Florida Agenda

By JUSTIN JONES

Let me start this week with a fun fact about you and me: We are all social and, no matter how fervently some will deny it, we crave acceptance. Not by everyone, of course. I, for example, take no issue in being left out of fantasy football leagues (or terrorist cells).

Generally speaking, we want people to like us. Were this not the case, we’d make no sacrifices for our friends, and their charity towards us would dry up. Nor would we likely find partners, keep decent jobs, or dress the way we do. Even those who consider themselves “outsiders” living on the fringe aim to find solidarity: The fringe “community” wouldn’t exist were there no “community” with which to so label it.

That we are inherently social creatures is a good thing (it’s gotten our species this far). But some take the license too far—some feel that they MUST be liked by everyone. The cliché is to label these types as “People-Pleasers,” but I prefer to call them “douchebags.”

If you MUST be liked by everyone (and sometimes it’s hard not feeling that way), there are two possible routes: 1) You lose all personality traits—and ticks—that might be considered even mildly controversial (and thus affect a bland, lukewarm personality); or, 2) You become a disingenuous chameleon whose personality is lost behind all the masks you wear. Whatever route you chose, you are not being “you,” and so failure is the eventual end.

If you wish to be liked by everyone, you must dedicate the rest your life to it. You must never speak out of turn (unless present-company enjoys it). You must act with high regard to even those with whom you disagree (unless a challenge is what they’re after). You must place the considerations of others above your own, and give reverence to others’ wishes or expectations—even with trivialities (small things build with time, you know).

And in all of this, at every turn, you will be met with dilemmas, such as when you’re faced with two or more people who have wildly different expectation—situations from which you must always excuse yourself, or else risk being exposed as a social deceiver.XXX Yes, your goal must be to please everyone all the time, either through proactive forms of lying (“OMG—I love all the same things you love!”), or total complacency. And despite all your “best” efforts, you will still fail. There will be instances when you disappoint your “friends,” no matter how hard you try.

Even more devastating to People-Pleasers are those annoyingly “perceptive” people who see through your veil and dislike you for allowing your “self” to slip away into an endless existence of catering to the sensibilities of others.

A Public Service Announcement to People Pleasers: Nobody pays your bills! Be yourself if you want to find people who LOVE you, not pity you. (I’m Justin Jones, and I approve of this message.)

Justin Jones, 26, is a writer based in Minneapolis. In addition to his column “Love Jones,” Justin pens “Through
These Eyes,” a bi-weekly column for Lavender Magazine. He writes about things like being alive, being in love, and
drinking too much. Facebook.com/JustinJonesWriter.

By Justin Jones

I’m writing this to you as I sit on my bed with a Pillow Pet (Winnie the Pooh), surrounded by a million-billion pillows, while I listen to the soundtrack of “Beasts of the Southern Wild.” I’m sick as a dog, and tomorrow’s gonna suck, and my complaining to you makes me feel better.

When my alarm wakes me up tomorrow, I’ll scream, “PLEASE, NO! I WANT TO STAY IN BED!” and my boyfriend will roll over, his sleep only slightly disturbed. I’ll whine to myself until I’m finished with my shower, and my medication courses through my body (I’m a vitamin-obsessed epileptic, if you must know).

And through this torturous routine I wade every Monday through Friday, working toward some end: To feed and clothe myself, I guess. (And to give myself shelter and money for alcohol: All equally important things, truly.)

Did you see that? Look what I just did there: I painted a banal picture of my life (and maybe yours, too). But our lives aren’t really that plain, are they? They’re peppered with things called “memories” that we treasure, “dreams” to which we aspire, and “loves” which we nourish—the things that make life worth living, but only when we have time to remember, pursue, and cultivate. Otherwise, life is largely a balancing of routine and boredom.

Think about it. Of all the times you’ve brushed your teeth, how many do you remember? How about all the times you’ve waited at traffic lights? Or slept? Or ate? Or paid bills? (Any routine will do.) How much of your memory, of your life, comes from routine?

