Background: My apartment’s on the ground floor of my building, and one of the conveniences afforded by this is a back door, in addition to the front door that goes to the hallway in the front of the building. It enters into the kitchen, and is adjacent to the bathroom and the door to my bedroom. I live in the student ghetto of a relatively quiet and safe college town. Since the semester began, there have been a string of break ins and robberies around and off campus, about two or three a week. Lots of e-mails from campus PD, warning us to lock your doors, especially at night, even if you’re at home. Usually, I’m pretty good at looking after the safety of my person and home.Usually.Tonight: my roommate is at the library studying, and I’m in the apartment alone, and the back door happens to be unlocked. As many of you know, sometimes, a man needs some lovin’, and the only one around to love is himself. At this point, all the lights are off in my apartment. So I starts looking at pitchers of nekkid ladies on the Internet. I starts touchin’ myself. A little bit of under-the-shorts action, you know. It’s a hot, sultry evening. All the windows closed. The heat turned up to about eighty two, so it gets hot…and sweaty. My hips thrusting up into my hand. My hand trying to get away, because it does not like it. I hear a sound at the door.The back door opens. I assume it is my roommate, and cease thrusting, waiting for the danger to pass, blood pounding, a little of it in my ears.I hear heavy, booted footsteps. My roommate is a 95 lb. girl. This dissonance would have registered, were the whole of my circulatory and nervous systems not concentrated on my meat baton.My door opens. I scramble, my headphones come off, my pruned hand gratefully escapes from my shorts.“Oh, shit, my bad bro.” I turn. It is not my roommate. It is a 6’3″ stubbley 30ish-looking dude wearing Tims and an Iron Maiden cut off T, carrying a smartphone with the flashlight on, a lit cigarette in the corner of his mouth, and look of horror on his face. What has happened now, between us, is clearly akin to scenarios that have run through the darkest corners of his mind, the corners where existential dread lurks. It is a moment of revulsion, but also sympathy, connection, perhaps even identification.I have nothing to say. My brain doesn’t even register a fight or flight reflex. Apparently in this kind of circumstance I resort to some core of politeness, so I reply “S’all good, man”.“I thought this was my buddy’s house,” he says, which is clearly horseshit, because a) no one under the age of 22 lives in a five block radius, and b) who the fuck enters a someone’s home in the middle of the night, through the back door, when no lights are on, with a lit cigarette in his mouth, without knocking either on the outside door or on a closed bedroom door – and not be planning on robbing the joint?The man steps backwards, closing the door behind him. I hear the back door shut, a car start, and tires squealing down the street, all while my dick deflates in utter bewilderment. Still being close to the Full Retard stage of masturbation, and not being one for half measures, I endeavor to conclude my business as quickly as possible, but the thought that this dude would have stolen all of my shit had he not walked in on me jacking off somehow hampers my progress significantly. In hindsight, I wonder who will prove to have been more scarred by this event. I’d like to think that this was a fundamentally decent man, about to fall into a life of crime. I’d like to think that this was his first night on the job, that mine was the first home he would have successfully burgled, had he not seen what he saw and had a moment of clarity. I’d like to think my wonton self-abuse has set a wayward stranger on the righteous path. For all those reading, please, pay it forward.tl;dr: Left door unlocked. Would be bugler walked in on a onesome. Situation resolved as cordially as possible, given circumstances.
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