My partially demagnetized ID card doesn’t work the first three times. On the fourth try, the… My partially demagnetized ID card doesn’t work the first three times. On the fourth try, the yellow light of success. I punch in my code: 1374, the year of the great dancing mania of Aix-la-Chapelle. I turn the handle to enter my dorm room, but instead of a clear entrance, I bang my head on the door. My roommate is pushing back fiercely against the other side. ‘WAIT!’ ‘Better not be masturbating!’ I shout. But it’s worse. I hear the honks and squeals of a semi-conscious, topless, bottomless girl through the hollow walls. I miss the old days, when I caught him Googling porn while cuddling his He-Man action figure in one hand and a bottle of Astro-Glide in the other. Bravo, my boy, you’ve got a woman friend for the evening. Unfortunately, while you’re rhythmically undulating on my desk all over my Pink Floyd CDs, cracking the cases and getting God knows what ‘mdash; though I can take a guess ‘mdash; on David Gilmour’s face, I am sexiled. From the Latin ‘sexilus,’ meaning ‘to plow the field,’ and the Old English exile, ‘to get the f*** out,’ in modern terminology ‘sexile’ is when a roommate does the horizontal mambo a foot away from one’s Xbox. A sexile is understandable. In high school, the back seat of the Dodge Neon parked at the cemetery or in front of the Wal-Mart was suitable, and the neighbors wouldn’t watch you from your room. Or so you thought. In college, though, the University gives students a cozy two-by-four Stucco enclave with lavish bulletin board decor. Instead of each college student receiving his own one of these ‘rooms,’ he has to share the concrete dwelling. So now I’m standing in the hallway with time to kill. The most logical action would be to trek to the ol’ ladyfriend’s abode and awkwardly cuddle her. Oh, wait. I don’t have a girlfriend. There’s always Internet porn … damn, my laptop is locked on top of my desk next to the cauldron of fornication. Maybe I don’t have to sleep tonight. I mean, that chemistry midterm tomorrow isn’t really that important, and if I need to take a nap, there are always the porcelain toilet thrones in the bathroom or the buffed tiles of the shower to rest my weary head on. Too bad there’s last weekend’s vomit engulfing the seat. What did someone drink that made it maroon? I could crash in the lounge with some friends. But everybody else has a girlfriend, and Wednesday night is the night to make love. There’s absolutely nothing left to do but to sit by myself patiently on the floor and wait it out. Maybe my roommate has a short fuse. It could be over in a few minutes. Or seconds. I blast my iPod as I lean back against the hallway wall. Unfortunately, someone’s a screamer. I feel the vibrations of their erotic grinding through the floor. I can only imagine that people in the room below them assumes they are rehearsing for their Stomp musical. After a final blast of sound that can only be described as ‘ooo OOOO ohhh,’ my roommate cracks open the door and says, ‘You might want to wash the microwave before using it.’ That’s just wrong. The room smells of love. Disgusting, filthy love. And shellfish. I can taste their musk. I’m allergic to mollusks. I analyze my surroundings: His sheets are on my bed, while my sheets are slightly singed in the hamper. I expect to find a used condom in the trash, but instead I find a soiled Big Gulp container. A Big Gulp? Now I’m just confused. Editor’s Note: The above account is completely fictional and based on no particular persons or experiences whatsoever, but if you have a story that’s kinkier than one containing a Big Gulp and a microwave, or if you can explain how the two can be used simultaneously during intercourse, e-mail Noah at [email protected]. ‘ ‘mdash; Staff writer Greg Trietly contributed to this story.