His Housemate's Mate

In an effort to form a routine and perhaps make some friends in the city I’d recently moved to I joined the local swimming pool. Almost every day after work I would take the short walk from the office to the pools, have a swim, get changed, bus home, cook, eat, read for a while, then fall asleep. My interactions with my two housemates – strangers whose flat I’d found advertised online – were minimal; they were both a little older than me, and we all worked full time and tended to be too tired or busy to socialise much beyond common courtesies. This arrangement suited me well; I have always seen myself as a quiet type, preferring to spend my time with my books or my guitar.

One of my housemates, Linda, went away for a few weeks to house-sit a place belonging to some friends of her parents. The other flattie, Dominic, was alright really but in all honesty I found him a little eccentric and he likely found me to be rather dull, so when I came home after an invigorating (read: exhausting) evening swim one Tuesday I was pleased to find that I had the flat to myself.

Too spent to cook, I reheated some leftover quiche in the microwave and settled down on the living room sofa with a cup of tea and my novel. Just when I was becoming properly absorbed in the story – it was around 9 in the evening at this point – the front door clicked open and the hallway adjoining the living room was filled with sounds of drunken laughter and of coats and shoes being flung off.

“This is my roomie,” said Dominic, gesturing my way but not really looking at me. The friend he’d brought around, a pretty girl with long, shiny brown hair and a rather disagreeable felt beret perched herself on the arm of the sofa and began to introduce herself to me, flirtatious but only half attentive. She was clearly more interested in Dominic and whatever it was he was doing in the kitchen, making a racket looking for a corkscrew and wineglasses and pouring crisps and nuts into bowls. I was disappointed that my peace had been broken; anxious, given the bottle of wine being uncorked and the evident inebriation of the pair that my Tuesday night was going to be spent trying to ignore chatter and laughter passing through the thin wall between the living room and my bedroom, and more than a little self-conscious about my chlorine-matted hair.

As I rose from the sofa, collecting my empty plate and teacup and putting them in the dishwasher, I declined Dominic and the girl’s invitation for me to join in, which I felt was probably out of nicety rather than a genuine desire for my presence. I said goodnight and retreated to my bedroom. Sitting on my bed, I knew that it was too early for me to try to go to sleep; I would just wind up being disturbed by the noise from the next room. My book had lost its appeal, for I felt too tired now. More than this, I began to feel a nagging sense of being left out, and although I had no real interest in Dominic or the girl a part of me secretly yearned to fix my hair, moisturise my face, and go in and have a glass of wine.

As I sat thinking about what to do, I heard the front door open once again. I instinctually expected it to be Linda, who worked as a nurse and often came home late on weekdays, before I remembered that she was house-sitting. I reasoned with a light sense of dread that Dominic had probably invited more people around; yes, I had seen him bring out at least three wine glasses, and none of them for me. My logic was confirmed when I heard the light tread of the girl along the hallway outside my room, and then the sound of a loud kiss followed by the exchange of a hushed joke which I could not make out but which elicited hysterical fits of laughter from the girl and the new addition to the party.

Suddenly feeling both more nervous and somehow more emboldened, I waited for the new guest to be led to the living room, after which I went across the hall into the bathroom to comb my hair. I looked at myself in the mirror and felt rather handsome. The regular swimming and the increasingly sunny days as spring replaced winter had put colour in my face and some real brawn on my tall, lean frame. Feeling seduced by my reflection, I dabbed some cologne on my wrists and my neck, then went back to my room to put on a nice shirt and a woollen jumper.

Dominic looked a little annoyed when I re-entered the living room, clearly spruced up to join in, but he offered me a glass of wine nonetheless. I was too nervous to really take my surroundings in, but when I finally looked up from my little glass of Chablis my heart began to thump and my throat felt as though I had swallowed an oversized chunk of apple. On one side of the sofa sat the most gorgeous boy. Perhaps I had seen more conventionally handsome men in airports, libraries, the pools; but this one was in my house, and as he looked deep into my eyes I felt overcome with desire. Sprawled across the sofa with her head in the boy’s lap was the girl; her beret had been removed and he was gently stroking her immaculate hair. Dominic, plonking a new bottle of wine upon the coffee table and fiddling about with the wine knife at its foil cap, introduced the other boy as Peter. Peter nodded in my direction, but did not rise to shake my hand, his clearly occupied with the girl’s hair. I realised that I had already been told her name, but out of disinterest, swim-fatigue, and a desire to escape, I had ignored it.

