On my fifth day of college, I found myself, wild-haired and barefoot, roaming the halls of the freshman dorms, with a bruise in the shape of the complete works of Plato on my back, and someone elseâs condom wrapper stuck to my forehead, a modern-day mark of a bewildered and guiltless Cain.
Sure, I had woken up at four oâclock in the morning on move-in day to ensure I got the bottom bunk. Sure, I had eaten some of her Chewy barsâOK, all of her Chewy bars except for the gross, chocolate-less ones. But it still seemed unjust that suddenly, as soon as I started drifting off to sleep, she, the monster from the top bunk, growling and groaning and skulking and creaking, would tickle my face with a dangling belt, recently ripped from her boyfriendâs chinos. Tickle, tickle, whack, whack. âI think J is going to stay over tonight,â she would mutter, while amorously rocking the rickety bunk. âYou donât mind sleepingâŠâ
And where exactly did she expect me to sleep? It would have been one thing if we owned that most glorious Eden for sexilees: the futon. Instead, I would blearily stumble toward the mirage of a sofa, only to collapse in a heap on the floor, next to the empty Chewy bar box, which, in my sleepless state would begin to talk to me.
âHello, Emma. Iâll be your friend. Come sleep at my house. Iâll braid your hair, and luckily we wonât have to make sâmores, because I contain a tasty sweet already composed of their ingredients. Eat me! Love me!â
Few of us, however, are solely the victims in this situation (the situation being sexile, not snack food tĂȘte-Ă -tĂȘtes). By around the seventh day of college, I too had a steady honey, selected from the crowd of co-eds for his shiny hair, his winning smile, and the fact that I could wander up two flights of stairs to his dorm room in my underpants when the monster, without warning, drove me out of her lair.
I the victim had become the offender. My boy buddyâs roommate began to feel the anxiety of homelessness, began wandering the halls wailing a song he had composed about his plight, the chorus of which went, with increasing sorrow upon each repetition
: Itâs my room too.
Oh yes, I say, itâs my room toooo.
One day, at a bar, I noticed that a woman was glaring at me with absolute scorn. âHello, stranger,â I thought. âI donât remember killing your puppy, but clearly I owe you an apology.â As she wandered out, she hissed at me, âSexiler.â
Now, William Safire would no doubt jump for joy at this new and mangled portmanteau, but I was distraught. This belligerent bar-lady was my boyfriendâs roommateâs freshman counselor, with whom for weeks the poor boy had been lamenting his itinerant nightlife. Clearly, it was time for someone to figure out a way for late teenagers, with their equal parts lust for sex and sleep, to exist in sexy, sleepy harmony.
So, as sexiler and sexilee, I present a series of scenarios that may help everyone negotiate the terms of their particular treaty of sexile. Donât ask me how to successfully share a box of Chewy bars, though. Some mysteries are simply unsolvable.
Hit the Ground Running: When your roommate has already started having sex in your immediate proximity and the only thing to do is flee, and confront him/her at a less hot and less heavy moment.
You: Ehem.
The Offender: Oh baby. Oh yeah. Oh yeah, baby. Baby, yeah, yeah.
You: Are you feeling sleepy? Iâd really like to go to sleep now. You know, shut-eye, yeah?
The Offender: But Donald and I are sleeping. Arenât we, Donald? Hehehehe. Stop it. Donât stop it
. You: I just realized that I havenât done my laundry since last night.
The Offender: Thatâs so dirty. You: Actually, I donât need to find clothes to wash. Iâm just going to go watch the drier for a while.
Sightseeing in Elba: When you are out on that long and lonesome road to nowhere, how to forage for food and find shelter.
You: [knocking on neighborâs door] Hiya, pal. Remember me? I held the door for you at that mandatory STD lecture? I just felt like we bonded, you know? Well, I brought these crackers, and I thought you might have something to put on them? Did that sound dirty? Iâm really tired. Hahahahahaha! Oh, damn. I donât actually have crackers. Or pants on, I know, I know. Itâs just I donât have anywhere to sleep⊠Iâm really homesick⊠If only you would let me curl up in a pile of your laundry. You just did laundry last night, you say? Funny, I didnât see you in the laundry room. Iâm there a lot. Ok, then. Never mind. Do you know if Mindy is home? Mindy? I think she lives next door to you? Mandy. Thatâs right. Thanks! See you at Ultimate tryouts!
Intervention: When youâve forgotten what your pillow feels like.
You: Let us be mature here.
The Offender: Why do you hate sex? Puritan! Prude!
You: [After an attempted Hester Prynne joke]⊠I am just so tired.
The Offender: I think Donald has a friend. Maybe you could start sleeping with Donaldâs friend!
You: Does Donald have a bed? Because maybe you could visit it sometimes.
The Offender: I had never thought of that! Thank you for expanding my mind. I am going to buy you a snack later. Sleep well!
Revenge: Youâll know when itâs time. You reenact that scene from the remake of the Parent Trap. Or that scene from Fatal Attraction. Carrie. Gaslight. Home Alone. Choose your own revenge movie ending! And then move off campus!