I always hated stereotypes. At least, that was my excuse for resenting anyone who assumed I was gay. A guy can be fabulous and into clothes and still be attracted to the opposite sex. And I have been attracted to girls as far back as I can remember--that's no bullshit. Girls love a guy they can go shopping with. "Metrosexual" was what they called me, and I was fine with that mantle. It meant they recognized my good taste, refined appearance, superior grooming, and upscale tastes. It was when people called me "gay" that I got frustrated. I'm not gay. Properly, I'm bi.
I'll admit I'd never been with a guy before--kissed a few, but that was it. And I never liked people thinking I was into them, because the point was that, regardless of appearances, I didn't HAVE to be gay.
I always thought people needed to open their minds--especially those macho loser jocks who think the epitome of masculinity is throwing a ball around, beating each other up, and making fun of gays.
I dunno. Football? The whole thing always seemed kind of homoerotic to me.
It wasn't as if I didn't understand why people--especially dudes--jumped to the conclusion that I was gay. I've always been in touch with my feminine side, and classy as fuck. An appreciation for fine clothing, superior hygiene, a decent hair and skin care routine--these are things that people seem to think are qualities of a homosexual male, when they really should be qualities of every human being as far as I'm concerned.
It was all the more frustrating, then, when I found out who I'd been paired with in my college dorm.
I was in my second year, pursuing a business degree. I hadn't lived on campus my first year, but my parents were now insisting on it. Apparently they thought me a bit of a sponge, still living at home. I was mad, certainly, but after a while I could see their point. I supposed I had taken them for granted.
It was a difficult transition, moving myself to a comparatively tiny room, plus having to share it with some random dude. I was immensely grateful, at least, that I wouldn't have to deal with communal bathrooms. Besides the revolting thought of the dubious level of hygiene resulting from masses of sweaty, sloppy young men sharing shower and toilet facilities, I cherish my self-care routines, and I wasn't interested in putting them on display. I'm not sure other guys would have been interested in display either--I had that "gay vibe", and when I was around dudes in any state of undress, they were hypersensitive to being observed. I could certainly appreciate a well-formed male body, but I was as hypersensitive as they were, knowing if I was caught looking, they'd think it proof that I was gay. In high school locker rooms, I kept my eyes on my own business and did my utmost to suggest to them I was straight by my complete disinterest.
Thank God I was long finished with high school gym classes. Now I was a college man, and I only had to share a bathroom with one roommate.
Our cramped dorm was fairly cleverly designed to make the best use of the limited space. The beds were loft beds, with small but serviceable desks beneath. There were bureaus, a few shelves, and a shared closet. Whoever my roommate was, he was already moved in. He seemed to have been living here a while already. He was obviously an athlete, and a complete slob. While his stuff took up only fifty percent of the room, he had made that fifty percent an eyesore. Sports shit, clothes everywhere, papers, food wrappers, empty Powerade bottles, et cetera.
His clothes also took up squarely fifty percent of our shared closet, but I hated to even put my clothes in the same physical space as his... it was hard to call them clothes at all. I realized as I unpacked that I was going to need more than half of that closet space. My shirts and trousers were expensive and needed to be hung up--the idea of cramming any of them into drawers was unfathomable. He seemed to mainly have grotty, well-worn t-shirts.
The man himself finally wandered in, clad in sweatpants and a tee sporting our school's logo, and looking and smelling like he'd just had a run.
"Hey," he muttered, glancing over me with an irritated expression.
"Hello," I replied, glaring back at him appraisingly. He looked like a real bruiser, thick and broad-shouldered--I guessed correctly that he was a football player. He had blue eyes, and his head was shaved, but by his eyebrows I figured he was an ash blonde. Speaking of eyebrows, his badly needed to be plucked and shaped.
I must have been showing my distaste--his mouth twisted, and he turned his back to me, rummaging in one of his drawers.
"So, you're my roommate," I ventured when he did not speak to me further.
He turned and squinted at me. "Yeah..." he said slowly, as if it should have been the most obvious fact in the world.
I frowned at his rudeness, and decided to be the bigger man, though physically he was the size of approximately three of me. "I'm Markus," I said, moving to the midpoint of the room and extending a hand. "Markus Van Aken."
