Sometimes sex is great, but conditions are not. Your friends would not dare to stamp their approval on your genital union, be it for conflict of interest, conflict of cultural values, or conflict of “I can hear his wild boar grunts from the living room couch.” Must star-crossed fuckers fornicators bid a tearful goodbye, promising that someday, perhaps in another lifetime, their sweating bodies will once again join in screaming doggie-style bliss? Hell no. Not when they can copulate in confidence.

We’re all entitled to a secret lover at least once in our lifetime. Mine came in the heat of a breakup – things ended poorly, I was angry and he was understanding. “Understanding” is the Axe Body Spray of male emotion. Just an FYI, gents.

We weren’t cheating on anybody, so why was it secret? He may have been my best friend’s ex, or my mom’s high school English teacher – you decide. The only thing that matters is that, for a good couple of months, he made life fantastically hot.

Romping under the radar is no easy task, especially in Isla Vista, where the shoebox nature of our living quarters makes concealing even the details of our toenail trimmings and plunger use difficult. Although annoying, the challenge of stealthy sex can also be exhilarating. The painstaking planning – the “my roommate has class from 4 ’til 4:50,” and the “I’ll have the place to myself five Thursdays from tomorrow” – can leave you dripping with anticipation.

With your Wii-obsessed roommates making your apartment off-limits for, oh, about 23.5 hours a day, you’re forced to do some creative location scouting. Fun fact about Santa Barbara: you’ll never run out of surfaces to hump on… be it an impromptu blow-jay on I.V. beach, car-rocking in the parking lot of Goleta Beach, vertical-bouncing behind the Girvetz Hall stage curtain or gettin’ down in your car trunk at the Greyhound station (a hell of a goodbye hug, let me tell you). If you haven’t warmed up to the idea of rogue-location penetration, it’s because you haven’t contemplated setting your roommate’s car on fire just to buy yourself an hour to fuck.

You can also amp up the paranoia factor and live for the moments when the roommate’s gone. Whether your fellow inhabitant is out for the night or down the street picking up Freebirds, a time constraint gets the heart pumping and senses tingling like no other. Every thrust counts, and every scream must be inaudible to someone climbing the stairs up to your front door. Lordy knows, if you let your guard down for even a second, you could end up with one very naked man hiding in your closet, while you make polite conversation with your roommate, trying to hide your pantslessness under your bed comforter for who knows how long. Isn’t it hot, how fucking high these stakes are?

And then there are the times when the roommates are en casa, and you just can’t keep the hormones in check. Inventing an excuse for a moment alone – “Hey, I think I lost my, uh, oven mitt. Could you come in the room and help me find it?” – lets you frantically but silently ravage each other… the stuff wet dreams are made of. Collect yourselves before emerging from the kitchen, lest your comrades draw suspicion from your shirt fastened four buttons off.

Keep it exciting by stealing moments every chance you get, no matter how close the call. Did one roommate just turn his head and cough? Bite her nipple through her shirt. Did another roommate just throw her head up and laugh at a funny you made? Pull his hand up your skirt. If you’re caught, no sweat – pretend he was swatting a bug. On your crotch. You know, like friends do.

You only live once, and there’s no time like your college years to sleep with someone behind everyone’s back… it can’t get you fired from a job or get you impeached yet. As a participant in such trysts, I offer you something that may be hidden from you: No matter how stealth you think you are, your friends probably know anyway.