The New Roommate

When I told the following story to my bestie, she told me that it would make a fucking awesome erotic short story.

At the time, I laughed at her suggestion, but looking back, I realize she was right: my little adventure with Marco was quite delicious.

I know I sound like I’m bragging, but for once, something is finally going on in my sex life, so I feel like shouting it from the rooftops. Or, in this case, scribbling it down in a Canada notebook.

So, I took out my mechanical pencil, and I got to work.

Ok. So, it all started when my roommate told me she was planning to move out of our two-bedroom apartment by the end of the month.

Like many Montrealers in lockdown, she found herself pining for more space and for the great outdoors. At least, that’s what she said when she announced that she was going to settle down in the Laurentians.

On the one hand, I was pissed, but on the other, I understood her.

But I was mostly pissed. It must have been written all over my face, because then she said:

“I promise that I’ll put an ad on Facebook to help you find someone else!”

Oh, how nice of you! That’s great. Do you want a Governor’s Medal for that?

What really freaked me out, though, was that I had no idea what kind of person I wanted to welcome into my home.

Normally, I’d say that my ideal roommate is someone who’s very busy: that is, someone who leaves at 7 a.m. so I can have the apartment all to myself.

Except that, in the context of the pandemic, I wasn’t sure I wanted to live with a Social Life Sally. And I didn’t feel like ending up with a couch potato either. The sofa is mine. And I’m the potato.

So yeah. I was at a loss.

I’ll spare you my torments and I’ll dive right into the heart of the matter: Marco. Oh, Marco! Blessed be the day you slipped into my Kijiji DMs to ask about the apartment.

While the entire civilization had embraced Zoom, my future roommate suggested we talk on the phone. On the phone! So two thousand and late!

During our call, Marco told me that he was looking for a quiet apartment “to work on a play.” An old soul.

Since I didn’t have the luxury of doing 400 interviews, I immediately accepted his application. I hoped that Marco was the “tortured writer” type, and that he would spend hours locked in his room typing on his typewriter, reducing our contact to a minimum.

(If I were an emoji, I’d be the paper clip one. Nobody thinks of including it in a conversation, and everyone leaves it in peace: my idea of perfection.)

Like any self-respecting old soul, Marco’s social media was as bare as the grocery store shelves in March 2020: not a single photo of him in sight.

So, it was in the lobby of my apartment building that I saw his mug for the first time. Seeing his blonde curls and peach complexion, I thought, “Oh boy, a cherub!” His jaw was strong, like those B-movie actors who star in straight-to-Netflix romances. It surprised me that he didn’t flaunt that face on social media.

We chatted politely, and then I helped him unload the small U-Haul he had rented for the occasion.

Every time we passed each other in the stairwell, I worried about whether I should say something or smile.

Geez. A real Self-Conscious Sue.

After we were done bringing all his stuff upstairs, we toured the apartment. It took all of 30 seconds: there’s really nothing to show.

The move had made Marco warm: his hair was soaked, and a line of sweat was visible across his chest.

Curiously, I wasn’t disgusted at the sight of his sweat.

Not even a little.

That’s when I knew I was in trouble.

He asked me if he could take a shower. I replied “WHAT A QUESTION, YOU’RE HOME!” with a tad too much clownish energy, as if to cover up the effect he had on me. Shit, he must have found me really weird.

While he was taking his shower, I went back into the living room to make sure I didn’t have any cringe-worthy objects lying around. I kicked my Omnikrom album under the couch, then went to my room.

Not gonna lie, I was a little nervous. I had the impression that the next few hours were going to be defining, make-or-break, hours and that it was up to me to set the tone, to create a good atmosphere.

As Marco was stepping out of the shower, I came up with a plan. I was going to open a bottle of orange wine, pour myself a glass, and sit in the living room with a copy of The New Yorker.

Later in the evening, when Marco came out of his room, I’d nonchalantly offer him a drink, in a sort of, “Oh, I opened a bottle, if you feel like having some” way.

Feral as I am, I needed to summon superhuman effort just to socialize with him, but it seemed essential for me to get to know him a little before we locked ourselves away in our respective bedrooms until the dawn of time: he with his play, and I with my work.

I find it easier to be feral with someone I know and am familiar with.

To set the mood, I decided to put on a 2000s pop playlist. After all, Marco looked about the same age as me. I thought we’d be able to bond over that, to reminisce.

Determined to break the ice, I turned on the music. Adrenaline was pumping through my veins, like a mother lifting a car to save her kid.

But when Marco came out of his room, I couldn’t own my “Throwback Party 00’s” playlist.

I just looked like a guy who listens to the Black Eyed Peas.

To divert his attention from the music, I immediately asked him if he wanted a drink. He was down.

I served him a glass, praying that Fergie would soon shut up. Luckily it was getting dark, because my face had turned bright red. I easily feel ashamed and self-conscious, especially in front of broad-shouldered guys.

We chatted standing, informally, our bodies separated by the kitchen island.

Marco told me about his old apartment, which he had shared with six roommates. Not the ideal conditions for writing and finishing projects.

