How I Met My Wife #02byalan556©
If you are part of my generation, you'll remember the despicable newspaper advice columnist Ann Landers. Occasionally, she would publish a letter from a reader, relating an interesting story of how he met his wife.
Over the years, I've been collecting stories of how men met their wives, or how wives met their husbands. These are stories that Ann never would have published. Here's the story of how Jake met Erin. Of course, the names and details have been fictionalized for privacy.
If you have an interesting story, please contact me using the feedback form. Remember to provide your email address so I can get back to you.
A few weeks before the start of my junior year of college, I learned that my friend Mark, who I was going to room with, was not going to be returning to school. His parents had some sort of financial problem, so he was going to transfer to a local school and live at home. This was bad news for him, but for me too. When you don't have a roommate, the school assigns you one, most likely somebody that nobody else wants. You might be lucky, but the odds are against you.
When I showed up at school on move-in day, I learned the bad news. When I met my new roommate Sandy, I tried to be polite, introduce myself, shake hands, and smile, but he wasn't interested. Over the next weeks, it went downhill from there.
I'm the sort of person who can always think of something nice to say about anybody. I look for the good qualities in people, and there's always some good in everybody. Everybody, that is, except Sandy. As best I can tell, he has no redeeming qualities.
Let's start with the obvious—he's unkempt, dirty, and ugly. He wears a Hitler mustache and has long greasy hair that is never cut, hardly ever washed, and never combed. He shaves when he feels like it, which isn't often, and showers even less. His clothes have food stains and rips and are washed about as often as he showers. He looks like he smells bad, but he doesn't really-- maybe he does if you're up close, but I have no intention of getting up close.
It's not polite to judge a person by his appearance, so let's talk about his "inner qualities." Those are even worse. He's rude, unfriendly, and obnoxious, and doesn't talk much except to grunt. He's lazy and manages to stay in school only because he cheats on exams. He goes to bed late, sleeps late, and spends his days with porn and TV.
Now here's the best part. He masturbates loudly when I'm trying to sleep. I don't want you to think I'm a prude. I've been known to give myself a good wank now and then (more "now" than "then," to tell you the truth), but I try to be discreet. I do it when I'm alone in the room or in the shower, or if I really need to do it when my roommate is sleeping, I'm as quiet as I can be. Not Sandy. He wakes me in the night, rummaging around in his desk looking for lotion, followed by loud grunting that lasts forever. When he's done, he goes back to his desk looking for a towel to clean up the mess. Sometimes he even does it when I still have my light on, and I have to cover my eyes to keep from seeing this filthy thing stroking himself.
My one consolation is that I know he has a really small cock. He deserves it.
After a few weeks of this, I couldn't take it any more. I yelled at him and told him to stop waking me up and to go jerk off in the shower, but he just looked at me and didn't respond and nothing changed. I guess he can't jerk off in the shower because he never takes showers.
I didn't think it could get any worse than that, but I was wrong. Boy, was I wrong. About a month into the semester, Sandy met Marilyn.
If there is any male in the world who would be unattractive to women, it would be Sandy. But I guess it's true that there's somebody for everybody, because Sandy and Marilyn found each other. She's every bit as unkempt, dirty, and ugly as him, but at least she doesn't grunt. She yells.
Almost immediately after they met, Sandy and Marilyn were in love and in heat. Marilyn was in our room every night, and now, instead of listening to Sandy jerking off, I had to listen to the two of them screwing, with him grunting and her moaning and yelling, and the bed straining. And, in case you're wondering, sometimes they left the light on. It was a sight not to be believed, with her riding on top of him yelling about how good it felt, her dirty zit-covered boobs flopping around, or with him on top of her, trying to find the hole. The floor was littered with used condoms and condom wrappers and Kleenex, which, of course, they did not bother to throw away.
Even worse than when they were screwing was when they weren't. They were madly in love and they played their roles Hollywood-style, calling each other "darling" and "honey" and "lover" and batting their eyelashes at each other and holding hands and patting each other's butts and telling each other, over and over again, "I love you sweetheart." With me, Sandy wouldn't talk at all, but he would talk to Marilyn, but only to say some stupid cliché that he thought was romantic. She would respond with something equally inane. They would have hour-long conversations talking about nothing but how much they loved each other. It was truly nauseating.
