We’ve all heard the perilous warnings about sleeping with flatmates. Don’t shit in your nest. Don’t shit where you sleep. Don’t shit on your doorstep. Don’t shit where you eat.
When listing these supposed sexual sayings, the repeated reference to human faeces is rather disconcerting. I was grossly unaware that having sex with a flatmate was directly related to coprophilia – a sexual fetish for faeces. Are these flippant sayings advising me not to fuck my flatmate, or rather, not to give him a Cleveland Steamer – the act of defecating on your sexual partner’s chest?
Alas, I am merely being facetious. I suspect the purpose of using the word ‘shit’ in all of the aforementioned sayings is to reiterate the danger in shagging a flatmate. After all, ‘Don’t sex in your nest’ hardly has the same catchy ring to it.
Despite the warnings, we all know someone who has ignored them. Perhaps it was only a drunken one night encounter, a sneaky fuck buddy arrangement, or something that actually developed into a full blown relationship. Nevertheless, sexual relations with flatmates are often advised against due to the undesirable ramifications that can occur when they end.
One Night Stands with flatmates are particularly discouraged. Imagine the horrific humiliation of waking up next to your flatmate, his hair askew, mouth agape, and a dried up trial of saliva crusting on his chin. Upon sight, the erotic activities of the night before would surge back to you in a nauseating avalanche of disturbing visuals.
The unsettling memories of your genitals merging with those belonging to someone you’d previously viewed as a non-sexual being (having seen his misshapen underpants hanging on a clothes rack in front of the heater countless times) could unwittingly burst into your cranium while you complete inane household chores together, such as washing the dishes.
You are only able to escape as far your bedroom down the hall, which quickly becomes your self-imposed prison cell over the next few days. Initially bringing other partners home is an extremely awkward experience; your flatmate glaring at them with open hostility. When you innocently find him using the stove, your mind disobediently conjures up disturbing images of him naked.
Yes, a One Night Stand with a flatmate is undoubtedly followed by a variety of unavoidable awkward moments and stilted conversations.
A few years ago, while living in a sharehouse in Sydney, I drunkenly embarked on a sexual convergence with one of my flatmates. At the time I had assumed it was just a One Night Stand fuelled by alcohol. However, my nightly encounters with this particular flatmate continued to occur with increasing regularity.
We spent our time sneaking into each other’s beds late at night and we attempted to keep the whole sordid affair secret from our flatmates. But realistically, the walls really weren’t that thick and our other flatmates soon caught wind of the late night shenanigans.
By no means were we in love. I’d never even entertained the idea of introducing him to any of my friends, let alone worried about whether or not it was appropriate to give him the label of ‘boyfriend’ when doing so.
We didn’t go on dates. We didn’t cuddle up on the lounge watching dvds. We didn’t call each other very often. However, we did get drunk and shag each other regularly. Though, we usually slept separately in our respective beds afterwards.
After some time it reached the point where I had to accept, albeit begrudgingly, that I was indeed in a relationship, of sorts, with my flatmate. Certainly not a loving, functional relationship, but nevertheless one in which bringing other partners home would be highly frowned upon.
To me, he was not unlike a cheap Woolworths mud cake sitting in the fridge. The cake has been baked with inferior ingredients, resulting in it tasting rather forgettable. However, for some reason, call it desperation, gluttony or perhaps just boredom, late at night you continue to shave slivers from the cake and shove them greedily into your mouth. Each time you think it will be your last piece, only to then cut yourself yet another slice a short time later. The cake really isn’t that delicious. But after all, it’s still cake.
My flatmate was that cheap Woolworths mud cake that I just couldn’t stop eating.
While out for midweek drinks with a bunch of friends one night, I got talking to a guy who wasn’t exactly the equivalent of a made-to-order cake from Harrods. (Bare with me, I’m sticking with the cake analogy). However, he certainly wasn’t a cheap Woolworths mud cake. If pressed, I would classify him as more of a handmade banana and walnut cake dressed with deliciously fluffy white icing.
As the drinks kept flowing, things between Delicious Banana Cake and I began to heat up. Much to the repulsion of fellow patrons, our tongues began to dart around each other’s oral cavities with increasing gusto. Our tongue lashings and torso grindings soon saw us heading towards my place; a mere three blocks from the bar we had been drinking at.