He was talking in a low voice, as if he was confiding in me. His tone was solemn, but there was a spark of something playful in his gaze. Like the eyes of a Labrador puppy. If he were an animal, that’s clearly what he’d be: a beautiful, serious Lab, who wants to play with the ball, but who is also curious about where the ball came from.

For my part, I finished one out of four sentences by switching to French. I don’t know why I was doing that. Marco’s not even remotely Franco. It was probably stress. Stress makes me speak French. So I’d say things like “I work as a phone operator for an airline, c’est pas super, mais au final, ça vaut vraiment la peine!”

Shut. Up.

While we were talking, I had subtly turned down the music on my iPhone, so that Fergie was now reduced to background noise, leaving more room for Marco’s voice.

His voice was soothing, ASMR-esque. A pumice stone dipped in melted butter.

I had to face the music: Marco really had an effect on me.

Was it his gorgeous curly hair? Or his stature, which managed to be imposing despite his loose Humeur Design t-shirt? Or his forearms, which looked as though they had been carrying lots of haystacks under the Tuscan sun?

(I admit I often plagiarize movie titles when I’m trying to be poetic.)

The more I looked at Marco, the more I felt something stir in my stomach. Something like a caterpillar. A caterpillar that was beating on the walls of its cocoon. I was going to have to be careful, otherwise I was going to end up with a butterfly.

But what turned me on the most was everything I didn’t see just yet. Everything waiting to be discovered about him. Standing in front of me was a brand new person, and it was exhilarating.

We had reached the bottom of the bottle of wine. Our conversation was slowly dying out, like a campfire. No awkwardness or anything, though.

As I was about to retire for the night, Marco asked me:

“What do you miss most from before the pandemic?”

I pretended to think before replying: “Hanging out with my friends”. I thought it would make me seem normal.

When I returned the question, Marco hesitated for a long moment. I thought he was going to launch into a passionate monologue about the importance of family or something, but he simply replied:

“It’s silly, but I miss going to the gym. And taking my lessons.”

“What lessons?”

“I started doing martial arts last year as a hobby. Jiu-jitsu. I miss it.”

I asked him what jiu-jitsu was, even though I already knew. Anything to keep the conversation going.

“It’s hard to explain. It’s better that I show you.”

A short silence ensued, during which I raised my glass to my lips, even though it was completely dry. When I’m under the influence of a crush, I speak French and I take faux sips.

“Would you like me to?” Marco asked.

That’s when I realized he actually wanted to demonstrate jiu-jitsu moves to me.

His gaze was still just as playful, but a glimmer of challenge had been added to it, as if he were saying: “I know we’re barely strangers, but I think you’re cute, and my orange wine buzz is telling me to skip a few stages and go straight into play mode.”

I wanted to play, but I didn’t know what kind of game Marco had in mind. I didn’t even know what team he was on.

No time to think: Marco was already walking toward the living room. Together, we pushed the coffee table to the side to clear some space.

He motioned for me to come closer, then placed his hand at the base of my neck. Our polite distancing from before was officially out the window.

“I’ll take you down,” Marco said. “Are you ready?”

Take me wherever you want, Marco. Take me to Brossard and a $60-a-night motel. All we need is love. Oh, and some lube. I want us to discover each other on top of a faded comforter, I want to fall asleep to the sound of you reading passages from the old Bible in the night stand, I want you to—

“Are you sure you want to?”

I answered yes. In one clever move, Marco twisted our bodies together and slid me to the ground.

At that moment, I stopped resenting my ex-roommate. Thanks to her flaking out on me, a blonde angel was pinning me to the floor.

I felt oddly good, for someone who no longer had control of his arms and legs. I think Marco felt good too, because he didn’t relax his grip right away.

The way we were positioned, I couldn’t see his face. His head was facing the floor, two inches from the rug (which was still strewn with bits of litter from Gadoue, my ex-roommate’s cat).

His hair smelled so good. His neck too. I remember perceiving two distinct smells: Axe shampoo and Old Spice body wash. My new roommate washed with mismatched products. I had already forgiven him.

Time stood still for a few seconds. After a while, I felt compelled to say something. It felt too intense. As a joke, I said:

“I haven’t been this close with someone in a long time.”

I wanted to lighten the mood, but it didn’t come out the way I intended. On the contrary, my tone made me sound really serious.

“Me too.”

I could still feel his warm hand on the base of my neck. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he began to gently rub it with his thumb.

I wanted to caress him back, but my members were all subdued—except for my cock, which was beginning to bulge dangerously in my pants.

Marco finally released me. Rather than getting up right away, he sat down in front of me, cross-legged. I imitated him. I was thankful for this position: I had never been so hard in my entire life. He probably had a hard-on too. It would have been in-your-face obvious if we had stood.

We sat like that for a while, talking about martial arts. This time our conversation was purely for form, a way to buy us some time while waiting for our mutual excitement to fade from our pants.

We ended up going to bed a few minutes later. Needless to say, it took me a long time to fall asleep, too busy relieving myself of the tension that had built up throughout the evening.

And if I had known all the other hobbies Marco was going to introduce me to during the week, I probably wouldn’t have slept all night.

To be continued…