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.

A small boy with blond hair and blue eyes comes home from school with unusual enthusiasm.  The cause, no doubt, is the nearing of Christmas and the anticipated arrival of Santa.  Not always anxious to show me what’s in his bookbag, the remains of a peanut butter sandwich or a test paper usually being hidden, I was surprised to see him proudly open the bag and pull out a beautiful pair of love-birds, made out of paper, with lovely touches of feathers, realistically drawn, each love-bird exquisitely intertwining.  He had made these lovely birds as a decoration for my Christmas tree. In my usual haste, I told him how pretty they were and put them away to place on the tree later. The tree went up and so did the love-birds, placed there every year during my son’s childhood.  Other decorations made by him were also hung with care.

My little boy grew up and the thrill of Christmas was lost.  The tree didn’t have that sparkle and Santa would no longer visit.  He wasn’t always home to help decorate and to see that I dutifully placed the love birds on the tree.  I continued to do so, despite the years and the tendency to want to pack them away for safe-keeping.

When he was older, he finally told me the story of why he chose the love-birds.  They signified to him the love between his father and me.  When he expressed that significance, I could barely control my emotions, for his father and I had divorced two years after the Christmas he made them.

Last year, we bought the most beautiful tree we ever had, and new twinkling white lights and the most sparkling decorations.  We added the toy soldier, small angel, boy on a sled, and other decorations bought when he was a baby.  Now twenty two years old, tall and handsome, with those beautiful blue eyes, he sat and watched me put up the tree.  We tried to make a festive day of the tree trimming, but he didn’t feel well enough to help, to sing a Christmas carol, or to place the love-birds on the tree.  Several months before Christmas, we found out that he was sick, that he had tested positive for HIV.

Suddenly every Christmas of the past is a sacred memory, and not knowing from one year to the next if he will be here for the next holiday makes every Christmas left precious.  Each Christmas tree, we pick now will be more spectacular than the year before, and the love-birds I thought of packing away will always be on my tree.

The beauty of the Christmas when he brought home the love-birds and the joy on a young boy’s face can never be forgotten.  There is an overwhelming sadness at the thought of any Christmas in the years ahead without him, and the thought of a tree after he is gone is something incomprehensible.  Despite that, there will always be one, perhaps a tree with no lights or decorations, but a pair of love-birds will adorn it.

Susan Reichart-Wanko is the winner of the 1995 Hudson County, New Jersey Writers’ Contest