Very shared household

It’s painfully obvious when my flat mate has been banging his girlfriend. Though where is another question.

For starters, she arrives to the house all smiles and conversation, discussing such no brainers as the weather, university, the World Cup and the best way to skin a cat; when suddenly BANG! She disappears without a word, and his bedroom door slams shut in a lust-driven fury.

Roughly half an hour later, the door springs open, and they both come bounding out, matching each other’s stride in a reenactment of the Boston Marathon toward the bathroom, towels slung carelessly around naked arses, dog collars still semi-fastened, anal beeds still in place.

For peace of mind, I will presume the shower makes for scheduled after-play. The place where they each get lathered up – in a different sense – to cleanse away any physical miscellany of their devotion.

However, imagine my anxiety I suffered last week when I crossed the threshold to the bathroom after this special ritual to discover a large murky puddle on the floor, the origins of which I shudder to think of. Speculations are running rampant if it was dirt, or if somebody will be receiving an enema for their birthday.