Having a roommate can sometimes be a challenge, let me tell you.
The odds that you’re not going to let me tell you being slim unless you suddenly stop reading this, which makes saying it a bit ponderous. And on top of that including the word ponderous might be risking that very fate.
People hate the word ponderous.
So you can clearly see one of the challenges my old roommate faced; me.
One of the challenges I faced was the fact that whenever we were attending social events he insisted that I call him HC. HC was not his name of course, just part of his plan to attract the opposite sex.
The game he played was excruciating for me. I hated participating and always felt like I needed to shower after it proved successful.
It was simple; it assumed that women place a disproportionate importance on the size of a man’s member and allowed him to let her know what he was packing.
How so? He would introduce himself as HC and make sure to let her know that it was a nickname. After a certain amount of time had passed I would walk over and join the conversation. Eventually she would ask what the HC stood for. I then would hem and haw and finally be ‘forced’ to tell her; Horse Cock. He would blush and act all embarrassed.
When she wasn’t repulsed by the moniker I would be repulsed enough for the both of us.
This approach worked more than you’d think. It was a trauma I was forced to endure time and again, being a good roommate meant being a good wing man and being a good wingman meant being a horrible human being.
It’s at this juncture that I should tell you my hobby. It might not seem relevant after such a shocking reveal but you’ll have to trust me.
I collect promotional photos of bands that did not make it. The more obscure the band, the more valuable they are to me. The older the pic, the more difficult it is to find. Bands from the 1980s and onward are relatively easy to come across, I have a network of booking agents and managers who send me the promotional packages they received from bands that never went anywhere, but digging up an unknown band from the 60s or 70s is a real find.
You might ask yourself why this is my hobby. What do I get out of it? I get to look at a frozen moment in time. A group of people that believe that they are destined for greater things. The poses and outfits vary, but the looks in their eyes don’t. Visions of stardom are dancing in their heads.
Visions that never materialized. I can’t quite articulate why, but I find the pictures poignant. A powerful statement on existence and destiny.
Although I’m not sure what that statement is. And I like that.
One night HC brought back a particularly verbose female. As his room is adjacent to mine, I was a veteran of hearing some rather unsavory noises and the fact that his bed sits right against our common wall I was also no stranger to hearing his bed post slamming against it for hours at a time.
But this night was different.
The slamming of the bed frame against the wall was different. There was an urgency to it. The wailing of the girl was more primal. I hung (hung being an ironic choice of words) my most prized band promos on that wall and they began to shake violently. Dust began to fall from the ceiling. Before I knew what was happening, HC and his partner began fucking their way right through the drywall. I briefly saw the outline of the bed on my side but before I could react the bed started to push through and priceless band pics from the 50s and 60s began to crash to the ground.
I sat slack-jawed as my roommate’s bed made its way into the center of my room, fueled by a sexual ferocity that I did not believe possible. Crushing my collection of prized pictures underneath it.
I don’t have to tell you how much that hurt. Although you might disagree given that I started the whole thing by saying ‘let me tell you.’
I guess I hope that you find the story poignant. A powerful statement on existence and destiny.
You might not be sure what that statement is… but I like that.
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