Life is defined by a few extraordinary moments, rare slits in the fabric of our otherwise totally ordinary, and arguably obsolete, realities. It sounds like I’m writing a suicide note, but no I’ll spare you the fanfare.

These observations, however bleak they seem, have no dominion over the quality of my life. They aren’t depressors to me. They are liberators.

We have memories because they are special to us. Were everything to be so special, it’d all wash out because we’d have no basis which to compare what one considers “special”—and then our lives really would be crappy.

Here’s how I see it: if I’m doing something routine that I won’t remember anyway, I do it “strange.” I hum the McDonalds theme song loudly at the grocery store. I say “BAM” when I have nothing left to say. I sneak random quirks into some of my writing (like describing what I’m doing, or when I’m drinking, or where I’m sitting, or when I’m peeing).

I won’t remember doing any of these things because I do them so frequently, but I guarantee you that on more than one occasion my mildly amusing/strange habits have caused someone to go home and tell his spouse about that odd boy he heard singing to himself in the freezer section. So while I haven’t created a “memory” for myself, per se, I’ve done something akin to it for someone else.

And if not, who cares? I won’t remember it anyway.

Justin Jones, 25, is a writer based in Minneapolis. In addition to his column lovejones, Justin pens Through These Eyes, a bi-weekly column for Lavender Magazine. He writes about things like being alive, being in love, and drinking too much. Facebook.com/JustinJonesWriter

This bathroom was spotless only moments ago: My boyfriend’s model sailboat carefully polished, every water stain on my mirror gone, and my counter empty. But now it’s a different scene: The countertop has a quarter-inch of hairspray covering it, hair wax begins to dry around the drain in the sink, and the place is littered with a hairbrush, a flat iron, and a halfempty, uncapped bottle of cologne. My closet will soon be in a similar state, consisting of a colossal pile of outfits that I’ll try on and reject. What a mess! How quickly does getting ready for a night out reverse the hard work I put into cleaning in the first place. And what fun it will be to clean it again tomorrow. Hungover.

The funny thing about it, after all this trouble—after spending hundreds on a new outfit, agonizing over whether or not to even wear it, spending even more on booze for a pre-party, painstakingly going through every contact in my phone to make sure all the right people were invited—I look at myself in the mirror and realize: I don’t even want to go out.

When we were younger, we co-signed a metaphorical pledge with ourselves: We would spend every night out on the town, taking it by storm, whisking it away to wherever we wanted it to go.

We ignored what we did to our bodies, we paid no mind to how ridiculous we sounded to our mature friends, and we heeded not the advice of our elders. We soaked ourselves in cologne, spent hours doing our hair, and spent money we didn’t have on clothes. We did so with integrity and conviction. THIS is who we are, we thought.

By JUSTIN JONES

Of course, when we got a little older— when our bodies took more time to recover, when we found “big boy” jobs and started caring about our friends more than ourselves—we settled down a bit. We laughed at our former crazy ways, professed a “new me”—a cliché to convey our newfound maturity—and then took it upon ourselves to find a new path, one that led toward settling down with the Love of our Life (he’d come one day), and the family we’d share.

My “new me” was born several years ago. I was finishing my bachelor’s degree, I had found the love of my life, and before long I’d be forever in his arms. “Going out” wouldn’t do anymore.

Inevitably, I occasionally relapsed into that former behavior, but not like it was before—the “old me” was a strange, amusing caricature of the new. Or at least that’s what I thought.

Now here I am, staring at the mess I’ve made in my bathroom. Twenty-six years old. I’m dating the man of my dreams. I have a wonderful job. I host dinner parties. I’m a real adult! Right?

Wrong. There’s still that teenage-era mess in my bathroom and in my closet. Who did this? Was there ever actually a “new me?” I reflect the next day while I’m folding the clothes in my closet, and I affirm my suspicions: There never was a “new me,” after all. I just matured enough to appreciate what my teenage self had missed out on, the people who make my life important.

