Note: This is a long story. Just a forewarning.
Wednesday night, after the Sox won the World Series, my roommate went out and drank in celebration with the rest of the city. Being the hard worker that I am, I stayed in and blogged. The next morning he was rushing out the door and couldn’t find his keys, he’d lost them somewhere the night before. I told him that he needn’t worry, I’d be working from home on Thursday and, since I have no social life, I’d be home to buzz him in whenever he got back from work. He said Ok, I’ll be home around 7:30 and rushed out the door.
Now at around 6:45 yesterday, the blog day had finished. I sat there, in the dark, watching Nightmare on Elm Street on the SyFy Channel. But then it hit me, I’d entered my jerkoff window. That is, the time between the end of my day and my roommate’s return home. It’s my “me” time. Anyone who’s ever jerked off knows there’s a great difference between jerking off with other people home and jerking off when you’re the man of the house. They’re nothing alike. The result of any masturbation session is always the same, but the journey can be very different. When you’re alone, you treat yourself, you get fully naked and use lube and spend time looking for a great video. It’s a production. Whereas when there’s someone home, it’s more of a “pull your dick through the hole in your boxers and fire one out quickly” situation.
This was the former. I was wining and dining and really treating myself like a lady. Well about 30 minutes into making love to myself, at around 7:15, someone buzzed the door. “Fuck,” I thought, “my roommate is home early.” No worry, I’ll buzz him in, open the door and be back in my room by the time he’s even through the lobby. And I did just that. I buzzed, left the door to the apartment ajar (as Seinfeld always did) and got back to what I was doing.
What I heard next was odd, but not unusual. It sounded like a stampede was running up the stairs. Three, four, maybe five people storming my apartment. I figured it was Thrusday and the month had just ended, my roommate probably brought some friends home from work and they’re going out tonight. I put it in the back of my mind and went back to focusing on the task at hand.
“Helllooooooo?” I hear as people run amuck throughout my apartment. Jesus Christ, I’m fucking busy, is what I think. “Hey, I’ll be out in a bit,” is what I yell. What I heard next from the living room was the most gut-wrenching thing I will hear for the rest of my life, “…TRICK OR TREAT!”
That means exactly what you think it does. I had, unwittingly, let a gaggle of Trick or Treaters into my apartment right in the middle of my “me” time. I instantly began to panic. I threw myself against my bedroom door and locked it, in case any of them decided to start looking through rooms. I frantically looked for a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt and opened my door. I entered the living room and saw 3 parentless kids (1 girl, 2 boys), probably between the ages of 8 to 12, standing there in costumes watching Nightmare on Elm Street blaring on the television. Little did they know, they almost witnessed something FAR more horrifying. I went to my cabinets and basically gave them a box of Oreos, as I had no candy because I had no idea people went Trick or Treating in apartment buildings.
They say alls well that ends well, but last night will forever be the most scared I’ve ever been on Halloween. No haunted house, or scary costume, can compare to the terror you feel when you realize you’ve let a bunch of kids in your house while you were jerking off. Trust me.