The whole roommate situation is what one does when you’re young and don’t know any better, or poor and don’t have much choice. One sacrifices privacy, quiet and independence when everything you do in your own place has to be measured by how it impacts on someone else. I mean, who wants to put up with such impositions on your life? Not me. Unless of course that roommate is a certain girl named Carissa.
I still get weak when I conjure up her image, and that year when she and I were thrown together by circumstances. I was in my senior year at the university. My parents were paying a fortune for a tiny dorm room, so I convinced them to instead rent a two-bedroom townhouse near campus. I’d get a roommate to pay half the rent. It would be cheaper than the dorm, and I’d have a kitchen and more space.
My buddy Brad from the Poli Sci class agreed to share it. Everything was great until shortly before semester began, when he wrecked his motorcycle and broke a leg and a few other miscellaneous bones. He had to skip the semester while he healed. I needed to find another roommate, and fast. I posted notices all over campus and online, and got no takers. By that point, everyone had already settled on their housing.
My parents and I were really sweating. I was ready to rent to the first breathing person who expressed any interest. Then someone called from a notice I’d posted on a bulletin board in town.
“Hi. Are you the guy who’s got a room to rent?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“I’m Carissa. I need a place, and I need it immediately.”
“I can do that. Are you a student at the university?”
“No,” she replied. “I’m a waitress at the Twisted Corkscrew.”
I knew the restaurant. Sort of a dive, well deserving of the name.
She continued. “Is your house within the town limits?”
“Yes,” I answered. “Is that important to you?”
“Yes. The terms of my probation require that I live within the town.”
My heart sank. Oh my God. She’s on probation?
“Can I come out and see the place today?” she asked.
I guess I was being tested to see if I was really that desperate. I was.
“Sure. Let me give you the address.”
I didn’t know what to expect. Or how I’d discreetly find out why she was on probation.
What soon arrived was a very cute, 5′ 3″ bundle of curls and curves. Long red hair, a few freckles, nice breasts and tight jeans. Unless the probation was for murder, this was looking promising.
Carissa was all smiles and oohs and ahhs as she walked around the townhouse.
“This is really nice. I love it,” she said.
We discussed the rent, which she said was not a problem.
“So can I move in tomorrow?” she asked.
“Well,” I hemmed a little, “I do have one question first.”
“Oh, of course, you want to know why I’m on probation.”
“Er, yeah. I don’t want to pry, but I was a little curious.”
“It’s so silly,” she began. “My boyfriend — or I should say my ex-boyfriend after his stunt — and I were over in Overton Park one night. Just smooching a little on a park bench, drinking. He got the idea that we should skinny dip in the lake. I occasionally do crazy stuff, so I shouldn’t blame him completely, but he talked me into it. So, we stripped and ran into the water. We were swimming, being louder than we should have been, considering, and someone called the police. When my boyfriend saw the blue lights coming into the park, he swam toward the shore, grabbed his clothes and ran off into the bushes. I was swimming in the other direction and didn’t realize immediately what was happening. By the time I got to my clothes, the cops were there. I didn’t make it. They arrested me for indecent exposure. The judge ordered me on probation for 6 months, and if I’m good, then they’ll drop the charges.”
I wanted to kiss her. If ever there was a best-case scenario for renting to someone on probation, that was it.
The townhouse’s two bedrooms were upstairs, with one bathroom between them. Each bedroom had a door into the bathroom, and you’d just lock the other bedroom’s door for privacy when you were using the facilities. Unlock the door when you left. Easy. Unless you’re forgetful. Which, as it turned out, I was.
I helped Carissa move her stuff in. It wasn’t much really.
Being a waitress, she had a varying schedule. Real late nights on the weekends, flexible times during the week. But she was reliable, friendly to the customers, and the tips were good. She was never late with the rent.
When we were home together, sometimes we’d watch movies, but in truth we moved in different circles. I was a college kid, she a working girl. I had a girlfriend, Eva, who would visit occasionally. Carissa was between boyfriends. The jerk from the lake called her, trying to get back together, but she said she was off men for a while. Hard to blame her.
The problems, if you can call them that, arose from Carissa’s lack of inhibition. The skinny-dipping story should have warned me. My girlfriend freaked out the first time we arrived home and Carissa was in just a bra and panties, doing laundry. Carissa had a much better body than Eva, and I think Eva was intimidated. And then there was the vibrator. Carissa used one. I didn’t care, but when Eva and I were sitting on the sofa one night, the telltale sound of a vibrator, along with muffled moans coming from the other room, were the last straw. Eva said I must be a sex fiend if I was okay living with that. We split.