This went on for weeks and finally I lost it. I screamed at them and threw their bottle of "massage oil" across the room, followed by their box of condoms, and told them to get the hell out of my sight and never come back. I ended the tirade with "Why don't you do this in her room instead of mine?" and I slammed the door on my way out.
When I came back to the room, I got a pleasant surprise. They weren't there! I noticed that the massage oil and the condom box were gone too. The used condoms, though, were still on the floor.
Suddenly, life was a lot better. Without Sandy, I could relax in my room, invite friends to visit, and sleep through the night. Maybe I could even clean the place. I was enjoying my solitude. I didn't see, hear, or even think about Sandy or Marilyn. It was heaven.
It didn't last long. A couple of days later, I was in the dining hall at breakfast, concentrating on my pancakes, when I heard a girl's voice. "Hi," she said.
I looked up and there was a tiny girl, not even 5 feet tall, with short auburn hair and a pixie nose covered with freckles, wearing an emerald green sweater and rolled up jeans. She was wearing huge glasses that covered much of her face and magnified her hazel eyes. I didn't think I knew her, but she reminded me or someone or something-- I didn't know what.
"I'm Erin," she said.
That was it-- Irish. That's what she reminded me of -- a leprechaun. A leprechaun with big glasses. I told her my name and she went on, "You're Sandy's roommate, aren't you?"
My heart sank. The last thing in the world that I wanted people to say about me was that I was Sandy's roommate, but it was true so I reluctantly agreed. This couldn't be good news. Every time I heard the name "Sandy," bad news was sure to follow.
"I'm Marilyn's roommate. We live on the third floor," she said.
Oh shit. She was going to send the loving couple back to me and probably rip me a new one for sending them to her. Shit. Shit. Shit.
I looked at her and thought some more. She seemed friendly enough. She was smiling, a little nervous, not angry. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad, so I invited her to sit down. Her tray had fruit salad and yogurt and a class of milk. Mine had the remains of pancakes, eggs, sausage, and two orange juices.
She started talking, "I know that you had them in your room for weeks so maybe you've got some ideas on how to handle them. I could really use some suggestions." Then she went into a high-speed monologue about all the terrible things they'd done to her, in front of her, and near her-- while she was sleeping, while she was studying, and on and on.
"You know, I grew up with three brothers so I'm used to some dirt and some rudeness and sex and wild stuff, but nothing like this," she started. Her eyes grew wide underneath those big glasses. "Sandy and Marilyn are like, doing it --you know what I mean? doing it? —two or three times a day. Right there in the room when I'm there. I come back from class and they're doing it. I come back from dinner and they're doing it. In the middle of the night, they're doing it. And Marilyn is always screaming the f-word, you know, like 'f me baby' and 'f me harder' and 'I really need a good f.' I'm no prude, you know. When you've got three brothers, you get used to hearing the f word, but still..." She went on and on, her hands gesticulating and her voice getting more and more excited.
Then she slowed a bit and, still talking, considered the other side, "I suppose they have a right to do it. You know, it is her room too. Maybe it shouldn't bother me so much. You know, sex is a natural thing and everybody does it and it's nice that they enjoy it so much. They sure do enjoy it, don't they? They probably have never had a girlfriend or boyfriend before, have they? So I'm glad they found each other. Really I am. I just wish..."
She didn't stop there. She told me about how noisy they were, how filthy they were, and how annoying they were with their fake romance. Then she considered the fake romance from their point of view, how they didn't know what romance was like except from the movies and they had to learn sometime. She talked non-stop, hardly taking a breath, like she was pouring out her soul to the one person in the world who would understand. That was me, alright, the one person in the world who truly understood.
She talked continuously like this for maybe 15 minutes. It was a long time without a break, with me saying little except "I know," "Yes", "They did that to me too," and other minor agreements whenever I could get a word into her stream of consciousness. I nodded and looked concerned a lot. Finally, she ran out of breath and checked the clock. As abruptly as she arrived, she gulped down the milk, said goodbye, and left, off to class, with a big smile and a wave. She'd hadn't eaten the fruit or yogurt.
