Hello, 'Claire' again with a short, confessional mid-1990's narrative that, up until now, I've told no one, probably because I'm not especially proud of it. The subject matter here may be considered by some to be disgusting; the reader is forewarned. The names, as always, have been changed.
Afterward, I felt like a babysitter who had violated one of her sleeping charges.
My second experience sharing living space with another woman - two actually - was definitely not like the first. I had lost the apartment shared with my first female lover Vanessa, who left me for her new ad hoc husband and the unplanned child in her womb. Alone and evicted, and refusing to live with my mom, I answered a newspaper ad for a third 'female non-smoker to rent 3 BR house'.
The brick ranch dwelling was quite unremarkable, and although my roommates were both beautiful, their bitchy, inconsiderate personalities left a lot to be desired. That possibly was one reason they seemed perpetually single - not that they missed out on randomly getting laid. Despite the fact the location was close to my job, I soon knew I had made a mistake, but had to survive for the twelve month lease I signed.
The imbalance in our lifestyles became apparent quickly. Still broken hearted, I uncharacteristically stayed home most nights, spending a self-imposed sequestration studying for two community college night classes. I was almost twenty-three by then, had been the mayor of Slutville during high school and then continued as I lived with a man for over two years, then fallen in love with Vanessa - I kept that Sapphic fact from my new roommates for obvious reasons - but lost her to fate. Time to grow up, I thought, even though cosmeticians 'Tanya' and 'Heather' were drunk and partying several nights of the week. Thumping walls, loud stereos, phone calls at all hours, cars and noisy trucks in and out, and early morning hallway encounters with them or their dates naked, were the usual fare.
My two housemates were a symbiotic pair - tall, svelte, auburn-haired, brown-eyed Tanya attracted the guys who preferred leggy, small but pointy-breasted women. Dishwater blonde, not-quite-plus-size Heather met the requirements of the other camp, curvy with freckles, blue eyes, and tits that always loomed large, no matter what she wore.
Usually the two were always together, but one night - morning rather - about three, a Yuletide party-wasted Heather was pounding on my window, having lost or forgotten her keys. Startled but not surprised, I let her in. She stumbled in the front door, wearing a seasonally festive but impractical red halter Santa dress with a white faux fur hem and borders beneath her coat. Her ride, a wealthy older man, judging by the expensive, nearly new SUV, then hastily drove away. Once again assuming my role as de facto au pair - although I was younger - I removed her coat and tried to steer her into her bedroom. Nearly pulling off the football jersey I had been sleeping in as she held on to me to kick off her shoes, Heather insisted on visiting the toilet first, and demanded that I 'help' her. I expected to witness a vomit show any second. I was surprised when, upon our arrival in the tiled room, she raised the short, clingy, red-sequined dress over her head, and her soft belly and then roving, pale, fat tits made an appearance. Their broad areolas were still gathered into peaks in reaction to the outside December temperature. Although she was frequently braless and occasionally topless around the house, I hadn't seen them before in a fully lit room and so closely. They were stunning, and yes, my own small breasts, currently undetectable under my big jersey, were jealous.
After handing me the dress for safe keeping, swaying, topless Heather labored clumsily at pushing her red panties and sheer hose - misaligned from a hasty, post-coital re-assemblage, no doubt - down her thighs.
I held the party dress against me in front of the mirror, even though it was way too large, then carefully draped it over the towel rack. I turned and noticed her hose had made the journey down to her lower thighs, but the panties were still askew on her hips; only the upper periphery of her bush was visible. Incoherent thanks to an unknown array of chemicals, she couldn't tell there was satiny red polyester still partially draped around her pelvis.
I started to step toward her to assist and issue a warning, but stopped myself. Deviously, and as revenge for waking me up so many times and hypocritically bitching at me about every little crumb in the kitchen or drops of toothpaste on the mirror, I remained silent. As she sat to empty her bladder, I allowed my housemate to 'piss herself', as we say in the south. .
I stood opposite the bowl for the best view, and she looked at me suspiciously with nearly closed eyes. I watched with glee as a dark region finally formed and grew across the crotch of the bikini panties. They began to drip, and I heard the urine that did escape drizzle erratically into the water below. Ha ha, my joke was over, or so I thought. I returned my gaze up to Heather's face for a reaction; she was out cold. Arms limp, chin pressed into her chest, hair hanging over her bare tits, she slouched on the seat. My mind suddenly began to race as I stood in the room, its relative warmth no doubt contributing to her unconsciousness.
