Monkey Business

layla’s library libido

kimmy saves her boyfriend’s ass

jamie’s muse makes him miserable

russ is annoyed

layla’s new fantasy

kimmy boards the train to pain

jamie talks the talk

layla’s epiphany

russ gets busted (and drags kimmy down with him)

jamie’s rise to stardom

kimmy rationalizes her future

layla streaks

russ’s depression

layla sees the truth

some news for russ

jamie’s advice

kimmy’s ejection

layla’s birthday

sister kimmy

jamie’s mom knows best

russ has a fleeting regret

layla’s calling

closure for kimmy

layla claims her prince

summer break

kimmy’s elevator (#litres_trial_promo)

orientation (primarily academic)

Monday, September 1, 11:55 p.m.

kimmy’s big blunder

He aims, he shoots, he scores—all over my silk duvet.

“It’s okay. Not a big deal,” I lie.

“Give me two seconds, Kimmy, and I’ll be ready for round two.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I lie again.

And then he rolls over and passes out.

He’s sleeping, I’m still in my jeans, and my goose-feather duvet—a gift from my father and the only thing I own of any worth—has a puddle on it.

I can’t believe how gross this is. And to make matters worse, this guy I’ve chosen as my one-night stand—make that five-minute stand—is in my class. I can’t imagine spending the next ten minutes with him, never mind the next two years.

Besides being incapable of holding it in long enough to make it to the condom, a lesson the girls were supposed to teach him when he was an undergrad, he’s flabby, short and has a unibrow. Also his penis is smaller than my PDA, and that fits in the palm of my hand.

For the first time ever, my mother was right. I hate that. She nagged me to put a cover on my duvet, one nag among millions, but did I listen? No, not me. My reasoning? I liked the feel of the satin against my skin.

Apparently so did Jamie.

He’s comatose on top of my comforter, his jeans and checkerboard boxers bagging around his hairy thighs. His eyes are closed, his mouth slightly open, and a trail of drool leaks onto my pillow. Hasn’t he already soiled enough of my linen?

The devil-red numbers on the alarm clock beside my single bed say 12:01 a.m. Or is that 1:21? I can’t see too well, as I’m a bit on the dizzy side.

Okay, I admit it. Drunk dizzy.

Dread dribbles through my half-dressed body like nausea after one too many beers. From my uncomfortable position (back pressed up against the thin wooden wall, legs straight like a clothespin to avoid making contact with his), I analyze the situation’s gravity. There’s a balding, tire-around-the-middle, quasi-naked man in my bed. Correction, on my bed.

Oh, God, what did I do?

My class of two hundred is divided into three Blocks (aka sections), A through C, and all my classes are within the same Block. The way to impress my new classmates probably wasn’t to take one home the first night I’m here. Especially not one in my Block. Block B. It sounds like a prison.

His bloated lips are slightly open, his breath gentle and wet. This embarrassment will probably sit two rows behind me ten times a week. It’s going to be a long two years.

Why did I invite Jamie back to my room? Oh, right, I was trying not to think about Wayne. And I thought he could be my replacement boyfriend. I’ll give Jamie cute in a worn, teddy-bear sort of way. He said he was twenty-six, but he looks almost middle-aged. Like a forty-year-old who buys a Corvette and gets an earring to stay hip.

Spew all over my comforter is not cool. Okay, it’s not all over the comforter; it’s relegated to a one-inch Italy-shaped boot on the right side of the bed. But still, what am I going to do, bring it to the dry cleaner? Wash it in the sink? I don’t even have my own sink. I share three sinks with the thirty other people on my floor. I’m not Linus. I can’t start dragging my comforter around the dorm. I’ll have to wait until the middle of the night to sneak through the halls, covert-operation-like.

I have to pee. Too much beer. I swing my legs over the comatose body, onto the raggedy red-and-blue throw carpet, which was the first thing I unpacked when I arrived this morning. (I like a warm ground under my feet.) Then I blow out the potted candle on my desk. That was the second item I unpacked. Unfortunately, the wick didn’t get much of a workout tonight. I didn’t get much of a workout tonight, and you can blame that on his wick.

I open the closet door and disappear inside. The massive space reserved for my wardrobe is the anomaly of my minuscule eight-by-eight-foot room. My bed, desk and chair are squished practically on top of one another, yet my sweaters, jeans and shoes have a huge suite. Go figure. I don’t even like shopping.