He looked at my hand, and then at me. He snorted briefly and finally took my hand, giving it one brief pump with his warm, sweaty paw before pulling back. "Greg," he replied, and went back to his drawer.
I minded my own business while he changed out of his exercise clothes and into a plain white undershirt and a pair of flannel shorts.
"So... Greg," I finally ventured. "Are there any little 'house rules' for our dorm?"
He vaulted up onto his bed and flopped back, fiddling with his phone. "I dunno. Don't be an ass?"
"Hmm," I murmured, carefully putting my shirts on hangers and trying to puzzle out how to hang them all in this tiny half-closet space. "Question. Do you think you need all these clothes hung up? They mostly look like they could be folded and put in drawers. I have a lot of things that really need to be on hangers, and I need some extra space."
Greg snorted. "Sorry, slick. Half that closet's mine and I'm using it."
I pursed my lips, but made no reply. It was hard to argue that, but I wished he'd listen to my logic. I resigned myself to making do, and found a way to hang some things beneath my loft bed.
I glanced at him periodically while I set up my living area. He mostly had his attention on his phone, but from time to time he'd watch me through narrowed eyes as if I were some kind of strange insect.
I could practically feel him forming assumptions about me.
"So, what about girls?" I piped up, seeing a perfect opportunity to assert my masculinity.
"Girls?" He eyed me, smirking, and snorted.
There it was. Obviously he'd pegged me as gay. I squared my shoulders. "Yes--you know, the opposite sex? The ones with breasts? Ever had one?"
He snorted again, this time looking a little less amused. "You are some piece of work," he muttered, turning back to his phone.
I felt slightly chastened, but kept up my dignity. "So... seriously. If one of us has a girl over, and things get... intimate... do we do the tie-on-the-doorknob thing or what?"
"Tie on the doorknob--are you from the seventies?" he snickered. "No one does that."
I was going to remark that I suspected he didn't own any ties regardless, but kept my mouth shut.
"I don't tend to bring my one-night stands here, so don't worry about me," he continued. "If you feel a pressing need to get laid in your little dorm bunk bed, just send me a text and latch the door. I'll find someplace to couch surf."
"All right," I agreed, and we proceeded to exchange cell numbers.
I didn't like Greg. He seemed determined to make me out to be a moron at every turn. I was just as determined not to let him succeed.
He snored. I had a difficult time falling asleep the first night. I awoke by six and he was still sawing logs. I groaned and nearly fell out of my loft bed trying to climb down. I gathered up an armful of supplies and stumbled to the bathroom.
Getting myself ready for a day was always a production, and it was a unique challenge completing my usual ablutions in this tiny, shared bathroom. I was accustomed to having a spacious bathroom all to myself. There was hardly any counter space--I wouldn't even be able to store all the products I used on a daily basis in here unless I could use the whole space. The only things Greg kept next to the sink were a toothbrush, toothpaste, razor, and shaving cream, so I shifted them aside. I had to clean the countertop and sink thoroughly before spreading out my stuff. It had been spattered with old soap scum, toothpaste, and God only knew what else.
I glanced into the shower stall and grimaced. It, too, did not look well cared for. Well, I wasn't going to spend all my time here cleaning up after my slovenly roommate. I dug up a pair of flip-flops and wore them while I showered. I could at least protect myself from someone else's filth.
I was halfway through moisturizing when Greg began to pound on the door.
"Time's up!" he bellowed.
I tensed with discomfort. Being interrupted in the bathroom was extremely distasteful, and I felt it rather rude on my roommate's part.
"I'm not finished yet," I called back. "Give me ten more minutes."
"You've been in there for nearly an hour! What the fuck is taking so long?"
"You don't know how long I've been--you were still asleep when I got up!" I protested.
"I was awake when you came and got your little sandals. You a germophobe or what?"
"No, I just don't appreciate being exposed to this level of squalor!" I sighed grievously. "Do you ever clean anything in here?"
He pounded on the door again, making it rattle.
"Stop that, please!" I snapped.
"Hurry... the fuck... up!"
