Monkey Business. Sarah Mlynowski

slutty. But in the good way.

      My head starts to pound. I shouldn’t have brought Jamie back to my room. What was I thinking? I wasn’t thinking. I was wearing beer goggles.

      “How many MBAs does it take to screw in a lightbulb?” he asked me.

      “I don’t know,” I said, finishing what was left of my drink.

      “Trick question—MBAs won’t do manual labor.”

      For some reason (too much beer?) I thought he was funny and I thought, that’s what I need. Wayne isn’t funny! I need someone funny! Then I felt his hand on my arm and I thought: This is it. He’s the one! I met the one on my first day, lucky me! When he asked me if I wanted to get some air, I was elated. And then when he said he was in Block B like me, that sealed the deal.

      Thank God I didn’t actually sleep with him. I’d be branded as the class slut. And not in the good way. Hopefully he’s embarrassed by his performance and he’ll keep his mouth shut.

      I slip my enormously revolting size-ten-and-half feet into my pharmacy-bought flip-flops. I exit the closet to see that the flabby half-naked man is unfortunately still sprawled on my bed. Then I open the door to my room. It groans. I jiggle it back and forth in an attempt to cause an ear-exploding screeching sound and thus rouse him from his post-orgasm nap.

      CREEEEEAK.

      Light from the hallway floods the room, but his eyes don’t even flutter.

      Shaped like the letter H, the dorm is made up of a hundred and twenty rooms, thirty on each floor. I live on the northwest side of the top story. I slip into the hallway and quickly close the door behind me to shield any potential hookups who happen to be passing by from seeing my exposed new classmate, then maneuver my way around the sharp corner in the hallway toward the bathroom. The coed bathroom is in the dash in the middle of the H. I push open the bathroom door to three sinks, five toilet stalls and three showers. Apparently people spend more time peeing than washing.

      One of the showers is occupied. So far I haven’t met any of my neighbors. Is it a guy? A hot guy?

      What would he do if I took off all my clothes and sneaked in there with him?

      He’d run his hands down my body, telling me how gorgeous I am.

      Yeah, right. He’d probably be repulsed by my seven-and-a-half-rated fat ass.

      I open the door to the stall against the wall. Since I moved in yesterday, I’ve tested all of them. I think I like this one best, since it means I get one potential stall neighbor instead of two. It’s one thing to be in the shower with a hot guy; it’s another to be sandwiched between two strangers while you’re peeing.

      My stomach feels queasy at the thought of a guy in the stall next to mine. There’s no way I’d be able to pee. And what if I fart? I can’t fart with a guy next to me. What if it’s smelly? I can’t deal.

      Again, what am I doing at business school?

      I flush and wonder if the shower just got cold. The water stops, and I take a deep breath, compose myself and prepare to meet my future.

      Maybe a six-foot, brown-eyed, big-smiled, dimpled god of manhood with a tiny white towel around his waist (he’ll be slightly bronzed) will slide open the shower stall door, water dripping down his naked chest. He will smile, maybe say hi, and the two of us will start talking. Maybe we’ll stand in the bathroom for ten or so minutes, and then, so immersed in the conversation, we’ll stop in the hall to talk some more, sharing and baring our souls until dawn, and just as the sun pours through the hall window onto the faded stained beige carpet, he’ll kiss me gently on the lips, tell me I’m beautiful and wrap his arms around me. I’ll pull the keys out from my pocket, pull him into my room…

      Oh, yeah, Jamie.

      Jamie is going to ruin everything. First my reputation and now this.

      The god of manhood is still in the shower, probably drying himself with that itsy-bitsy towel. I hurry over to the sink and turn on the water. His first impression of me can’t be in front of a toilet.

      The man of my dreams turns out to be a tall and voluptuous woman in a maroon terry-cloth bathrobe, a matching towel perched on her head, holding a pink basket filled with at least two shampoos, three conditioners, numerous unidentifiable bottles, an electric toothbrush and a shower puff. Damn.

      She sets her cosmetics down beside one of the sinks and pulls out her toothbrush, toothpaste and floss. “Hi!” she chirps as she rolls the bottom of her Crest tube and applies an overdose of paste to her brush.

      “Hi,” I say. “Nice privacy in here, huh?”

      She nods enthusiastically. “It’s pretty good,” she says, and turns on her toothbrush.

      Yikes. I was being sarcastic. Where did this broad grow up that she thinks this is private? On an airplane? “I was kidding,” I say, and splash some water on my face. “We’re like animals in here.” Maybe that’s why they call it the Zoo. If only Wayne were here for me to live with…those with domestic partners are eligible to live off campus. Bastard, Wayne.

      “It’s not ideal,” she continues. “I was trying to be positive. I’m concerned about the excessive bacteria.”

      “Uh-huh.” What is she rambling about? Damn. I forgot my cleanser and toothbrush in my room. I point to her face wash. “Can I use some of that?”

      She spits into the sink, rinses. “Of course.” She squeezes a drop into my palm. Maybe she doesn’t want me touching the tube in case I have bacteria. “One of my nannies always said that the trick to having good skin is that no matter where you are, you have to wash your face before you go to sleep, every single night. I’m Layla. You?”

      Her nanny? I’ve never liked girl-bonding, and getting info about this broad’s nanny is just weird. Most of my friends have been guys. Except Cheryl, and look how that turned out. I don’t trust women. “Uh, Kimmy,” I answer. My voice sounds a bit strangled, I think.

      The girl smiles, reapplies her toothpaste and sticks the toothbrush back into her mouth. A blond strand slips from her head towel and into the foam.

      I pat the creamy cleanser over my face until it’s thick. Just as I lean to wipe it off, the door flings open. There stands Jamie, shirt unbuttoned, hairy, flabby chest protruding, beige pants haphazardly done up.

      “Hey, gorgeous,” he says, strutting into the bathroom. “I was wondering where you were. You okay? I’m zonked. I’m going back to my room to sleep.”

      I know I don’t like him, but that doesn’t mean I want him to see me looking as if I’ve dunked my face in whipped cream. Why does he want to go back to his own room? What, now he doesn’t want to spend the night? Did I do something wrong?

      “See you later,” I say as he strolls toward one of the stalls. His urine tinkles into the toilet bowl.

      Shower girl gives me a nod and then leaves. She must be judging me, thinking I’m a stupid slut for hooking up with someone on the first night.

      Bitch.

      Tuesday, September 2, 12:30 a.m.

      jamie wants a replay so he can amend his foreplay

      I bang the palm of my hands against the walls as I sprint down the hallway. Who knew I’d be the business school stud?

      I hit the jackpot.

      Fine, I might have hit the jackpot a little earlier than intended, but Kimmy didn’t care. And I’ll make it up to her next time and then some.

      Kimmy could have taken home any of the guys at the beer bash, but she chose me. The shmuck in the corner. My dream girl. Almost. My dream girl is Deborah Messing, but Kimmy’s a close second. And I was in her room. In her bed. In her pants. Okay, on her pants. And on her comforter,