Last week, a mysterious package arrived at my door.
The package itself wasn’t mysterious: It was just a brown cardboard box, medium-sized, sent to my address, APARTMENT 33 written in all capital letters across the top—but there was no name attached.
There are five of us in a five-bedroom/three-bathroom: two straight roommates, two gay, and then of course me. “What do we do?” one of the straight roommates asked. Three of us stared at the box; the other straight roommate and one of the gays were working.
“What if it’s anthrax?” J, the gay roommate, took a long pull from his joint.
“It’s not anthrax,” I rolled my eyes. “It’s probably something I ordered online when I was blacked out.”
“Yeah,” J choked, his face clouded in smoke, “you do that a lot.”
“Shut up.” I took out my keys, slid one along the tape and opened the box. “Oh. My. God.”
“What the fuck?” the straight roommate exclaimed, leaning forward.
“Jesus Christ.” There were two boxes inside of the package: one, a vibrator, the other a dildo. “These are not mine.”
I turned to J, but I already knew they weren’t his: He had a very active sex life that, for the past few months, has involved me exclusively. “Are you sure you didn’t get them, like, for us to play with?” he asked innocently.
I opened the first box, shaking the vibrator in his face. “This has an attachment for a clitoris!” I exclaimed, though I was guessing that’s what the do-hickey on the side was for.
We both turned to the straight roommate, who just shook his head.
“You sure you didn’t buy this for a lady friend?” I asked, pointing the vibrator accusatorily.
“I don’t remember the last time I had a lady friend.”
We texted the other two roommates respectively, examining the goods closer. It came to mind that maybe someone was playing a prank on us, but it would have been a pretty expensive prank: the vibrator, in all its purple glory, must have cost at least $100 for the quality (I looked at all of its dangles and gadgets, wondering exactly how it worked inside of a human vagina), and why buy a second dildo? Could it have been a mistake, perhaps meant for apartment 32 or 34?
The straight roommate claimed to have no idea what was going on, and when the other gay roommate got home he stole the dildo, stashing it away in its satin drawstring bag.
As for me, my hot pink, suction-to-the-wall-action dildo is still stored under my bed in a small plastic box. Unfortunately for it, it’s been gathering dust for some time now.
Later, while writing in my room, J came in without knocking, crawling into bed next to me. “It really wasn’t you?” he asked, cuddling up to my arm.
“No,” I said confidently…
In the morning, while he slept, I checked my bank statements—just to be sure.
