does is have sex and sleep.
It’s 11:58 AM and sunlight trickles down the edges of our closed blinds and pools into an awkward geometry on the windowsill, marred by the shadows of makeup bags, face wipes, purses, plants. She is asleep. Her body is curled in on itself and pressed against the wall as if desperate to ground itself to something somewhere, skin or plaster or pillowcase, doesn’t matter. I could walk in at 2:00 PM and the picture would be the same. By 6:00, though, she’s on the prowl, either scrolling through a text-message catalogue of her regulars or hunting fresh meat with a full quiver of right-swipes and tasteful (and sometimes not so tasteful) nudes, to snare and pin her targets to the New York jungle floor.
It’s honestly impressive the way she rakes them in. And it is raking, what she does, letting her fingers splay across the endlessly connected spiderweb of lonely twenty-somethings and tugging to see which threads pop and spool into her, pulling, piling them in her lap. Scholarship kids, lanky track and fielders, vaguely European accented “only here for tonight”-ers, or her preffered prey: Daddy’s credit card, poster boy for the Aryan nation capital-B Bankers, smirks laced with Republican supremacy studying Business or Finance at NYU. Her father works in a bank. Everytime she nabs a Banker she jokes about daddy issues and wonders out loud if he works under her father, or funnier still, above him. I picture two blonde men shaking hands, one stern and greying. He can just catch the smell of sex off his younger, mirrored self, and smiles nostalgically, unknowingly, as his daughter’s scent hovers in the air.
Last night she texted us at around 1:00 AM to “make ourselves scarce”. She’d told us earlier she might be bringing a guy home but I thought she’d meant at a normal, humane time like 10:00 or 11:00. I told her so, or texted her at least. And yet three minutes later she and her kill of the night were strutting in, shadowed by the light from the hall, casting silhouettes in our doorway. She had no power to sexile while it was two against one – our third roommate was asleep in the bed across from mine. Sleepers present a staunch “NEGATIVE” to the sexile equation. She and her date settled for shower sex. Our bathroom is small. I almost felt sorry for them.
And now, 11 hours later, asleep. I wonder when the boy left, and how long they took. I wonder why I wonder or, care. I wonder why I’m writing this poem and resolve to get my own sex life after this last period.