“Easy tiger,” said Dominic, refilling my glass to the brim, but almost immediately I had finished that one as well, and soon I was helping myself to the wine, but not really talking or listening to the conversation, so distracted was I by Peter’s presence. In the few times I had the gut to look at him, I saw that he was very kind looking, of a similar age to Linda and Dominic (I am 22 and they are in their mid-twenties), but much more handsome than his friend, with long, thick brown hair that was tousled back over a middle part, a crisp white collar, a baby blue cashmere jumper, and grey cords. Everything about him seemed clean and soft, his floppy yet elegant hair, and little gold rings – one in his earlobe, and the other on one of is long, manicured fingers. Like the others he had removed his shoes at the door, and sitting across from me in his socks I felt that he appeared more at home in my living room than I did. Every fibre in me yearned to be in Olanthe’s position – I had by this stage inferred her name from the conversation – my head in his lap, my hair being caressed, feeling his torso contract as he laughed, and his cock separated from my face by mere corduroy.  

Before long the alcohol had taken its effect, and I no longer felt so apprehensive about joining in the conversation. We discussed all kinds of things; the books we were reading, politics, television series. It was Dominic who dominated the conversation from his armchair, and I found that he was actually quite funny, in a sort of drunken nonsensical way. Olanthe had by now risen from Peter’s lap, and was trifling through the kitchen looking for a lighter. Peter didn’t say much, which I found regrettable, because I felt awkward staring at him unless he was saying something. At last Olanthe found a light – one of those oversized ones used for gas stovetops and flambeeing desserts – and she and Dominic went outside for a smoke. Peter and I sat in silence for what felt like minutes. I tried to think of something – anything – to say, but before I had the opportunity he rose and said,

“Gotta take a slash.”

The very moment Peter left the room, I felt a wave of drunkenness wash over me, and sitting on the living room floor, I felt rather wretched. I decided to go to bed, to finally cut off my imposition on their night, and stood up only to fall right over. At that moment Peter came back into the room.

“Someone’s in the bathroom,” he said, and then, “Did you just fall over?”

I looked up at him, and felt tremendously embarrassed, and about to cry. I felt him staring down at me, but then he began to chuckle, and gave me his hand, helping me up. I felt that I was going to be sick, and escaped Peter’s clutch to go to the bathroom and be sick in the sink or the toilet. My connection between what Peter had just told me – that the bathroom was in use – and the projection of an immense quantity of sick from the depths in my bowels occurred in a muddled order, confused further by the fact that as I began to projectile vomit the bathroom door opened and I was sick all over Olanthe, who was coming out of the room with Dominic right behind her, zipping up his fly.

I cannot remember much of what happened after that, but when I woke to the sound of my morning alarm the next day, and later on the bus to work, my mind was occupied by nothing but a searing headache and the self-hatred I felt for having embarrassed myself, Dominic, Olanthe, and most vitally, the glorious Peter.

As I disembarked the bus and walked towards the office, I received a text from Dominic:

“Morning sunshine. Stellar performance last night, really didn’t expect that from you. Olanthe pissed off beyond belief”

I cringed, and felt I might be sick again, when he sent another text:

“In other news, Peter thinks you were a good laugh and said he found you “charming”, that boy truly has a fascinating taste in men, so presuming you are a homo, which whatever obscene cologne you had on last night suggests to me you are, let me know and I’ll give you his number lol”

And finally:

“p.s. Olanthe says you have to transfer her for dry cleaning. And feel free to replace one or more of the two bottles of Seguinot-Bordet you demolished last night. Xx”