The House of Tits

“We can sort of…close the band room door while I move stuff in, right?” I asked my boyfriend (we'll call him Ringo) as nicely as possible.

It was moving day, and my mom was going to be bringing some things over in her car that didn’t quite fit in mine.

“Sure, I guess," Ringo replied.

I breathed an inward sigh of relief. Best not to let my conservative Christian homeschooling (yes) mom in her denim dress see all of the Suicide Girls posters alongside the “Whore of Babylon” ones and all. It’s not that my mom would say anything – and that’s the problem. I’d just be treated to even more disapproving looks if she walked into the foyer of the house and saw not only the fake rubber bats hanging festively (in December) from the ceiling, but also a room full of naked girl pictures. It was bad enough that I was moving in with my boyfriend (little heathen that I was -- er, am), but moving into a house of tits was even worse.

I closed the band room door. And looked at the door. On the side facing out hung a huge poster of, well, mostly-naked Pussycat Dolls. That, too, would certainly not earn me any approval from Good Ol’ Mom.

I took it down. But inside, I had a sick feeling that if I ever wanted my parents to come visit for dinner, getting the house to Sensible Reasonable Nice People standards was going to take a valiant effort on my part.

For me, personally, I didn’t have any fears. Boobs, whatever! I could deal with a band room full of boobs! It wasn’t going to be that bad! Not bad at all! Nothin’ to it! Easy as pie! Flippant exclamation of carefree innocence!

Dun dun dun dunnnnn.

The thing is, it was my idea. Our idea, really. But I was actively involved. It wasn't some random dorm assignment, where you arrive at your freshman college room, all perky and glistening with golden hopes and dreams only to find that your roommate, Raven, is busy trying to paint her nails Black Death and fix her mohawk at the same time as properly ripping her fishnets and your golden hopes and dreams sort of droop and sag a little like sad old woman boobs (sorry old women; it's totally natural and I love our bodies and I've read "The Beauty Myth" and thought it was brilliant but I also thought saggy boobs was a good metaphor).

Nope. I was totally on board for the idea of living with members of a goth industrial band during my junior year of college. My boyfriend was (and still is) part of the goth industrial band, and the house had room, and it was close to campus, and affordable, and I figured what the hell, it's just a band. How bad could it be? What's the worst that could happen?

...

One of these things is not like the others. One of these things just doesn't belong:

Goth industrial band. Pet tarantulas. Loud drunken band practice nights with fire-breathers (no I am not making this up). One shy English major.

This is the story of my belonging in a house with a goth band.