As we stumbled upon my doorstep, I proceeded to fumble drunkenly for my keys. Delicious Banana Cake’s lips were suctioned to my neck, inflicting a love bite I would be sure to regret the following day, while his urgently wandering hands excitedly hitched up my skirt and began fumbling around with the contents of my underwear.
We burst inside the door, and as we did so a surprisingly clear thought entered my otherwise sozzled brain – Cheap Mud Cake had a habit of crawling into my bed when he was intoxicated.
Sometimes I would already be in bed, sober, at which point I would have to deflect his drunken advances until I was peacefully left alone again. However, he was well aware that if he planted himself in my bed before I was to arrive home from a night out, he was often rewarded with vigorous drunken coupling.
Could Cheap Mud Cake be in my bed at this very second, waiting for such eroticism to take place?
As my mind gave birth to these worrying thoughts, Delicious Banana Cake continued the pillaging of my body. He appeared to be completely unbothered by the fact that I was now rooted to the spot, standing as still as a statue, in the entryway littered with stray pairs of shoes and mangled umbrellas.
Inspiration struck and I hurtled towards the first door I saw, flinging it open and flicking on the light. A dishevelled head rose with a start from the pillow, ejecting a cranky yelp.
“Simone!” I whispered furtively.
“What the fuck?” she crowed, rubbing her eyes and scowling in my general direction.
“Simone, you’ve got to go and check if he’s in my bed!” I continued in hushed tones.
She groaned, sleepily pulling the blanket up over her head.
I reefed it back with one dramatic movement. “Simone!” I hissed.
“Aw, for fuck’s sake!” she snapped, scrambling begrudgingly out of bed and shuffling groggily out of the room. She threw a murderous look towards my drunken suitor whom I had left abandoned in the entryway, before she climbed up the stairs towards the bedrooms on the first floor.
Delicious Banana Cake advanced towards me once again, enthusiastically attacking my mouth with his. We continued to kiss energetically as I kept my eyes trained on the staircase. Simone emerged at the top of the stairs a moment later and descended them blearily. “All clear, he’s in his own bed,” she grumbled as she passed Delicious Banana Cake attempting to lever the bra straps from my shoulders. Simone slammed her door shut and I yanked Delicious Banana Cake by the hand, leading him to the safety of my bedroom.
A few hours later I awoke to the early light of day, my head aching, my mouth unpleasantly parched. At first my mind lolled in blissful unawareness, as is common practise for a person just waking up. Then cold harsh reality set in. I was hungover. I had to go to work. And I had to somehow usher this guy from my bed without being caught by my pseudo-boyfriend.
Not-So-Delicious Banana Cake stretched languidly beside me in bed; his large morning boner blaringly evident beneath the confines of his underwear. He reached towards me, no doubt hoping for a spot of wake ‘n wiggle.
I jumped from the bed, deflecting his unwanted advances. “I-I-I’ve got to get ready for work,” I stammered.
Shrugging his shoulders, he seemed completely unfazed by my rejection and disappointingly much less handsome now my eyesight was unhindered by the effects of alcohol. He emerged from the bed, clothed only in a pair of unflatteringly tight y-fronts. “Do you mind if I have a shower?” he asked.
I cautiously opened the bedroom door, dramatically snapping my head from side to side as my eyes scanned the hallway. The hallway was blessedly absent of human traffic and I spied the bathroom door agape, steam curling from the open doorway. The coast was clear.
“Go, go!” I urged Banana Cake with an insistent motion of my arm, before I charged (and all but army-rolled) my way towards the vacant bathroom.
Once we were both ensconced safely in the bathroom, I leaned heavily against the inside of the bathroom door, panting. Banana Cake peered at me quizzically, but appeared to think better than to ask me to explain my insane behaviour.
As he turned on the taps and removed his underwear, I realised the predicament I had now placed myself in. I would be unable to leave the bathroom while Banana Cake showered. If I did so and all my other flatmates were present and accounted for in other sections of the house, it would be obvious someone had a guest using the bathroom. A guest they had undoubtedly been shagging the night before.
