I think it's only natural to wonder if you'll ever have relations with your roommate, especially one of the opposite sex. I just never thought it would happen to me.

It was an average, even boring night. I made myself comfortable on the couch and watched some of my favorite movies to keep my mind off of the emptiness in my life at the moment. I'm not in school, I'm working from home and was never one to have friends, but at the very least I was finally settling into my new place and it was feeling really good.

I felt embarrassed still living at my parent's house at twenty-three, so I made a change for myself.

So for the first time in my life, I'm on my own. That is if you don't count having a roommate.

As far as roommates go, however, I consider myself lucky.

I can count on one hand the amount of conversations we’ve had. Most (if not all) of our interactions took place while in the process of my moving in. He wasn’t a particularly outstanding person, he was perfectly nice. He stood at six feet tall and was fairly muscular (he mentioned he boxed). His hair was short, his facial hair stubbly and on the patchy side, his eyes tired. His voice was deep and comforting. This was a seemingly average man, the kind you wouldn’t notice walking down the street but the kind you would agree to date should he have the nerve to ask.

He's a nurse who works twelve-hour shifts, six days of the week. On his one day off he says goes to the beach, a four-hour drive away, and he spends the day there, though he didn't specify what he does.

When the lease was signed and all was said and done I hardly ever saw him again

He’s gone before I’m awake and home far after I’m asleep. At times the only proof of his existence is the gradual emptying of our pantry, our fridge, and the dishes that will occasionally rest in the sink. Sometimes I hear him, singing to himself in the kitchen, humming while he loads the laundry, reciting lines along with the things he watches. 

These are but fleeting moments caught in my quick trips to the bathroom in the middle of the night or a few minutes of wake after a weird dream.

On occasion when I'm in no rush to get back to sleep, I will meander near his room to catch a hint of what goes on in his life. Some nights I hear music, some nights there is laughter, and some nights there is crying.

One night I approached and the closer I got, the quieter it felt until curiosity had me almost up against the door. 

Then I heard it...

Moaning, talking and what I assumed was the sound of skin smacking against each other.

What must it be like? I wondered.

I was twenty-three and had yet to be touched by anyone in such a way.

My virginity perfectly intact.

I sat by the door and reached into my pants and listened until I completed along with them.

I felt so strange after that night. I felt ashamed at my nosiness, ashamed at my inability to control myself.

Ashamed that I masturbated on the floor while I listened to strangers having sex.

I stayed away from his room after that night. His absence felt like a gift at that point. I didn't have to look him in the eye knowing what I had done.

But of course, as I was starting to get over it, as I was starting to move on, I woke up on the couch.

The room was a dark shade of blue as the sun was slowly making its way to the sky. 

I sat up and I saw him.

How much did I blend in with the couch? Surely he knew I was there, right? Was he counting on me staying asleep? Or did he simply not care if I saw?

It sure seemed as though he was unaware of my presence. 

He came out of the bathroom. I saw his bare feet and followed them up to his calves. They were muscular and hairy much like his thighs which were, of course, followed by a glute with plenty of volume and shaped near perfectly. I was mesmerized to the point that I missed any details of his back or the back of his head. He walked into his room and softly closed the door, completely unaware that from that moment on, I was his.