Ménage à une

Cohabitating is a harsh reality in a town where the luxury condos play leapfrog daily in the skyline and the median cost of purchasing a home is well over $300k.  Craigslist is where I met Katy and 3 well lit months later our time together ended at the corner of Chestnut and Martin Luther King. After brief and mediocre tacos and without much “getting to know you” we went from strangers to roommates. Katy had just moved to town with a boyfriend but the relationship didn’t make it through the unpacking stage and she couldn’t swing the rent alone. The house was one I’d known in the past as a place for late night tree climbing, cocaine and backyard sunrises. Katy was a little witchy, well employed and afraid. She was scared of the dark and homeless people rattled her but above all Katy was afraid of bugs. Terrified to the point of sleeping with all the lights on and four rotating fans set on high, aimed at the bed. June bugs, stick bugs, lady bugs, roaches, moths and well, anything with a pulse sporting more than two or four legs. Time after time I tried to tell her that bugs are attracted to light but this fact was no match for her raging entomophobia. She was forever armed with an industrial can of raid and upsetting tales of people with roaches stuck in their ears or an epic spider bite on their face acquired in the night. In those days she was my alarm clock, shrieking around 6am at the discovery of a june bug gracelessly struggling on it’s back in the kitchen or a wayfaring tree roach in the tub. Her SOS would continue until I traded my sheets for a robe and managed to wrangle the beast back to the outdoors. This was every damn day. One morning I decided to forgo the robe, knowing my nudity would be as off putting to her as the insects themselves. My plan was thoroughly effective but I regretted the decision as I went head to head with a hirsute spider the size of my palm. I got to sleep in again but after a month or so the screaming was back, only this time it was about the electric bill.. A problem that couldn’t be smashed with a rolled up Chronicle or set free on the back porch. We got square with Austin Electric and I moved to a dark, roommate-free studio across town.

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Before that I shared a home with two tidy, fit gay dudes who got laid very well and with much more frequency than myself. We cooked together often and this thrilled me. I turned them on to the joys of habitual marijuana use and they lovingly taught me how to do my laundry correctly. According to them the cold on cold setting was no way to be living. “Bonnie...” they’d say, “Panties, just like dishes, need to be washed in WARM water.” To that I’d say “...but I don’t wear panties.” They blushed and giggled like school girls and this thrilled me. Then there was the girl with the unruly dog and the fantastic rack. The dog jumped and scratched, drew blood and ate my dinner more times than I could count while the owner of this wild thing sometimes enjoyed parading through the house topless when I had dates over. Claiming to be surprised to learn she wasn’t home alone. Just cut offs, nipples and a smile. Gorgeous, yes but this combination never made up for the lack of privacy as far as I was concerned. However, I’m sure it thrilled my dates to no end.  Now I’m solo..  Living alone, shoebox style. No one cries over bugs, cringes when I launder my unmentionables or my denim incorrectly and the only topless person within these walls is me unless otherwise authorized.

On that note, welcome to Naked and Eggs.. What is this? A lifestyle blog? Vainglorious rantings from a clothing adversed lady? Propaganda for the incredible, edible egg? Probably. An exercise in literary self felacio? Absolutely.