LIVING WITH THE NEWLYWEDS

This is probably not a good story to admit, but I find it sexy, and have to share.

Over the years of college, I had several odd and interesting roommates. At first it was the dorms, and dudes who stacked their empty beer cans into pyramids. I joined a group house of hippies for sophomore year. Another dorm, a crappy apartment with my friend Mark, a small house with a German exchange student, and at the end, perhaps weirdest of all to me: a condo with a newlywed couple, John and Isabelle.

It was a brand new condo complex, part of the large state university, built for married graduate students and families. Each condo was two bedrooms, bath, livingroom/kitchen. Pretty simple, and the rent, for the university town, was almost affordable. John and Isabelle were both grad students, John was going to become a city planner, or environmental engineer or something related to cities, policy and all that. Isabelle was getting her Masters of Education, studying early childhood development and dong student teaching at a local arts magnate school. They'd been married less than a year, and naturally really wanted to live alone, but the mounting school debt made them sublet one of their two bedrooms to help cover their rent and utilities.

I thought they were both nice enough folks, and honestly, getting out of the dorms and at least living somewhere decent was a real appeal. John and Isabelle had gotten some furniture and kitchen ware as wedding gifts. So the condo--as homogenized as it was, was still pretty comfortable living for a poor college kid like me.

The only divide was our age and relationship status. They were both in their late 20s and married, which seemed an entirely different world than me, age 22, and single. They had a sofa. I had a backpack. They had a complete set of dishware. I had a stack of library books. So we mostly kept to ourselves. It was fine, because we all had a full load of courses and I had a part-time job. I'd have to practically sneak in when it was late, so as not to wake them. John was sort of passive-aggressive, always "suggesting" ways I could help make the living situation better, like keeping my food on only one shelf in "their" fridge. Like not bringing my friends into the house, but doing "socializing" in other areas. I tolerated his controlling house rules, because the rent, the walking-distance to classes, and Isabelle. I have to admit, she was gorgeous. She was part Columbian, I believe, dark skin, sleek black hair, and the deepest eyes you'd ever seen. She was almost always gone, but we'd cross paths now and then, as she went out for a jog, or the gym. Even in spandex running shorts, jogging bra and loose-fitting t-shirt, she looked really hot. Even though the jogging bras compressed her chest, I could tell she had large, natural breasts. Sometimes in the early mornings, I'd hear her turn on the shower, which was only a thin wall between us and try to imagine how she looked naked.

I never heard her and John take a shower together. I never heard them having sex. It was weird. I just didn't get it. How could John marry such an amazingly beautiful Latina and not have sex with her every single night?

It wasn't my business, so I tried not to dwell on it. Of course, the more I tried not to think of their sex lives, the more I did. When they were away, I started searching the house for any trace of anything sexy. I admit, I even peeked under their bed, under the mattress, their sock drawers. The condo was absolutely immaculate. Under the bed had been vacuumed. The socks and underwear neatly folded. No box of toys, no bottle of lube, not even a package of condoms. This drove me crazy. How could a young, newlywed couple have no trace, whatsoever, of a sex life?

It was a mystery then, and in many ways, still a mystery. But it all changed one evening when I cam back from my job earlier than usual. It wasn't that late--maybe 11pm--but I knew that John and Isabelle usually turned in no later than 9pm, so I quietly turned my key in the door. I slipped off my shoes (one of John's house rules), and walked in by habit without flipping the kitchen light. I stopped suddenly. John and Isabelle looked up from the sofa as shocked to see me as I was to see them. To startled to move or say a word, my eyes quickly took in the scene. John and Isabelle were both on the sofa, fully clothed. There was a bottle of wine on the coffee table, two glasses, half full, and the bottle half empty. They'd been sitting close, but not embracing, or kissing, just sitting, like any couple talking together. Everything was totally normal--except they'd both jumped, startled, as if caught doing something incriminating. And they were.....sort of. On the table was three or four small plastic bottles of finger paint like you'd find in a kindergarten. Isabelle had been finger painting stripes of orange, yellow, and green on John's face, much like Native American war paint. It was all very innocent, but also very bizarre.

You see--I'd lived in a student collective house of hippies. Face-painting there would have been totally part of that scene. But John and Isabelle, they were the pristine picture of suburban America, with all new furniture, a new car, both getting good educations, both destined for the model showroom lifestyle, gym membership, and lattes at Starbucks. The face painting seemed as out of place and a awkward as if I'd walked in on an S&M session. John, completely caught off gaurd, quickly gathered the paints and the wine, and grumbled something about "barging in." He retreated to his room, Isabelle following.

I stood, still frozen, now looking at the empty couch. Had I really seen that? What the hell had happened?

Whatever..... I went to bed.

When I woke up, John and Isabelle had left for their day. I peeked into the living room: it was as usual, the carpet perfectly vacuumed. The coffee table bare and polished. The chairs at just the right angles. In the kitchen, the dishes all clean and put away. The bathroom, clean as always, and tidy. Their bedroom: the bed made, the pillows propped up on the headboard. The dresser drawers all closed, and neat. I almost turned and walked away. I almost resolved that my married roommates were such neat-freaks that they simply did not have sex.

Still, I couldn't figure out how to make sense of the face painting. It wasn't kinky at all--but it was messy. And that is what made it so incongruous. As a teacher, Isabelle probably had a playful side. But John? Ha.

I was perplexed. Curiosity is often the byproduct of confusion. I couldn't help it. I entered their room and began to snoop. In the drawer by the bedside, I found a digital camera. On it were a couple photos. Apparently, the finger painting session had continued behind the closed door. I felt relieved and reaffirmed that a good-looking newlywed couple did actually have a sex life. And the funny irony is that of all the couples and all the things a couple could share, I never would have imagined finger painting being the foreplay of John and Isabelle. But se la vie. To each his own.

I know it was wrong, but I quickly copied the photos onto my laptop when I had the chance. I had finally gotten my wish, and Isabelle was even prettier than I could have ever imagined.