Houseguests

My middle daughter recently pointed out to me that my two younger children apparently did not know the story about the time I lived with two male strippers.

It's not as interesting, or salacious, as it sounds.

I moved out of my parents' house at 18, just months after my high school graduation. I moved in with my sister and her husband. They needed a roommate in order to make the rent on their four bedroom house, and I wanted to feel like an adult. That living arrangement lasted for 3 months, until my junior high best friend invited me to get an apartment with her.

We had been inseparable at 13 and 14, and then she'd moved away, and we spent years almost 2,000 miles apart. Now she was back, we were adults, and living together sounded like great fun.

We chose a fairly upscale apartment complex, with a gated entry, a fitness center and tons of amenities that we never used.

I think we'd been there all of two weeks when she came to me with a sob story. Two of her friends, young men named Clint and something ordinary like Josh were "living in their car. They have nowhere to go." Could they stay with us "just for awhile," until they could "save money" for their own place?

I'm a soft touch, softer than I should be. I was hesitant, but they assured me that it would be extremely short term.

It was 1985, and minimum wage was $2.15 per hour. I made a whopping $2.35 an hour at my first job, where I worked 20 hours a week. At my second job, I made minimum wage and worked 26 hours a week. My roommate had a 40 hour a week office job - she made more than I did, but she wasn't wealthy. Clint and Josh were strippers. I could not imagine how they were so short of money that they needed us to bail them out, unless they had serious drug problems (and I wasn't ruling that out). I reluctantly agreed, as long as it was extremely short term, just a few days. "Two weeks, tops," they promised.

Usually, when I tell this story, I add that I would not have paid these men to take their clothes off for me. In fairness, it has never occurred to me to pay anyone to disrobe for me. I did not go to see "Magic Mike." Do not ever waste your money or time inviting me to "Thunder from Down Under." I am not a stripper's target audience, male or female. Still, these guys were ordinary looking, and young enough to still have acne across their backs (although old enough to legally strip as a career), so maybe they didn't make a ton of money. They made a whole heck of a lot more than I made, though, so why were they sleeping on my couch?

OK, I know why they were sleeping on my couch. Six years into my friendship with my roommate, I was aware that she had an almost universal pheromonal effect on men. I had spent more time than I really wanted to think about watching two guys - friends, brothers, cousins, you name it - make the deal with each other: "We'll both hit on the hot one. Whichever one she doesn't choose can have her friend." They were pretty sure that living with two girls would mean an endless Playboy mansion party for them. Plus, the women were footing the bill. What could go wrong?

Women, does this ever work? Have you ever been the friend with the "great personality" who stood around waiting for guys your friends had rejected, so you could snatch them up for yourself? Most males seem to do this ridiculous tag team mating dance, and I simply cannot imagine that it ever works. Still, it must work often enough that guys keep doing it.

Ladies: Stop that! Don't feed this behavior! Gentlemen: No one will ever think you're irresistible if you view them as a consolation prize!

So these men slept late every day and couldn't be out apartment hunting "because they work nights." They ate the food we (mostly I) bought, watched our TV, used our hot water, and wandered around in less clothing than is acceptable in public. I'm sure that they thought that the scanty nature of their wardrobes was a turn on, and that we were incredibly privileged to see it for free, but it was annoying. I had zero romantic interest in either of them. I don't know if my roommate had any, but I never saw her demonstrate some.

Asking them to put something on usually led to ridiculous statements like, "I am wearing something. I usually walk around naked," or, "I put on underwear for you. I sleep in the nude." EEEEWWWW. So not attractive.

One sunny Saturday, Clint pushed too far, wardrobe-wise. I was sitting in our little breakfast nook eating when Clint wandered out onto our second story balcony in BLACK MESH BIKINI UNDERWEAR. Who knew that anyone even manufactured those? He leaned against the railing, surveying his domain, in full view of our parking lot and the apartment complex next door. It was just beyond words. I almost burst a blood vessel.

I yanked open the sliding glass door and hissed, "Get in here! We have neighbors! What are you thinking?"

Clint was baffled. "What?"

"Get inside! Right now! And put some pants on!"

"What's wrong with you?"

At that point, I unleashed a torrent of words, none of them complimentary, including, "People can see you!" I may have said something to the effect of, "Put on some pants or I'll put them on for you."

I think it was shortly after that that I put my foot down. The strippers had to go. Now. They'd been there for weeks on end, we were violating the terms of our lease by even having them there, they hadn't contributed a single dollar or even a washed dish to contribute to their upkeep, and I never wanted to see their sorry, skimpy underwear again. They had to GO.

My roommate was aghast. Where would they go? What would they do? I didn't care.

The men were aghast. Couldn't they stay just a little longer, to "get back on their feet?" No - it had already been much longer than the agreed upon time frame. They'd end up sleeping in their car again, they said. "It's summer; you won't freeze," I said.

They had NO money, they swore. "You make more in one night than I make in a month! Where does it GO?" There was much mumbling about debts, and gas, and expenses. "I don't care. If I could manage to get enough together on minimum wage, you can get it together. If you can't, it's not my problem."

I gave them until the end of the week to get out, or I'd notify the apartment management, and they'd toss them out. "They'll kick you out too," the men threatened. After all, we'd violated our lease by letting them stay with us.

"Let them. I have somewhere else to go. I have family. I have friends. I have a bank account. If worse comes to worst, I have a van. I can sleep there."

They spent the rest of the week taking my roommate aside and saying things like, "Can't you talk to her?"

"I have," she would wail. "She doesn't listen!" Point of fact: I listened, quietly and politely. Then I stated my position. I just didn't agree with her, or cave in. When you have arguments, folks, don't accuse people of not listening simply because they don't agree with you. It's not the same thing.

The men left in a huff. I never saw or heard from them again.

My roommate was furious. According to her, I was selfish and controlling and had NO compassion. I had also made her look bad in front of her friends. I truly did not care how she saw the situation. I may have been 19 years old at that point, but emotionally I was middle aged. I was never young.

I didn't feel bad for a second. I still don't.

Just as an aside, my roommate and I never made it through the six months for which we'd signed a lease. This was not the first, last, only or most serious argument we had. We moved out on less than friendly terms, and didn't speak to each other for months. We managed to repair things, to an extent, later, but we never again considered living together.

So, after my daughter brought it up, I told my teenaged kids the abbreviated version of this story over pizza and wings at one of our favorite pizza places. (There is a moral in there, kids.) Maybe I should have worried about whether or not people at surrounding tables were listening. Sorry about your appetites, folks.

I was rewarded with, "Geez, Mom. You know interesting people."

Think of how embarrassing the story would be if I had enjoyed the experience.