How loud is too loud?

A majority of us have probably come from FT, or scum like it, and therefore most of us have had to hear moaning and groaning on an occasion. And I’m not talking about the pain and torture of finals moaning and groaning; I’m talking about the ecstasy and elation of your roommate who is fucking some random on the other side of the room.

We’ve all had them. Those bastard roommates who just plain don’t give a shit if you are so close to them you can smell the alcohol on their breath as they are screwing the vagina off someone. Yeah, I’m only a little pissed off about it. And traumatized.

The first encounter is always freshman year. If you’re as lucky as I am, then you too got some really loud slut from Orange County to ‘share’ the room with. She seemed like a nice girl, until you find out that her idea of interior decoration is a multitude of Trojan wrappers.

At least she was using them, right?

What was really disgusting was all the belligerent guys too out of their minds to notice that the girl had a face that only a midnight checker at Wal-Mart could love. It only got better when she gave her porn-addict boyfriend the keys to our room so he could live in front of her 10″ screen for three weeks.

Now, one would think that after a year of traumatizing experiences it would be over. Not if you live on DP! Oh no, then you get your virginal suitemate turned crazy oral sex-tition. If you’re really lucky, then your downstairs neighbors are Bebe cashier queens. These girls can only afford to buy half the skirt, which is enough to go slut it up on a warm December night, come back with Tight End Teddy and scream so loud, you’d think he stuck it in her eye socket.

So I thought, senior year, I’ll get my own room and be free of the sleepless torture of late night hook-ups. Except that Anorexia Nervosa One and Two live downstairs. But that’s not all. For anonymity, lets call him the Brazilian Bull.

When you hear his girlfriend in mid-screw from Camino Corto and you live on Sabado Tarde, there is a problem. That’s right. Screaming and groaning and fucking loudly is fine. Somewhere else. Like maybe Painted Cave Road. But not on the futon your mother bought you for Christmas, especially when their method of birth control is rhythm and not condoms.

It’s certainly not the right time to go at it when your roommate is on the phone. That’s because he or she could be talking to his or her grandparents. And it’s not easy to explain why someone is screaming, “I’m coming!” in the background to an 80-year-old who can still hear.

So I have decided on a final solution, and I’d like the rest of you well-mannered freaky folks to follow my lead. The next time a Brazilian Bull tries to fuck on your couch, figure it’s your couch and you might as well watch. That’s right – get the popcorn ready and a cup of brew.

At least then you’ll know exactly the places to avoid sitting down before you can cough up enough quarters to take it to Bubbles & Beans. And if they are too drunk to care, or just plain don’t give a shit, call up your significant other -or even just some random – and start screwin’ on their furniture. Try to aim for their keyboard; it’ll be hard to lift the sex secretions off of that. If you don’t have one, well then you better start touching yourself. I’m telling you, just whip it out.

That’s my lesson this week to all you mild-mannered UCSB hump-a-holics. And finally, a message to baseball fans: Only Giants fans are exempt from the Screaming Sex Sounds solution this World Series. Scream away!

Daily Nexus sex columnist Beth Van Dyke only screams for ice cream.