I’m Terrified of Walking in on My Roommate Masturbating

I’m Terrified of Walking in on My Roommate Masturbating


He’s been in there watching Twin Peaks for about 4 hours now, and Lynch throws way too many buxom bombshells on the screen for him not to loosen the draw strings of his mesh Starter shorts at least once.

This afternoon, I thought I caught a brief glimpse (while I hurriedly scampered past to warm up cold pizza) of a questionably large bulge in the happy hunting ground area. I’m not one to judge another dude’s hard-on from a distance, but his armadillo looked blatantly cocked and ready to blast.

Will it be weird when I walk in on him or actually a moment for us to finally let open the windows on this relationship? Ever since I’ve moved in, there’s been tons of problems—dishes piling up, his RUSH music way too loud, his insistence of joining my yet-undiscovered indie buzz band…Maybe if I catch him in cold blood with his hands submerged in his shorts undeniably pumping his Super Soaker 2000 to full-on cream mode, gnashing his teeth, with a convenient bottle of hand lotion near by, maybe we can finally start talking like adults.

Plus, maybe some reciprocity will be extended. Maybe he’ll give me wider berth if ever, god, I don’t know, he finds me with a questionably Swedish, camera obscura-ish 1970s film about village maids on my Netflix account, sees that like only 15 minutes of it was watched, sees that my own pair of Starter shorts are in the wash, and, whatever, starts to ask questions.

I’ve never actually seen another man loosen his crotch-rocket for a solo-spin. I mean, yes, I’ve seen Adam Sandler movies, so I’m familiar with—in theory—what it is to view another man give himself a textbook, thought-no-one-was-home-but-the-ethnic-nanny-is-still-here hand-job. I also went to a public junior high school 10 miles away that required busses, so I know what it’s like to watch an over-eager teenage girl rub out a teen boy’s pent-up semen fund (it’s sort of like when a waitress at a nice Italian place crushes the pepper and tells you to “say when”—at least the facial expressions are the same).

But, anyway, I’m afraid my roommate will look so pathetic that we won’t be able to speak. He’s unemployed now and in between semesters at community college. There’s already virtually no good reasons to talk to him (other than his interest in Lynch). But, I’m afraid to see him so low, so animalistic, reduced to simply a pair of hands, an engorged, purple fire-hydrant boner, and a box of tissues that I really can’t go in there. So instead I’ll just pretend I’m taking a nap. But instead watch Netflix. In my bedroom. With the door locked. Wearing my Starter shorts.

-Dunstan McGill