Hooked On A Feeling and a Futon

Jimmy O, now of suburban Chicago, sends in this tale of a collegiate bond stronger than Crazy Glue:

My freshman roommate was a handsome fellow. Well over 6 feet tall with a dong to match. He had a girlfriend. He fornicated. For all the aforementioned reasons and more, what I witnessed that cold, dreary Midwestern afternoon remains a mystery. But it did occur all the same.

And as far as roommates go, he was a pleasure. Amicable, amiable, and many other descriptive words that begin with a, he was as easygoing as they come. From pizza toppings to music, we had much in common. When it came to decorating our dorm room our tastes couldn't have been more simpatico and we quickly agreed upon a wool carpet remnant and a cherry red futon. For almost a year, we spent countless nights on that futon playing Tecmo Bowl, watching Sports Center, and pulling late night bingers from his home-made bong. Why he would chose to desecrate such hallowed ground is still beyond me. But he did. And it went a little something like this:

Poly Sci 101 class was cancelled. I grabbed a slice of pizza and headed back to the dorm. Room was double bolted. This was odd. I opened the door and-- even as I write this it doesn't sound real -- walked in on said roommate with his Girbuad jeans at his ankles, making love to the crease in our futon.

Alarmed, ashamed, and agitated I high-tailed it out of there. Too repulsed to return, I spent the night in a friend's room. The next morning I returned and, perhaps by way of an apology?, found the futon covered in a brand new tie-died tapestry.

Looking back, it's still difficult to ascertain what drove him to this act of man on couch love. Where had he learned it? Who had taught him the joys of the crease? I don't think I want to know.