I guess we never really grow up; we just get better at pretending.

By Justin Jones

He throws me to the bed, hops on top of me, and kisses me. He pulls away to tell me I’m beautiful, tickling my neck with his scruff. I play innocent, he plays captor. He holds me down and nibbles my ear. My body flushes with adrenaline.

We’re home after dinner (and a few glasses of wine). The scent is deliciously Parisian: We’ve come from a French restaurant, and I can smell the alcohol on our breath, the food on our clothes, and our mingling cologne. A fragrant romance. Yes, I am cliché.

We roll around on my bed, somewhere between tickle-fighting and full-blown sex, but before the passion crests, we pause to freshen ourselves up. As romantic as are the scents we collected tonight, they don’t taste good. OK, maybe the wine does. But at the very least, a tooth-brushing is necessary. We stop to brush our teeth and wash our faces, and we joke as we do. He pinches my butt through my underwear. We make silly faces in the mirror. The break tempers our lust. Afterward, we lay down in bed, reading books and playing on our computers for a while. We kiss occasionally, but nothing like it was post-dinner.

Finally, he shuts off his computer and kisses my neck. He’s ready for bed, but I postpone: “Just a few more pages,” I say, wanting to finish the chapter. I kiss his forehead; and he’s asleep by the time I finish. I turn off my bedside lamp, and slip beside him.

“Look at us”, I think, snuggled in the dark next to him. We’ve been dating only a couple of months, and it feels like we’ve been together forever. We read in bed after romantic dinners, and snuggle instead of—well, instead of doing what you would otherwise think a newly-minted, honeymoon-soaked couple would do in the infancy of a romance. I turn to my side and find his arm to wrap it around me. He squeezes me, and we drift asleep.

Make no mistake: Lust still makes her appearances, but not like before—and not like with past bedfellows, for which the sex was both the goal and trivial. Sex with him is different. “Dalliance” is nowhere implied. It’s more about restraint and sensuality. To put it plainly, it’s a ton of foreplay, which is often just as pleasing (for its more explosive, satisfying finale).

Morning comes and we cuddle in silence. I complain about work. And we get silly. He tickles to awaken me. I try to avoid his kisses—I don’t want him tasting or smelling my morning breath—and we roll around until we’re wide awake and out of breath.

I’m on my back, panting from our play, and he’s on top of me, looking at me, brushing my hair back. He isn’t looking at my eyes. He’s—studying me. It makes me uncomfortable, feel awkward. I think: “He’s looking for a new wrinkle, another blemish, a reason— some kind of detail—to stop liking me.” “Why do you look at me all over like that?” I ask. “Because I like looking at you,” he responds. “It makes me feel insecure,” I say, and I recall how I cower from my own face when seen in one of those obnoxious magnification mirrors. In the morning light I must look terrible. He says, “I think you’re beautiful.”

And so there IT is:

That awkward moment when he’s looking at you, and you’re insecure. That awkward moment when you find yourself falling asleep without NEEDING sex. That awkward moment when you stop to catch your breath, when.

Justin Jones, 25, is a writer based in Minneapolis. In addition to his column lovejones, Justin pens Through These Eyes, a bi-weekly column for Lavender Magazine. He writes about things like being alive, being in love, and drinking too much. Facebook.com/JustinJonesWriter.

By Justin Jones

Bottoming is a lot of work. Being a promiscuous bottom is a WHOLE lot of work (I know this from past experience). Attention to anal hygiene is time well spent, of course—no one wants an accident—but still, it gnaws away at time one might spend doing something more pleasurable, namely: Partying, cuddling, eating, sleeping, cleaning the fridge, walking on hot coals— or doing just about absolutely anything else. For me, the task ranks with folding laundry for the superlative “Most Burdensome.”

I suppose most of us have our own style when it comes to this necessity. For me—to be sure extra-spotless—30 minutes to an hour is required lead-time. This carries over from my days as a slut, when the task had greater frequency (and required more detail), and thus took up even more time. I’ve calculated how much time I’ve spent doing this over the years, and it’s comparable to the total time I’ve spent at traffic lights, or walking to classes (from elementary school all the way through college).

