He lingers in the shower, shouts conversation around the corner—hopeful fragments splintered by the water. Obliging as ever, you laugh dutifully as you sweep the drop sheet off the bed and into the corner, slip the condom wrapper into the same plastic bag that the condom found itself in, and drop that on top of the sheet.
From the amount of time he spent in the shower, you bet he’ll linger in his underwear, while slipping the belt into his jeans, so you allow yourself three minutes instead of two (one whole minute of luxury!) to scrub your body with anti-bacterial sanitiser.
With the towel you’d put on the floor as a shower mat, you wipe down the walls and floor. Stoop to take up his towel from where it lies discarded and throw the pile down on top of that drop sheet.
You’re dressed before him, but linger deliberately on your heels so he doesn’t have the chance to engage in more conversation (or, God forbid, more touching), and as soon as he’s finished with his shoes, you flash a smile and a “so would you like to go out the front or the back?”
“I could say something, but I won’t,” he says, and tries for what you think is probably meant to be a ‘devilish’ smile.
(It isn’t.)
You giggle, smile again. “Thank you for that,” and you very carefully don’t roll your eyes
As you walk him down the stairs, you keep the chatter up. You’ve picked up the bundle of used linen, which always tends to dissuade groping for some reason – but the hour’s over, and you’re not in the mood to deal with innuendos.
“I had a great time,” he tells you just after you press the buzzer for the front door.
“I’m really glad to hear that.”
“Maybe I’ll come back some time and see you. When are you working next?”
“Not sure,” you say with a smile. “But if you call up, I’m sure they’ll let you know.”
At this point, thankfully, the buzzer goes off, and you push the door open. He goes in for a kiss, and you turn your cheek at the last second.
You smile—again. Your cheek muscles feel almost as worn and used as your vagina. “Have a great day.”
By the time the door has closed, you’re already halfway down the corridor. Linen in the industrial-sized wash basket, condom bag in the bin. By the time you make it downstairs to the girl’s room, your phone is telling you it’s 2am on Saturday morning.
Between 10pm on Saturday night and 8am on Sunday morning, you’ve had vaginal intercourse with nine different people. Of those, five have violated your no-kissing rule (and two have violated it twice). You’ve had four requests for anal intercourse, and had to turn down three offers of cocaine. There’s an extra $1210 in your wallet.
You catch the train home braless and in sweatpants. You’re five minutes late for your sociology lecture the next day.