And then there was the first time I saw Carissa naked. As I said, we shared the bathroom. More times than I should have, I’d forget to unlock the bathroom door to her bedroom after I left, meaning that Carissa had to pass through my bedroom to get into the bathroom. She was going to take a shower, and found her door locked. She knocked to see if I was in there, but I was in my room with headphones on and didn’t hear her. So, she marched into my bedroom — without knocking, mind you — wearing just a towel thrown over her shoulder.
“Charlie, I’m going to slash your tires if you keep forgetting to unlock the door after you use the bathroom,” she said angrily.
I would have apologized, but I was too focused on her naked body, those beautiful rounded breasts and curvaceous hips centered with soft red pubic hair.
“My God, you’re beautiful,” was what I actually blurted out.
She smiled. My admiration defused her anger.
“Well, I’m glad you’re an admirer. If you want to ogle my body, just ask. You don’t have to lock the bathroom door to make me walk in here.”
And she went into the bathroom to take her shower.
Over the next few days, her words echoed in my mind. “If you want to ogle my body, just ask.” Was she serious? I hadn’t considered her as more than a paying roommate. Perhaps it was a little snobbery on my part. She was a waitress; I was a serious student studying computer science. We didn’t have much in common.
But now my focus changed. When she wore just a normal t-shirt, with her breasts pressing against the material, I recalled how they looked bare. I was conscious of the shape of her hips in those jeans and the treasures beneath. I breathed in the perfume she wore (usually when going to work — she said it helped with tips). And on those occasions when at night I’d hear the sound of the vibrator, I fantasized what she was doing. I was becoming obsessed. I had to act. But what to do?
I decided to drop little clues about my interest. I began watching TV in my underwear, so she’d see my muscular chest and a hint of what was behind the fabric. I put on an R rated movie with lots of sex, on a night when we were watching TV together, to see her reaction.
She was friendly, as one would be with any house mate. But my indirect attempts to spark an interest in her were going nowhere.
Finally, I decided that since I was no longer in high school, I needed to stop acting like I was. I would confront her directly. But when? How?
“I want to see you naked,” was what I said to her. Not subtle, but I was going crazy.
“I beg your pardon?” she replied.
“You told me, if you want to ogle my body, just ask. Well, I’m asking. Please. I need this.”
Pretty pathetic. By all rights, she should have brushed me off.
“You’re serious?” she asked.
“I’ll understand perfectly if you tell me to get lost. I don’t deserve better. But I want to see you naked.”
She studied my face. I could tell she was considering it.
“And then what?” she asked.
“That would be enough. Although I know you masturbate. I hear you. I could be of assistance.”
“Well,” she said. “Aren’t you mother’s little helper.”
I deserved the mockery. I think I’m a normal guy, who’s had normal relationships with women. This was not normal. But it was what I needed.
“Okay”, was all she said.
Okay? What did that mean?
“Right now?” she asked.
“Yes.”
And she began to unbutton her blouse. I stared transfixed, as the blouse was loosened, revealing the bra beneath. The breasts swelled over the top of the bra, a hint of what was to come. She let the blouse fall to the ground. And reached behind her back to unclasp the bra. Those beautiful, full breasts appeared. Round globes, with hard nipples surrounded by pink areola, soft and reaching out to me. She unbuttoned the pants, let down the zipper, and shook them to the floor. She stood clad now only in clinging white panties.
“Why don’t you take them off,” she asked me. “Isn’t that what you’d want?”
I just nodded feebly, and knelt before her, gripping the panties on each side. I slide them to the floor. She was nude. I was face to face with her flat stomach, and those wispy, tantilizing red pubic hairs that were etched onto my memory.
I reached behind to grab her buttocks, but she stopped me.
“You wanted to see me naked. I’ve agreed. I’m not willing to go beyond this, at least not now,” she said.
I nodded. Yes, of course.
She walked around the apartment naked that evening. Unconcerned, not flaunting herself but not hiding either. It was I masturbated in bed later that evening.
I didn’t know what to expect the next day. Would she be a permanent nudist? Would she hate me? Had I made a fool of myself? (I was pretty sure that was true.)
Carissa acted completely normal that morning. She got her breakfast, watered some plants, did all the usual activities. I did the same. We did not talk about what had happened the night before. I went to classes. She worked the lunch shift at the restaurant.
It wasn’t until later that night that our arrangement became clear.
“It’s your turn,” she said to me.
“What?”
“It’s your turn to be nude. I want to see your body,” she said.