I’m not obsessive about this, mind you, although my attention to the details of the subject has cost me considerable hours of foreplay, and the price I’ve paid in spontaneous romance has been dear. Still, I derive no pleasure in the preparation (as a chef might, say, basting his turkey—although I am a stickler for cleanliness in the kitchen).

When I was with my ex several years ago, I made sure to anticipate the need. I’d wake up before him to perform maintenance (he enjoyed morning bouts), and I’d prep myself before he returned home from work. The system—his libido was so predictable—allowed me to successfully navigate almost never having to excuse myself, Pre-Main Event. Of course, this wasn’t always the case: In a few instances, he surprised me, and—having tempered his lust, so I could get ready for him— we would engage (although the loss of spontaneity made the engagements less passionate).

I bring this up because I met someone recently, an obvious and self-admittedly promiscuous bottom about my age, who said he’d never cleaned himself there. (I can’t recall how the conversation turned in this direction, but he was interested to know more.) How do you do it? He asked me, his eyes wide with wonder.

It occurred to me then that he wasn’t alone—that many young men pursue their bottomness without knowledge of a staple of the Gay Collective Consciousness: Douching. In a way, I envied him. What an effort it takes to go through so much trouble (time and time again) for so much pleasure. (The agony and ecstasy—the agony and ecstasy.)

I walked him through the process: Every time-consuming, graphic detail, just as had been taught to me (albeit at a much younger age), and he took notes on his iPhone, on both the process and name brands.

Cute, I thought, now I’ve made Colt more money. S o , yeah, it’s a burden. But so is f o l d i n g l a u n d r y.

And I’m still waiting for someone to teach me how to do that. Regardless, my closet’s still clean.

Justin Jones, 25, is a writer based in Minneapolis. In addition to his column lovejones, Justin pens Through These Eyes, a bi-weekly column for Lavender Magazine. He writes about things like being alive, being in love, and drinking too much. Facebook.com/JustinJonesWriter.

By Justin Jones

I was a slut when I was younger. A big one. I documented my sexual escapades while I lived them—some mind-blowing, others boring, a few frightening, and a very few, well, simply … scarring. My experiences affected me like practice does for most people: It made me better.

Malcolm Gladwell famously (and controversially) popularized the 10,000- Hour Rule in his book, “Outliers:” That the masters of any field—from Michael Phelps in a swimming pool, to The Beatles on a stage— spend enormous amounts of time on their craft in order to achieve greatness. Maybe I’m not great, but I feel like I had 10,000 hours worth of experience in promiscuity.

I recently revisited my journals from a summer when I had a particularly explosive libido, and I discovered a few nuggets of naïve, narcissistic wisdom, and random commentary. An unedited glimpse into the thoughts of a young slut, on the loose in South Florida, follows:

1. WTF is “sounding?” Is he asking me to ‘sound’ like something? This guy, he asked me if I was into sounding. Sounding like what?

2. We upgraded from dial-up recently. AOL, m4m, watch the f** out!

3. This guy bought me roses tonight. No one’s ever done that. I hope he isn’t expecting to date me. We’re having dinner tomorrow.

4. Dear Future Me: Don’t sleep with guys who say they want to give you a “strawberry shortcake.” They’re not being sweet.

5. Was at an after-party till noon today. Laying on the beach now. Guy in front of me was at the party with his partner. They look so … regular. They didn’t look like that last night, those crazy bitches. I look like sh** right now. Wonder what that means about how I looked last night?

6. Big rich man wanted to take me on a date tonight. I said yes. “Family emergency” came up for him. Can’t he hire someone to take care of it? It’s Friday.

7. Can’t get “Castles in the Sky” out of my head. I’ve been dancing to it all day. This sh** it HOT.

8. That guy was a “grower” after all. Not sure I’ll be able to walk again.

9. Won a strip contest tonight. I promised a few guys BJs if I won. Needless to say, my exit was quick and discreet. I got an offer to do porn, though!

