“Hey, Want To Check Out My Roommate’s Porn Collection?”

This phrase has actually been uttered to me on more than one occasion, by different men. Is this a thing? Am I the only one?!? Wait, wait, let me back up.

I dated this guy from Winthrop…um…what the fuck was his name…OK, let’s just call him Joe. Joe had me over to his house, where he lived with his roommate. Now this is like early 2000’s when internet porn had not quite reached its insane popularity (read: free tube sites) so guys still had physical evidence of their imaginary love life, in the form of DVDs, VHS, or magazines. Where was I? Oh yeah. So Joe had me over to his house, and introduced me to his roommate. Nice guy, little schlubby, didn’t seem to have the most advanced social skills, and did not look like he had been laid in the past 5 years. Then, after we had a couple beers, some sort of unseen signal passed between them. The roommate suddenly stood up:

“I have to go…out.”

Me: “Oh wow. at 11PM?”

Him: “Yeah, gotta meet some buddies, uh, midnight poker game.”

He quickly left. Then Joe made his move, which involved some boob squeezing and a tongue in the ear. Wet Willie. Not my fave kind of Willie, that’s for damn sure. Anyhoo, we headed upstairs, commenced intercoursation. Then, Joe said, “Let’s Check Out My Roommate’s Porn Collection.” To which I replied, “Why, don’t you have your own?” To which Joe retorted (and I quote): “No, I’m not a perv.” I shook my head slightly, attempting to make sense of this whilst Joe breezily headed into his roommate’s bedroom.

“Wait, isn’t this…invading his privacy?”

“Nah, he don’t give a shit. Besides, he borrows my cologne.”

We went in and it was a shithole. Joe opened the door to the closet, where, just like a mini Blockbuster, DVD’s are neatly lined on shelves. I think they were even in alphabetical order (by title, not act.) I marveled at the organizational skills. Then Joe picked out a movie and we watched about 6 minutes of “Sluts Take Milwaukee” before he re-enacted the rest of the movie for my own personal enjoyment.

OK the second time this happened was a hook up; we met at a bar, we made out on the beach (Revere? Horseneck? Venice?) and he took me back to his house. And wouldn’t you know it, he lives with a roommate. Who’s a bit schlubby, not much in the social skills department, etc. Hookup dude says (what do you want, I’m bad with names) “Hey, Let’s Check Out My Roommate’s Porn Collection.” But this time it’s in front of the roommate. “Hey, (insert name here), show Ariel your porn stash.” And the roommate, looking sheepish, toes the rug for a bit, then, with a bashful but proud smile, leads us to a closet.

He walks up to the closet. Now he’s at the closet. Now he’s opening the closet…sorry, got a lil’ R Kelly for a sec. OK, so he opens the closet door and…let’s just say the man puts the Library of Congress to shame with his collection. Shelves, lined floor to ceiling, with pornographic magazines. Playboy, Hustler, Jugs – alphabetized, categorized, labeled – I half expected some octogenarian with bifocals to start shushing us. The man had a stack to beat all stacks. I’m momentarily speechless. “That’s some collection, huh,” says What’shisname smugly. I nod.

Hook-up dude takes me upstairs. But I can’t do it. Something about the guy, the endless rows of magazines, it just…spooked me. I felt a combination of extreme empathy and also a healthy dose of GTFU. I mean, what if the roommate has some sort of agreement with hookup dude to videotape his conquests? Or at the very least, watch?

I followed my instincts and GTFU. I don’t know what happened to hookup dude but I assume the roommate’s collection is now worth a pretty penny, if he can find a way to haul it over to Antique Roadshow…

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