As she was talking, I couldn't help but notice how good-natured she was, considering the enormity of her problem. She wasn't angry, mean, or out for revenge, like I would have been. Let me tell you -- if somebody had done to me what I'd done to her, I wouldn't have been polite about it. On the contrary, she was friendly and cheerful and seemed to want nothing but somebody to talk to -- somebody to commiserate with. She seemed like a good kid.
I didn't run into Erin very often. Maybe just once or twice a week. But whenever I did, I stopped to talk or sat down next to her in the dining hall. She was always alone. It's nice to be around cheerful people, and she always had one or two new Sandy and Marilyn stories to tell, or sometimes she just wanted to talk about other things. Sometimes I added my own stories, but most times she was talking so fast and steadily that it was easier (and more fun) to listen to hers, always told in the most colorful detail. We'd usually end up laughing.
Her three brothers were a common topic also, and it was obvious that she adored them. She had one brother two years older who was studying to be a teacher. The other two are twins, a little younger than her, and they are the stars of their high school wrestling team and very muscular. She loved to recount the raucous boy-behavior that surrounded her when she was growing up-- pushing and shoving, jumping on people's beds in the middle of the night, fighting over the toilet and the shower, turning water hoses on each other. To tell you the truth, it sounded a lot like things my brother and I did, though I didn't have much opportunity to tell her that.
It was a Saturday evening and I had just gotten into bed when I heard a noise at the door. I thought somebody had just accidentally bumped into the door so I ignored it, but then I heard a girl calling my name. I went to the door and opened it.
There was Erin in her night clothes, clutching a huge pink furry pillow to her chest. I almost didn't recognize her for a moment because she was so unlike her normal cheerful self, but the glasses were unmistakable. She was looking down to the floor, tense, angry, frustrated and at the same time sad and hurt. I didn't know what to make of it and looked at her quizzically.
She sighed deeply then looked up at me, "They've discovered anal sex."
At first I started laughing. I know I shouldn't have done that, but the vision of Sandy and Marilyn having anal sex was just too much to think rationally about and I started giggling. Then I saw a tear on Erin's cheek and, quickly, it turned to full-blown crying. I stopped laughing. I really wanted to give her a big brotherly hug, but I didn't know if that would be ok so I just invited her inside. I probably wouldn't have been able to get my arms around the pillow anyway. "It's OK." I said. "You can sleep here."
"Thank you," she said, with a sniffle. I closed the door behind her. She said nothing else, which was very unlike her.
I had a spare set of sheets, so together we stripped the filthy ones off Sandy's bed. We ignored the cum-stains, blood marks, and even a few shit-stains, handling the sheets as little as we could, and threw them into a corner. As we put the new sheets on the bed, Erin stopped crying and started talking, giving me a detailed blow-by-blow (sorry for the pun) description of exactly what had happened, with Sandy wiping Marilyn's butt, lubing her up, humping madly doggy style, then trying to clean up the brown gooey mess afterward -- all with Erin in her bed across the room, trying to sleep.
As she told me more, her mood gradually lightened and soon we were both giggling at the details and telling old Sandy and Marilyn stories. We put the pink furry pillow on Sandy's bed and I could see now that it had ears, eyes, and a snout--it was a pig's face.
I could see Erin was ok now, so I got into my bed, she got into Sandy's, and we turned out the light. She talked to me, in the darkness, across the room, about the problems she'd had with Marilyn, and little by little her voice quieted and finally silenced. I knew then that she was asleep so I went to sleep too. It was very late, and I slept soundly.
I was awakened by the sound of the door opening. It was morning now and light was coming in through the window and I could see Erin at the door. Our eyes met just as she was leaving, and the door closed. It was nearly time for my alarm to go off so I got up and started to dress, and as I left the room, I noticed that the furry pink pig was still on Sandy's bed.
In the dining hall that morning I had filled my tray and was sitting at a table by myself, working through my eggs. Erin came in with her tray so I waved to her and she came over.
"I'm sorry I woke you. I was trying to be quiet. You were so nice to let me stay over and we were up late and..."