10. Been thinking about the porn thing. I wish I could stay down here and not go to college. Hm: Study all day, or have sex all day? It’s gonna suck when I have to leave.

11. There are so many houseboys down here. This guy offered to give me a try. I think I’ll test it out. Staying at his place a couple nights this week.

12. Tried the houseboy thing. I actually have to clean? No thanks.

13. I did it to myself. I wore underwear and a dog collar to a party last night, and got roughed up pretty good by a pervert. Think I’m done going out for a while.

14. Why leather? Just tie me up already.

15. I’ve been here the whole summer. It’s hard to say goodbye, but I can’t sustain this lifestyle. I leave tomorrow. I bet I’ll look back on all this one day and laugh my ass off.

Justin Jones, 25, is a writer based in Minneapolis. In addition to his column lovejones, Justin pens Through These Eyes, a bi-weekly column for Lavender Magazine. He writes about things like being alive, being in love, and drinking too much. Facebook.com/JustinJonesWriter.

By Justin Jones

I spent every summer as a teenager in Fort Lauderdale. From the first of June through the middle of August, I indulged in your beaches, in your clubs, and with your boys. Fort Lauderdale then was my escape—an annual breath of fresh air from my confined (and closeted) existence in North Carolina. You were my Disney World: a magical place, I deemed, where what made me different in North Carolina—my sexuality—made me desirable.

These were the days of Cathode Ray and Coliseum (where I spent an exceptional 18th birthday, I might add), before social media took its hold: A time when partygoers dressed up and played just because —rather than pretending and over-glamorizing for the cameras. The atmosphere was raw, candid, intense… and wonderful. I marveled at, and envied the openness of Fort Lauderdale.

I wrote private stories to myself: endless fantasies of what I’d do if I lived there full time. I’d extend the novelty of my summers—lazy, alcohol-soaked, sex-infused—beyond the season and into the rest of the year. True confession: I lost my backdoor virginity in Fort Lauderdale. And, through a multitude of trials and errors with too many men, I found out my “type” there— and what activities I enjoyed doing most with that “type.”

I would later apply this learning when my slutdom came to its frenzied finale, and at last I found someone with whom to commit. Don’t let this recollection dictate to you how I remember Lauderdale-in-sum. It may sound like superficiality drove my love for the city. OK—well, you’re right. It WAS superficial then. At least I thought it was. But something happened one day.

Something inside told me I was in love with Fort Lauderdale not because of the boys and the booze, but for another, more profound reason. I started growing up, and when I was 19, I realized that Fort Lauderdale wasn’t just a threedimensional wonderland. Fort Lauderdale was the place that gave me… me.

The party life dominated my Fort Lauderdale experience in my youth. Summers there were annual two-and-ahalf- month-long orgasms, releasing pentup aggression and denial of my sexuality. I had to cram 12 months of self-discovery every year into a single summer. It was the only place I felt wholly myself. I still hold Fort Lauderdale in high esteem; it’s one of my favorite cities in the world.

For those of you rolling your eyes and lamenting your own Fort Lauderdale experience with opinions like, “Honey, there is just too much drama here,” or “Girl, this town is too fake,” or what have you, don’t be so quick.

For at least one boy from the south, your town was an Emerald City. So, yes, Fort Lauderdale gave me who I am: It’s where I evolved from a frightened, naïve boy from North Carolina, to a trial-by-fire uber-mess, to someone who makes his way writing commentary on how we—us young, stillgrowing- up gays—see each other.

I’ll make a trip back soon, sweet Lauderdale. We have some catching up to do.

By Justin Jones

My ex was cruel. And hot. And masculine. And mean. And [insert any positive adjective here]. And [insert any negative adjective here]. He possessed a blend of the most wonderful—as well as the most tragic— qualities one might imagine an ex having: Enough good in him to fall in love with, and keep me hooked, and enough bad in him to cry over (and keep me hooked).