I had not considered this. I’ve been naked with women before but they were naked too. She was asking me to disrobe while she kept her clothes on. And watch me.
“You want to ogle my body?” I asked.
“Well, I’m not sure if ogle is the right word, but yes, I want to see you naked. You’ve seen me. Twice. Am you embarrassed?”
“Isn’t this weird,” I asked. “Are we dating now?”
She laughed. “No, I wouldn’t say this is a date. It’s reciprocity. It’s us being equals. I am not your play toy.”
Damned women’s liberation. But she was right. I nodded.
I pulled off my shirt. She watched. I took off my shoes, and loosened my blue jeans. She stood there, observing. I took off the pants. I was now just wearing my underpants. I have a nice body. I’m a runner, lean, muscular. But the idea of being observed, of being judged, was nerve racking. And exciting. My penis began to harden within the underpants. She watched.
I removed the underpants. I had to, as the penis was stretching the fabric out, screaming to be free. I stood there with a full erection, breathing, more like panting.
“Good. Now let’s watch TV,” she said.
So, it was to be a normal evening. I’d just be naked as she had been, the night before. With time, my erection faded. I was not as nonchalant as she was in the same situation, but I passed the evening without clothes.
“For what it’s worth,” she said to me, “I like your body too.”
We each went to our own bedroom.
We didn’t “ogle” each other for a few days. But periodically one would ask the other to get naked. A request always granted. Quickly, however, reciprocity turned it into “no-clothes” evenings for both of us. We were becoming nudists. But while nudism has its delights and freedom, repetition breeds familiarity. I always enjoyed seeing her body, but the excitement of first observing another person naked can’t be replicated day after day. We needed something else. Or at least I needed something else.
Then serendipity stepped in.
Carissa’s vibrator ran on batteries. And batteries don’t last forever. One night, when she went to bed, I heard her cursing in the bedroom. She came out of the room, and went to our junk drawer.
“Don’t we have any more batteries?” she asked. She had the vibrator in her hand.
“Must be some in there,” I answered.
But she searched and there were not.
“Carissa, I once made you a suggestion,” I said. “The offer still stands. With no strings.” She knew perfectly well what I was referring to.
She stood there for a long time, looking at me. “This would take us to a whole new level,” she said. “You’re a nice guy, but I am not looking for any commitment. It would just be sex. Could you handle that?”
“Absolutely,” I replied.
“You better do a good job. You could be replaced at any time by 4 AA batteries.” She was smiling.
I laughed. “Automation is a constant threat in the job market,” I said. “I’ll try to keep myself from that fate.”
We went into her bedroom. She removed her clothes and stretched out on the bed. I lay next to her, my hand resting on her chest. I began gently massaging the breasts, circling the nipples, bringing them into my mouth. I sucked on them, using my tongue to stimulate them to hardness. I moved my hand down to the stomach, to the abdomen, then using both hands to stroke alongside the thighs, coming close to the vagina but not touching it. Teasing her, waiting for her to beg me to touch the center of her sensitivity. When she moaned her desire, I rubbed up and down the lips of the vagina, a finger penetrating into her, then retreating back out. In and out. In and out. She lay there with large eyes watching me, moaning and grabbing my head with both hands, bringing it close to her. Finally, she closed her eyes and let herself surrender to the pleasure. I slowly increased the rhythm of the friction on her private spot, on the clitoris, until she shuddered and give a small cry as an orgasm swept over her.
“So how did I do?” I asked.
“I’m going to save a fortune on batteries,” she replied.
This became our new routine. On occasions one or both of us would strip for the other. That was followed frequently by a visit to the bedroom, where I would accommodate her — or she me. Yes, reciprocity runs both ways. But guys are easy. A hand on our sensitive parts is all that is needed for the penis to leap forward in anticipation. She would massage my testicles and my erection, slowly squeezing semen from me as I shook with the charge of sexual release.
Then we’d each go to our separate bedrooms. We did not have intercourse. We were not lovers. Rather, we were roommates with needs. As time went on, we each found boyfriends and girlfriends. We dated them, with all that that entails. But there would always be occasions when one person needed a sexual urge satisfied. And we were there for each other.
My parents had initially been a little dubious when they learned that my roommate was a girl. I told them we were not lovers, just roommates. I never extrapolated as to what that term meant. They were pleased that she always paid her rent on time.
After the year was up, I graduated. I moved back home. Carissa, long freed from probation, moved to another town with a fellow she had been seeing. We never saw each other again. And I’ve never had another roommate. I’m sure no one else could live up to my expectations.