I couldn’t risk such exposure. I also couldn’t risk having a shower after Banana Cake and allowing him to leave the bathroom before I did. The potential for him to be spotted by Cheap Mud Cake was far too huge. This left only one solution – I would have to shower with Banana Cake.
This was certainly not a desirable position to be in. Firstly, Banana Cake would be expecting some action if I was to hop under the steaming stream of water with him. And secondly, I certainly didn’t make it a habit to shower with men I had only just met. This usually took me a few months to work up to with a new boyfriend, for fear of him being repulsed by the cellulite unwelcomely, yet predominately, resident on my behind.
With trepidation I removed my pyjamas and joined a visibly excited Banana Cake in the shower. I luckily managed to escape the awkward situation with only a pair of unwanted soapy hands exploring my body, but otherwise no damage done.
With towels wrapped around our wet torsos, I opened the bathroom door a crack and once again scouted the hallway.
“Go, go!” I hissed again, yanking Banana Cake by the hand as I hurtled towards my bedroom. Once inside, I slammed the door behind us. Banana Cake quickly redressed himself in the clothes from the night before, salvaging them from the carpeted floor.
“Well, I’m off then,” he informed me, making his way towards the door.
“No!” I screeched, grabbing him by the hand. He looked at me quizzically, obviously puzzled by my bizarre behaviour. “I just thought it would be nice to walk to the bus stop together,” I fibbed, knowing there was no way I could allow him to exit the house unchaperoned, for fear his presence would be speedily detected by another housemate. “I mean, it’s the least you could do after I let you put your penis inside me,” I added as a deal breaker.
Unable to argue with that, Banana Cake perched himself uncomfortably on the bed while I perfected my work outfit, blow dried my hair and applied my makeup.
Once I was ready, I sneakily opened the bedroom door, scanning the hallway. I glimpsed a fellow flatmate exit her bedroom and barrel down the stairs. But once she was gone, the coast was clear.
“Let’s go!” I barked, tiptoeing my way towards the stairs and raising a stern finger to my lips, signalling that Banana Cake also needed to walk quietly.
From the top of the stairs I listened keenly for telltale sounds that would indicate the whereabouts of other housemates. My efforts were rewarded by the sounds of muffled voices coming from the kitchen downstairs. If those people remained ensconced in the kitchen, we could make it down the stairs and out the front door without being seen.
I stealthily made my way down the staircase, skipping stairs here and there that were known to squeak. I used erratic hand gestures and dramatic facial expressions to indicate that Banana Cake should do the same. As we reached the bottom of the stairs and prepared to pass by the doorway of the kitchen, panic set in.
“Ok, make a run for it!” I hissed at Banana Cake. We broke into a sprint, careering towards the front door and exploding through it, into the relative safety of the great outdoors. I continued to run half way down the block with Banana Cake behind me.
Panting, I slowed to a walk. Banana Cake followed suit, sneaking worried looks at me – the girl he undoubtedly now believed to be insane. Feeling bad for him and floating on a natural high following our daring escape from the house, I grabbed hold of his hand good-naturedly and swung it back and forth in mine as we rounded the corner towards the bus stop.
As the bus stop came into sight, my heightened mood abruptly evaporated and I let go of Banana Cake’s hand with a jerk. There at the bus stop sat Cheap Mud Cake. He’d spotted us and his furious expression showed that he’d obviously taken note of the handholding.
I watched with dismay as his gaze darkened even further, his narrowed eyes darting back and forth between the pair of us, the puzzle pieces slotting together in his brain.
I heard footsteps behind us and turned to see Simone rounding the corner. As she approached the bus stop, her darting eyes quickly took in the scene. Me standing wide eyed, mouth flapping open soundlessly in a rather unattractive fashion. Then there was Banana Cake standing beside me, looking extremely uncomfortable, as though someone has just burst in on him wanking. And the piece de resistance in this bold-and-beautiful-esque drama was Cheap Mud Cake; glaring murderously at the pair of us.
Simone sighed. “Don’t get your meat where you get your bread and butter,” she quipped smugly, before flouncing aboard the bus that had just pulled up alongside us.