Above anything else, though, he was smart. He wasn’t an intellectual by any stretch, but his common sense and chessstrategist- like thinking was impressive. He knew, for example, how to disarm me in any argument. I called it his “Cowboy Maxim.” “Who is that?” I question him in bed one morning. He’s leaning off the edge and texting someone. Silence. “WHO are you texting?!” I ask, more forcefully.

I suspect he’s cheating on me. The notion calls for sleepless nights, but my distrust isn’t enough for me to break up with him. I am in love, after all. He doesn’t respond, and still he texts. I grab his shoulder and lightly smack his arm. “BRADLEY! Are you texting that boy I saw you with?” He turns toward me and kisses my lips. He tickles my neck with his scruff. I’m pissed, of course, but I can’t help but laugh.

I resort to punching his arm to get him off me (an act that he thinks is cute, which further infuriates me). He suddenly jumps off the bed and runs into his walk-in closet. I’m left by myself, my sides hurting from laughing. I sit up, frustrated, and suddenly very weary. I’m insanely jealous now, and whether it’s the boy with whom he’s cheating on me, or his mother, he knows his silence as to the question of whom he was texting pisses me off.

“BRADLEY!” I yell. “Please tell me you weren’t texting that boy.” “I wasn’t texting that boy,” he says happily from his closet. This angers me even more. “No, tell me the truth! Were you texting him or not?” There is a silence, and then from the closet he emerges wearing only underwear, cowboy boots, and a cowboy hat: a combination that, for whatever reason, never ceases to cure my peeve.

He smiles at me as he walks over to the bed. “Why, hello there, young man,” he says in an exaggerated western accent. He puts one leg up on the bed. The shift in weight emphasizes his muscular thighs. UGH. Why does he have to do this? Can’t he see that I’m mad and that I wanna stay mad?! He does this all the time, sometimes with flowers in hand. I can’t pinpoint what it is about him in this moment.

He’s still the man who pissed me off moments ago. But the scene is too seductive. I fall for it every time. He kneels on the bed, and the scene gets graphic. An hour later, he’ll be holding me. I will have forgotten that I was ever mad. And he will continue to be him, the man with the Cowboy Maxim.

By Justin Jones

So there you are, sitting in front of your computer with your jeans around your ankles, your underwear at your thighs, one hand on a mouse pad, and the other on your 21st digit. The laptop’s bluish glow is the only source of light in your bedroom: it illuminates the soaking wet end of the t-shirt bunched up in your mouth (you had to keep it out of the way of your hand, after all).

You don’t want anyone else in your apartment building to hear the animalistic sounds that emanate from the porn that’s playing on your computer (although you DO want to make sure that YOU hear every graphic detail), so you’re wearing headphones.

And how ironic the whole scene is. The measures you’ve taken to hide your self-pleasure—right down to making sure the blinds in your bedroom are closed in just the right direction, so the neighbors can’t peer in—are the very measures that have given you away.

You don’t know, for instance, that the glow cast by your monitor creates a vivid silhouette on your blinds for the benefit of the curious outside. Nor did you anticipate your headphones disguising the sounds of laughter right outside your window. No, as careful as you were, those details went unnoticed.

Thankfully, you have a roommate who cares. After hearing laughter outside your building, he investigates. He finds the scene troubling—possibly even embarrassing—to you. After seeing the frenzied shadow-show projected onto your blinds, he nobly attempts to inform you that you’re being watched (and mocked). He tries knocking at your bedroom door—which, of course, you can’t hear. So he knocks louder.

When you realize someone is at your door, you play it cool. You throw the bed comforter over your legs, and minimize the pornographic window on your computer screen. You have previously opened Facebook in another window tab, in case such an incident was to occur. “Come in,” you say politely, trying to breathe as slowly as possible.

“Um, dude,” your roommate says, “people outside can see what you’re doing.” You feel the empathy in his voice and, though your heart drops, you unabashedly oppose admitting to anything.

