April 1, 2003
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Looks like we have a new roomie: Saj. Yep, it’s true. Even though we’d agreed upon no guys except for outside boyfriends, Donna’d panicked at the poor response to our ad (or so she said) and simply had to let him in. Without asking us first. There’s not much Chelle and I could do about it. Saj happened to have no place to go, having been kicked out of the dorms for smoking pot. Brett and I were just driving up as he was moving in all his things. Chelle stood by helplessly, chewing her fingernails. I threw her a questioning look and she whispered, eyes downcast, “Talk to ya about it later.“ We decided silently not to put up a fight. We always liked the dude, we hate to ruin the unusual peace we’ve have in this house, and it comes down to a matter of ”love me, love my boyfriend” (erm). As long as he doesn’t come on to me or eat all my food or wreck all my stuff and a hundred other gripes I’m too tired to think of this minute, I’m okay about it–for now.
So far, so good. Though he did grin and loosen his collar at me this morning, I’ll overlook it as harmless Indian machismo. I know Chelle and I can get a little raw, and the man can’t help having ears. Here’s what started it. We were having one of our girl talks while I was soaking in the tub Sunday and I happened to mention this new t.a. I got, Ned Sorensen, how I’d have a super crush on him if I were still in high school.
Chelle said, checking for blemishes in the big mirror, “Shit, you always go for those Nordic types.”
“No,” I mused, mentally taking inventory of each date I ever had.
“Yes, you do. Even your fav celebrities are blonde. You never go for your own kind.”
“I could really dig Julian Casablancas,” I ventured, anxious she’d notice the semblance to my father. “He’s Italian.”
“He is like hell. He does sound like your Dad, though.”
“All east coast Italians sound like my father, like Matt Dillion. Rough and tough.”
Chelle always taped MADTV and we’d both gotten off over a Strokes’ gig rerun Saturday. Julian, looking fantastic with smoldering dark eyes and tosseled brown hair, had made a super hot move, debonairly pulling at his collar as he gestured to some groupies in the audience to gather about him. Funny how something so simple could drive gals wild. I wished Brett would do that sometimes, linger over himself a little, loosen his collar, instead of being so perfunctory. Shit, even Dad did things like it when he’d had a few.
“You should go meet Julian back stage, Tina. Nothing wrong with what you’ve got.”
“Why, have you done any [many] rock stars?”
She fell silent, concentrating on cleaning her contacts, so I didn’t push the matter, sensing I was on forbidden territory. I was right, for after that tense little lull she came back like a catty little madame.
“What keeps you so faithful with Brett? He must be hung. What is he, eight?”
“Chelle!” I reprimanded, laughing. You brat. Though she was being so thoroughly Chelle, the dope Saj had brought with him had surely added some spice.
“Com’on!” she teased. “I told you all about Bruce.”
“I dunno, seven maybe; I tried to measure it but he giggled and ran away.” On second thought, “Mmm, he says six and seven-eigths……maybe one and three fourth inches around?”
“That’s hung, babes. You’re wise not to tell.”
“I know. Every guy my sister ever set me up with saying he had a big cock was only average or not even that. “Where’s he hiding it?’ I said. It must not be really true that penis size has nothing to do with height. College men are much taller than average, and I’ve never met anybody under six and a half.”
“Same here. But you know where they say guy’s brains are. Your sister should smart up and meet some real men.”
