Since we were little girls, we were told that boys have cooties. They’re dirty and gross. I have a brother who is relatively clean, so I thought all of that was just child’s play. Boys go to Jupiter to get more stupider, that kind of stuff. It wasn’t until I slept at a college guy’s apartment that the reality that boys are filthy set in.
I walked in the door, and was immediately assaulted by the overwhelming smell of weed. The coffee table was covered in beer cans and old pizza boxes with a towering bong that kept a watchful eye over the mess. The couch cushions were worn thin, and looked like they had been picked from the trash. The only redeeming quality of the living room was the massive TV that was almost as tall as I was, although it was permanently left on ESPN. I walked past the kitchen and dared to take a peak in. The sticky counters had very little available surface area, and one side of the sink was filled with a graveyard of shotgunned beer cans. The refrigerator doors were hanging on for dear life, and I could only imagine what random assortment of alcohol and condiments it contained.
We got to the bedroom, and I couldn’t see a fucking thing. He had a black sheet tacked up to cover his windows, as if he was some sort of human-vampire hybrid. On the wall hung a non-specific poster, and upon further investigation, it was being used to cover a hole that he had punched into the wall when he was drunk. On the other wall was hanging the flag of his state, just in case I ever forgot. On the floor were two piles of clothes, one dirty and one clean, and the only way to differentiate them was to give them a big hearty sniff. In his closet were hanging about seven shirts, and I could see in it because the towel that was hanging over the door was impeding it from closing. This towel was the grossest thing I had ever seen. He clearly had not washed it since he first purchased it — because hey — if you are clean when you get out of the shower, the towel is clean too. God only knows how many loads he’s used that towel to mop up. The thought made me want to peel my skin off my body.
When it was time to go to sleep, I tried to get comfortable, but it was literally impossible. His single thin top sheet was not enough to combat the fan that was blasting on us. I laid my head on his two-ply pillow and immediately felt a crick forming in my neck. Do guys have different spines then we do? I laid as still as I could all night, until I realized something horrifying: I had to pee. Based off of the rest of his apartment, I was considering holding my pee and risking the UTI, but the pain became too intense. I quietly rolled out of bed and tip toed to the bathroom.
As soon as I flipped the florescent lights on, I gasped. The floor was covered in a carpet of pubes and beard shavings is more plush than the pillow on his bed (still really pissed about the fucking pillow). There was a tube of toothpaste next to the sink that was mangled as if someone used hooves to try to open it, and I slowly looked up and made eye contact with myself in the mirror. The giant crack that spanned the entirety of the mirror was not enough to cover up the shame and desperation on my face. I reminded myself of the goal and went straight to the toilet, ignoring the trash bag he was using as a shower curtain. The bowl was caked in black mold, with a ring of pink around the waterline. I was worried I had to give my vagina penicillin after sitting on it, so I squatted over it, trying to aim in the seat that was askew and barely connected to the toilet. I looked for toilet paper, only to find three cardboard rolls that were completely stripped. Excellent. I washed my hands with my eyes closed and dried them on the little rag he had hanging up, because I knew the towel in his room would not do me any good.
The next morning, I woke up in complete darkness, even though it was 10 AM, and called my roommate to come pick me up. I couldn’t stand being in that hellhole for one more second, and there was no way I was about to find out what his car looked like on the inside..