ROWDY ROOMIE
He moved into my apartment on a humid Friday, shoulders like boulders under a jersey, grin too big for the doorway. I’m quiet, bookish, adult, allergic to chaos. He’s a muscled storm. By Sunday our place looked like a sports bar exploded: shaker bottles, dumbbells, posters, a lava lamp bubbling.
He likes to juggle things when he talks—apples, socks, the basketball. Half the time he drops them. He laughs and says, “Dude, chill.” I try. But I keep making lists, he keeps making messes, and the air smells like cologne and something wicked.
The first time I called him out, I was waving a greasy takeout bag like a white flag. “You left this in the sink,” I said. He looked me up and down, slow as syrup, then peeled off his jersey. No ceremony. Just that thick neck, those ridiculous arms, and a smirk like he’d caught me staring—because I had. He stepped close. “You sure you want me to stop being rowdy?” he asked, voice soft and teasing.
I froze. He kept undressing anyway, cap turned backward, hips rolling like a dare. He climbed onto my lap and kissed me sloppy, sweet, and hungry. My brain fizzed. The world shrank to heat and breath and the thud of the basketball against the wall. He pressed my hands to his waist and whispered, “Tell me I’m a mess.”
I did. Then he started to ride me and I tried to fight back but he went grinding harder, riding me like a showoff. He ground his ass against me, taking my cock deep, moaning with every thrust. We knocked over the lamp and didn’t care.
After, sweaty and dizzy, he grinned and stole my water bottle. “See? Cleaning can wait,” he said, and padded naked to the shower like some smug saint of chaos. I stared at the overturned chair and thought: I might be doomed.
It kept happening. He’d juggle oranges, drop one, and I’d say, “Please stop fooling around.” He’d strip, flex in the crooked mirror, and pop onto the bed with a gym bounce.
I’d scold, he’d laugh, and then we’d fuck until the sheets looked like we’d wrestled a thunderstorm. Sometimes he’d pin my wrists, gentle but firm, and ride me reverse, his tight ass milking my cock. Sometimes he’d make me hold his cap while he fucked on top with the grin of a quarterback who knows he’s scoring. Always he checked my eyes for a nod.
One night he came home from pickup ball, jersey clinging, thighs pumped, cheeks pink. He dumped his gym bag, kicked his shoes under the table, and juggled two protein bars and a banana like a circus.
I said, “You’re impossible.”
He said, “Wanna punish me?” and let everything fall. The bars skittered. The banana rolled like a comet. He undressed, climbed me, and we fucked while the shower hissed. He took me deep, his ass gripping me tight, begging for more with every bounce.
I used to think love was tidy. Now I know it’s a pile of laundry that smells like him, and a roommate who rides me whenever I dare to complain. So I keep complaining. And he keeps being gloriously rowdy.
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