Yesterday ended with my Saturday Night Live ritual at my boyfriend’s house, sort of. Unlike most Saturday nights, Kylo Ren was the host, so my boyfriend was actually interested, and I didn’t have to keep explaining to him why the host was famous.
Saturday Night Live is usually watched at my boyfriend’s place (boyfriend’s parents’ place) because it’s late, we’re tired, and then we can go to bed together. It’s also because my room in my house (my parents’ house) is more public, and I like humping my boyfriend and giving him hand jobs during the commercial breaks. Or during the songs if I’m not a fan of the musical guest.
I also like telling my boyfriend who I think is cute on the show, especially when the guy is a cast member. Each week, when one of the cute guys I listed for him is a lead in a very funny skit, I can remind my boyfriend about how attracted I am each week to this random guy’s body, face, and sense of humor. This is even more enjoyable when the cute cast member is closer to my age than my boyfriend is. Then I can go into a short speech about how this comedian/actor makes more sense for me. Because I’m a nice girlfriend. And then it’s a commercial break and I pounce on my boyfriend.
This of course did not happen this week, due to the new addition of The Roommate.
I don’t understand why The Roommate and The Boyfriend have to share The Basement when my boyfriend’s childhood bunk-bed is right upstairs. Behind a really loud, squeaky door. A few feet from my boyfriend’s parents’ room (oh, now I get it.)
Despite these flaws in the location, his parents talked about turning this childhood bedroom into a guest room. Questions came to my mind: will they keep the bunkbed? Where will my boyfriend’s action figures and Star Wars posters go? What about all his certificates for being such a good first-grader? Now we won’t remember that my boyfriend got a participant award for his class spelling bee!
And lastly, if The Roommate was not “guest” worthy for this room, was I? And more importantly, was my beaver?
Instead of asking his parents this question, because they can say no, your beaver is NOT guest-worthy for our son’s childhood room, I thought I would take initiative and just christen the guest room anyway.
“I want to go to the kitchen,” I told my boyfriend after the show ended. “I want a snack.” And his parents were probably in bed.
My boyfriend, also on the verge of saying Roommate, get out of here so we can fool around!, probably thought it was his idea to lead me to his living room couch instead of the kitchen. I let him believe it was his idea (men need to feel like seducers sometimes, too), but my idea was better (as most female ideas are.)
“Your bedroom,” I commanded, and we slowly tiptoed to the room across from his parents’ sound sleeping.
Instead of his wide futon in the basement, meant for poor, grown adults who still live with their parents like us, a narrow grade-schoolers bunk-bed awaited us in our new love nest. I anticipated some falling down, so I sat on him in the bottom bunk and quietly humped him so his parents wouldn’t wake.
My boyfriend was too afraid of having sex this close to his parents’ bed (for the record, he has this fear in the basement as well), so this was really the best we could do.
When the back of my head started being engraved by the hitting the springs from his top bunk, I knew this wasn’t working. In fact, this was pathetic. I am an almost 23-year-old humping my boyfriend on his bunk-bed, which we clearly didn’t fit on.
I realized we needed a change before my head was permanently attached to his top bunk. That would not make an attractive hat, so I gave him a hand job, called it a night, and went in the kitchen to get a snack. I ended up pouring a glass of milk in his Winnie the Pooh cup, while my boyfriend poured his milk in his Pokemon cup. Like two grown adults who just finished humping on his bunk-bed.