I was just on the right side of slurry and blurred vision because of all the booze and also probably some drugs when my Telegraph Avenue lover showed up. We were all a mess, cozied up in that house, and my Telegraph Avenue lover did not belong there because he was altogether too clean to be there. (Doesn’t explain why he was fucking with me, but, whatever.)
I had promised my friends from high school that I would let them sleep at my house in the Lower Bottoms, and Telegraph Avenue lover dutifully drove us all over there. Of course, I hadn’t penciled ‘getting laid’ into my plan for that evening, which meant that there were a few too many people that thought they were sleeping in my bed that night. It was a predicament that called for decisive action, and in a haze of bad decisions, naturally I knocked on the door of the roommate with whom I occasionally had sex. He wasn’t home, and for some reason I made the executive decision to let my friends sleep in my bed and drag Telegraph Avenue lover into my roommate’s room, where we stripped down and fucked like dogs in someone else’s bed.
Now, I’m not sure what possessed me to do that, mostly because I’m not a very jealous person. I never have been. I knew that my roommate was probably over at his girlfriend’s, since, y’know, they were in a relationship. My roommate had told me a few weeks earlier that he was going to break up with his girlfriend to be with me, but I wasn’t particularly interested in or dedicated to that idea. I guess a part of me knew it was a lie, and then the other part of me just wanted to bang my Telegraph Avenue lover anyways because he was the one I wanted most anyways. So, it’s not that I’m a malicious person, it’s more that I’m sloppy, but mostly it’s that I don’t give a fuck about most things, especially other people’s emotions. I think somewhere in my drunken mind I knew thought that because I had slept in my roommate’s bed before, it was okay to do it again.
I woke up the next day feeling awful and hungover, but that was par for the course. I was 18, what else did I expect? I had to be at work at the vintage clothing store at noon, but there I was, naked with Telegraph Avenue lover in someone else’s bed, my friends in the next room. I couldn’t move. I didn’t want to move. He was awake now, and in the midst of our morning conversation he managed to ask, “Are you sure your roommate doesn’t mind?”
“No, he’s cool,” I said, kind of suddenly realizing that maybe this was a fucked up thing that I just did. But I try not to dwell on things like consequences, so I smiled and kissed him instead.
It was with that very accurate and ironic timing that the bedroom door opened.
“What. The. Fuck.”
It was my roommate. I looked at the boy in my roommate’s bed and said, “Run!”
He followed my orders, and we snatched up all our clothes and hot footed it into my bedroom while my roommate screamed and screamed and screamed at us. My head was throbbing with hangover and panic as I screamed at my friends, “Get up, we have to go now! Get up! Get up!”
“Woah, what’s going on!” Telegraph Avenue lover said, looking disarmed and worried as he stood with his back against the closed door while my roommate started banging on the door and screaming mean things at me.
“Dude, we gotta go, we just gotta go,” I said, pulling my clothes on and grabbing my purse.
“What’s happening? Did your roommate come home?” my friends asked, still sleepy and dazed.
“Yes, get up NOW. We have to go!” I screamed in my whirlwind of panic and torment.
“How are we going to get out of here?” someone asked. My friends had swiftly put themselves together and grabbed their things.
“On three, open the door, and we all run out to your car, and we drive away,” I said, the blurriness of my hangover being cut through with the fear of impending doom.
“Is he going to hit us?” someone asked in a shaky voice.
“I don’t know, we just have to run. On my count – one – two – three.”
The door flew open, my angry roommate still standing there screaming as we sprinted down the stairs and out the front door.
“Holy shit, this is crazy,” my friend said as we piled into her car. My roommate was leaning out the window continuing his tirade that was replete with words like bitch and slut.
“Where are we going?”
“Just drive!” I cried, trying to get my heart rate down as I heaved for breath.
The car was silent as we peeled out.
“No, but, where are we going.”
“I have to go to work right now,” I lamented, still feeling stunned. “Just drop me off there.”
“Are you going to be okay, dude?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you need a place to stay?”
“He seemed really mad that you fucked someone in his bed.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I think he’s mad.”
I sat there, feeling crazy, as we drove to my job. They dropped me off and drove away, and I took a few minutes to sit on the sidewalk and contemplate my life decisions. Of course, I didn’t take too long, mostly because I needed coffee and something really delicious to eat, but I only had $7, so this was going to be tricky. Fuck.
That day at work was particularly harrowing, but I made it through. I braved it out and went home that night, where my roommate was nowhere to be found, but also he hadn’t set my shit on fire or anything overly dramatic like that, so that was a relief. Eventually he and I hashed it out, and then, after that, we wound up dating for three years, which is probably the biggest plot twist in the whole story. I wouldn’t date me if I found me in my bed with someone else, but, hey, some dudes out there like crazy girls. As for Telegraph Avenue lover, we kind of stopped talking after I started dating my roommate. But I called him when we broke up.
I still talk to both of them, and I hope neither of them read this.