I interrupted her, "It's ok. It was almost time for me to get up anyway."
She sat down and went on, "I hope you didn't mind me coming to your room last night. I was desperate and I knew you had a spare bed and I just couldn't take it any more and when they were throwing all the brown grossness around the room and the dirty smelly towels and the brown handprints on the wall and the screaming about how it hurt and how it didn't hurt and ..."
She went on and on about her miseries with Sandy and Marilyn, barely touching her breakfast while I finished mine. I understood her suffering and wanted to help her but didn't know how. Then I remembered the pink pig pillow that she'd left on Sandy's bed and I knew what she must be hoping for. I bore at least some of the responsibility for her problem, and it was the right thing to do so I did it. "You should just move your stuff into my room," I said.
That stopped her in mid-sentence. "What?" She stopped talking now and looked at me.
"It's not going to get any better. They're never going to change. It's hopeless. Just move into my room and get away from them for good."
Erin was speechless for almost a whole second. That's a long time for her. "You want me to move into your room? Like, permanently?"
"Are you serious? "
I nodded again. The more I thought about it, the more right it felt.
Another whole second went by, then she shook her head. "That's nice of you but you don't want a girl for a roommate. I mean, I've lived with boys all my life. I have three brothers so I've always lived with boys, but .." She paused ever so briefly. "Do you have sisters?"
I shook my head.
"See, it's different for you. I'm used to living with boys but you don't want to live with a girl. You wouldn't want me in your room doing girl stuff..." She went on for a while..
She was really nervous, so after a minute or two I rescued her from herself. I spoke a little loudly to get her attention, "Erin!"
She stopped and looked at me. It was time for me to decide for the both of us. I stood up and picked up my tray. "Let's go move your stuff."
She thought for a moment and tilted her head. "If you think it will be ok... I mean, only if you really want to..."
"It will be ok," I said. Erin picked up her tray of uneaten food and followed me out of the dining hall.
In her room, Sandy and Marilyn were still in bed, naked of course, but at least they weren't having sex or telling each other how much they loved each other. We pulled Erin's suitcase out from under her bed and she started packing clothes while I disconnected her computer and CD player and speakers. We made no attempt to be quiet, all the better to enjoy the complaints and irritation from the couple in the bed.
We made a few trips back and forth from Erin's room to mine, and after we'd carried it all, Erin started to arrange her things. She had a number of knick-knacks and photos and was telling me the story of each-- Where she got it or who gave it to her. She told me who was in each photo (each of her three brothers, of course) and where and when each was taken.
She stopped in mid-sentence and changed the subject, "We should talk about some important stuff."
"What stuff?" I answered.
"Well, I'm a girl you know.."
I knew that, so I nodded, and she went on.
"And you're a boy and, well, there's all the stuff about that. Like, I mean, for example, when it comes time to change clothes, do you want me to do it in the bathroom or somewhere? I mean, I've been around brothers all my life so I'm not, like, a prude or modest or anything and I don't care, but I don't want you to be uncomfortable and if it would be, like, strange or anything for you..."
"Don't worry about it," I said.
"Don't worry about what?"
"It won't embarrass me or be strange. Just do whatever you'd do with a girl roommate, or whatever you want."
"And if you want me to turn around or leave the room or whatever when you're changing, it's really..."
"Don't worry about that either."
"Well, don't hesitate to ask if you want me to..." her voice trailed off and she thought for a moment and started up again, and little hesitantly. "Well, there's also, you know, relieving yourself."
I didn't know what she was talking about so she went on. "You know, living with brothers I know that boys need to relieve themselves a lot and, you know, with a girl in the room, you might be embarrassed, cause, you know, we're not family or anything. It's really nothing to be embarrassed about, but I guess boys usually are. Don't worry about me, but if it bothers you..."
I was still looking at her quizzically so she made a pumping motion with an open fist to show what she meant. That made it clear and it was hard to keep from laughing. "So, like, when you need to do it just let me know and I'll give you some time in the room by yourself if you want, like, privacy. I mean, it's nothing I haven't seen a million times before, with all those brothers, but if you want privacy I understand and I won't walk in on you or anything. I can go to the library or just take a walk or something..."