“See me doing what? Talking to people on Facebook?” you respond, still out of breath, and still visibly rather—impassioned. Your roommate shakes his head, and while you know there’s no way out of this, you stick to your guns—because, for some reason, this is somehow embarrassing.

“Dude,” you say, “Look, I was on FACEBOOK.” And you turn your laptop around to show your roommate the “truth.” Yes, there is Facebook maximized on your screen, but then those pesky headphones get in the way—they unplug themselves just when you think you’ve proven your “innocence” to your roommate. With the headphones out, your computer routes the sound to its speakers, and the sounds coming from your computer aren’t from iTunes—they’re from XTube. Obnoxious, disgustingly sexual, and embarrassingly loud.

Your eyes lock with your roommates’. Your erection has perished upon the altar of the Gods of Embarrassment. You feel the urge to jump up and run away, and you would—except you’d fall, because your pants are still around your ankles.
So you laugh, and your roommate laughs with you.

Justin Jones, 25, is a writer based in Minneapolis. In addition to his column lovejones, Justin pens Through These Eyes, a bi-weekly column for Lavender Magazine. He writes about things like being alive, being in love, and drinking too much. Facebook.com/JustinJonesWriter.

BY JUSTIN JONES

So there you are, sitting in front of your computer with your jeans around your ankles, your underwear at your thighs, one hand on a mouse pad, and the other on your 21st digit. The laptop’s bluish glow is the only source of light in your bedroom: it illuminates the soaking wet end of the t-shirt bunched up in your mouth (you had to keep it out of the way of your hand, after all). You don’t want anyone else in your apartment building to hear the animalistic sounds that emanate from the porn that’s playing on your computer (although you DO want to make sure that YOU hear every graphic detail), so you’re wearing headphones. And how ironic the whole scene is.

The measures you’ve taken to hide your self-pleasure—right down to making sure the blinds in your bedroom are closed in just the right direction, so the neighbors can’t peer in—are the very measures that have given you away. You don’t know, for instance, that the glow cast by your monitor creates a vivid silhouette on your blinds for the benefit of the curious outside. Nor did you anticipate your headphones disguising the sounds of laughter right outside your window.

No, as careful as you were, those details went unnoticed. Thankfully, you have a roommate who cares. After hearing laughter outside your building, he investigates. He finds the scene troubling—possibly even embarrassing—to you. After seeing the frenzied shadow-show projected onto your blinds, he nobly attempts to inform you that you’re being watched (and mocked). He tries knocking at your bedroom door—which, of course, you can’t hear. So he knocks louder.

When you realize someone is at your door, you play it cool. You throw the bed comforter over your legs, and minimize the pornographic window on your computer screen. You have previously opened Facebook in another window tab, in case such an incident was to occur.

“Come in,” you say politely, trying to breathe as slowly as possible. “Um, dude,” your roommate says, “people outside can see what you’re doing.” You feel the empathy in his voice and, though your heart drops, you unabashedly oppose admitting to anything. “See me doing what? Talking to people on Facebook?” you respond, still out of breath, and still visibly rather— impassioned.

Your roommate shakes his head, and while you know there’s no way out of this, you stick to your guns—because, for some reason, this is somehow embarrassing. “Dude,” you say, “Look, I was on FACEBOOK.” And you turn your laptop around to show your roommate the “truth.” Yes, there is Facebook maximized on your screen, but then those pesky headphones get in the way—they unplug themselves just when you think you’ve proven your “innocence” to your roommate. With the headphones out, your computer routes the sound to its speakers, and the sounds coming from your computer aren’t from iTunes—they’re from XTube.

Obnoxious, disgustingly sexual, and embarrassingly loud. Your eyes lock with your roommates’. Your erection has perished upon the altar of the Gods of Embarrassment. You feel the urge to jump up and run away, and you would—except you’d fall, because your pants are still around your ankles. So you laugh, and your roommate laughs with you.