Self love. Love it.

On Wednesdays, Amanda Chatel will be sharing stories about her strange, fascinating and sometimes wonderful dating life. If it makes you want to date, check out TheGloss dating page.

The moans woke me up. At first I thought it was Timothy, perhaps having a nightmare, so I pulled my body into him and draped my arm on his stomach. As I lay there I realized, the moaning, which had now turned into panting, was not Timothy at all. Timothy does not pant — even mid-nightmare.

It had been raining all weekend and we stayed in to watch Twin Peaks from beginning to end, so my brain was fuzzy with images of Laura Palmer, Agent Cooper and of course Killer Bob. So when the panting became more intense my brain immediately went to visions of me being dead on a train somewhere.

“Timothy?” I asked. “Do you hear that?”

“Yes,” he said quietly.

“Does it sound human to you?”

“Yes,” he said again.

“Do you think it’s Killer Bob?” (I was only half joking.)

“If Killer Bob is my roommate Tommy masturbating, then yes, it’s Killer Bob.”

“Ew. That’s how he sounds when he masturbates?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think there’s something wrong with him?”

“Yes. Now go back to sleep.” He tucked his face into my neck just as Tommy appeared to reach climax and all was quiet again. But I didn’t care what Timothy said, no one moans like that unless they’re possessed by the devil which, in Tommy’s case based on what little interaction I had with him, was probably very likely.

I woke up the next morning and headed to the bathroom. I was still sleepy-eyed when I went to wash my hands in the sink and noticed it was covered in a sticky, fog-like residue. It was semen. I knew it. Had the sink been another color besides a charcoal marble, I wouldn’t have been able to assume the worst.

“Timothy!” I yelled. “I think someone came on your sink!”

“So?”

“Well, aren’t you concerned?”

“No. It was probably Tommy. Sometimes he misses the toilet bowl, too so watch out for the seat,” he called back. I don’t know if Timothy knew it, but he was living with an animal. An animal who just came wherever he saw fit and didn’t care who had to see the aftermath. I no longer feared getting knocked-up by Timothy; it was probably going to be by Tommy from accidentally sitting in a pool of his jizz. I didn’t want to spawn Tommy babies.

But the problem with a chronic masturbator who doesn’t have a job is they can strike at any given moment. It’s a scary thought, but very true. After several other girls complained about the sound (there were five guys living in the loft), Tommy got a lecture to keep his sounds to a minimum — which he did — but that didn’t stop the crustiness that would appear each morning in some random spot. Granted, it was all cleaned up at some point, but at some point wasn’t good enough.

So when the inevitable happened, I shouldn’t have been surprised. No! I did not get preggers by Tommy! Seriously. That’s not even possible! (I don’t think.) No, this was worse.

I was getting over a cold and was consuming orange juice at a rapid rate in the hopes of healing before our snowboarding trip the following weekend. The mass consumption of juice obviously led to repeated runs to the loo to relieve my bladder. All through the night, I was up every hour or so.

It was somewhere around dawn that I once again crawled over Timothy to use his less than stellar bathroom. The door was halfway open and I pushed it without even thinking that anyone would be on the other side of it. And there he was: Tommy; with his boxers partially down his ass so I could see his crack and his head thrown back in silent ecstasy as he haphazardly aimed for the toilet bowl. It happened so fast, and I was out of the room before we could make eye contact in the dully lit circumstances. A few minutes later, from Timothy’s bed, I heard him flush, and all I could assume was he finished the job; I had probably not interrupted him.

“I just saw your roommate masturbating,” I said still in shock.

“So?”

“That’s all you have to say?”

“You’ve seen guys masturbate before, so I don’t think you’ll be scarred by it,” he said. “Here, just roll this way, give me a handjob and we’ll pretend it never happened. It’s just Tommy. It’s not like it was some random on the street.”

“I think you’re going to have to wait on that handjob, love. I need to get that vision out of my head first.”

It wasn’t the masturbating or even catching Tommy in the act. I had seen guys masturbate, as Timothy pointed out, but that was in bed with a boyfriend when I refused to put out after a fight or something equally ridiculous. The problem with Tommy is he wanted to get caught. He wanted to leave his semen all over the place as if he were a rabid dog marking its territory; he left that bathroom door not just unlocked but open so someone would see him. I don’t know if it was a thrill or a fetish. I do know that it was something that you just can’t un-see.

When Timothy and I broke up a year later, Tommy was still unemployed and masturbating like no other. That was the only time I walked in on him, but his roommates weren’t so lucky. It’s hard to keep a job when you can’t keep your hands off your cock. It’s hard to keep anything when your best friend is the member that hangs between your legs and it constantly needs massaging.

We don’t know what became of Tommy, but I’m sure wherever he is, as long as his dick hasn’t fallen off yet from so much self-love, he’s quite happy, satisfied and stress-free. So good for him? Yes, let’s say good for him and try to forget that particular morning.