The very concept of roomcest raises the flesh upon my skin and arouses a sickening sensation in me, and, let it be known, I am definitely not gay. It would be horrible and not at all good if my roommate had hot steamy gay sex with me.
The idea of hooking up with my ripped, 6’7”, blue-eyed roommate stirs me into a fervor of revulsion with a feeling I can’t name. Just thinking of the guy six inches from my bed—flaunting a jawline so sharp, it could cut glass—bothers me. It bothers me so much.
Just imagine it. It’s disgusting to picture, I know, but bear with me. What if he comes back to our room after a 3-hour basketball practice, dripping in sweat? And his manly musk infiltrates my senses? What if I get up from my desk and turn around, only to run into his hot, heaving chest? The thought of trailing my eyes up past his pecs and throat before making electrifying eye contact chills me. When I push past that first revolting image of the sloppy make-out session, my skin and organs churn. Where, in an ecstasy of lust and passion, pressing ourselves against each other, consumed by primal urges, filling each other’s mouths with saliva desperately struggling for air.
And then what? Does the make-out session reach a climax where we can’t stand it anymore and begin to rip off each other’s clothes in hopes of joining flesh? Do we implicitly understand what’s coming next as he traces his rough hand softly down the divot of my back? Do I kneel down as he struggles to pull off his jeans due to the swiftly-risen, throbbing member, all the while running my hands against his muscular quads, trying to take every part of this experience in, fearful that I may wake up at any second and it all might be a dream? Ridiculous.
I will do everything in my power, anything I can think of to avoid this very hypothetical scenario. Like I previously mentioned, I am not gay, but I do really hope my roommate finds the help he needs– he probably thinks about this twisted scenario all of the time.
