Are Roommates Killing Your Love Life?

Are Roommates Killing Your Love Life?


All right, all right! I will get on this mission of figuring out what it is that women think looks especially sexy on dudes.

* * *

Meantime, shall we talk about how roommates can cramp our style, when it comes to the making of the love?

It's been a long time since I've had a roommate--I prefer living solo. (And since I'll probably be living alone for the rest of my life anyway, I better get used to it, right?) But a recent conversation I had with a dude who was complaining about the loud sex his lesbian roommate had made me think of the old days when I had to co-habitate.

Now, let me talk about three different situations in which my roommate, myself and some (in)significant other have been a little too close for comfort.


In college, of course, living with other people was a blast--and a lot of the time, when someone's boyfriend slept over, it could actually be kind of fun.

For instance, I lived with a peaches-and-cream blonde pre-med lacrosse player for one term, and she had this hilarious, hard-drinking rugby-playing boyfriend, Rhett. (Instead of calling me Maura, or my college nickname Mo, Rhett prefer to address me with the sobriquet Moses. Which I loved.) Since he had a room all to himself in the off-campus apartment where he lived, he only spent the night in our room very rarely--usually when he was too wasted to be bothered with getting all the way home. Whenever that happened and he did stay over, he'd cauterwaul some made-up song to me from Beth's bed. Usually it went something like, "Moe-sus! Moe-sey-moe-moe-moe-sus!" he'd sing, while Beth and I giggled our heads off.


After college--when things like working full-time came into play--dealing with the sexual shenanigans of one's roommate became less fun. When I first moved to New York, I lived in what might very well be the best neighborhood in all of Manhattan--the far West Village--on 11th between Greenwich and Washington (right down the street from the storied Spotted Pig and not too far from Smalls). But my apartment was approximately the size of a postage stamp, and I shared it with another person--the little sister of one of my best buddies from college. And she, my roommate, was still an undergrad at the time, taking classes at New York University ... With no job to wake up for in the mornings, she was living it up, having loud sex with her boyfriend, getting stoned with her dancer-friends, etc. (In fact, it was so bad that our downstairs neighbor once asked me to talk to her about it. "But I've tried!" I told him. "You do it!") I could barely sleep with all the late-night week-day bacchanals.

Other than that, though, we got along pretty well--borrowed each other's clothes, etc.--and the location couldn't be beat, so I stuck around for a while.


When I finally moved out, it was too a much larger space in Chelsea, a duplex--where my roomate was about 15 years older than I was. She felt like something of a big sister, more than a mother. Unfortunately, however, the common room in her apartment felt very old to me--what with the heavy velvet curtains and big ugly maroon couch in the living room. Now, my room was amazing: on the very top floor of the apartment, so you had to go up a little spiral staircase to get to reach it, the loft opened out unto a huge private balcony-garden that even had a working fountain. It was all light and sun.

Regardless, I always felt weird about having guys over, because whenever we were in the living room, I felt like I was at somebody's grandmother's house.

After a year there, I got my own place, and I've lived alone ever since.


Anyway, I guess I haven't had any serious roommate horror stories. In the worst one, in fact, I'm the guilty party: While I was still in college, my sister and I went over to Kilkenny, Ireland for the wedding of a relative, and we shared a hotel room. Our cousin six times removed (or whatever her relation to us is) was marrying a dude who played on the local rugby team--and a bunch of the hot rugby players were there. I absconded with the dark long-haired one. We escaped from the prying eyes of my relatives to the adjoining golf course, where we made out for a while on the seventh green, before I brought him back to my room. My sister was already there, the lump in the other bed. I told the dude we should be quiet, and I thought we were ... though, at the same time, while we didn't have sex (because you know I'm still a Catholic school girl at heart), we did do some rather energentic making out. In the morning, I had to make sure the coast was clear before he scurried out.

My sister--who told me she put on her headphones to drown out the animal noises--did not speak to me for the rest of the trip.

So, all right, guys: Do you have roommate horror stories? Come on. Lay them on me. Tell me about the guy who is 37 and still living with his brother. Or the chick who is renting a rowhouse with about 60 of her sorority sisters. Also, in what ways do your roommates (if you have them)

cramp your style--or drive you crazy because you know far more abouttheir sex lives than you'd like to?



dear commenters:

love all the comments from yesterday. HIP WADERS??? all right, i'm gonna have to keep an eye out for that one. also, i REALLY hope i am not responsible for some kind of new chaps-trend. if that happens, Rip, I am totally gonna blame you.