Epic Of A Giant Dick

In my never-ending parade of broken monsters of roommates, I have had stalkers who drained their blood, any kind of addict you could possibly imagine (I have witnessed probably over 20 people overdose on heroin in the very houses I live in), dealers, drunks, whores, an electrician who has sex with his pet collie, an Italian immigrant who engages in clandestine necrophilia, an inebriated hustler who strangles his homosexual lover, an adulterous housewife who puts rat poison in her husband's coffee (that last one is just a fantasy of myself), but yea every type of bizarre bloated sack of degenerate shit has passed in and out of my living spaces.

I thought I was close to done with the stories. I do have that pesky abusive boyfriend, but let's leave it at that. He's good. Talked about him here already (and had my life threatened as a result of publishing them), but otherwise, I figured there really could NOT be another person who will walk through these doors and just surprise the hell out of me with his or her weird/heinous/bizarre and, in this particular case, extremely fucking retarded behavior. I can't describe it as anything but laughable and GAY AS HELL. I still don't know how what to make of his South American or African or Native American or whatever other sexy ethnicity he’d tell inebriated girls he was in order to insert his 10 inch black genital monstrosity into whatever hole he deemed necessary. I'll call him Qualeeb because it's one of those names that I can't pronounce because I'm either too white or just don't give a fuck.

My first encounter with Qualeeb was over the telephone when this crazy bitch had left her phone here, he called it, and I answered it thinking it was her. The voice on the other end was deep and smooth. Like a DJ on a black radio station at night when they play the "smooth jams." He asked for the bitch girl. I explained how I had her phone and was trying to get in contact with her, but he ignored whatever I was asking and moved quickly into the "Ooh, what's your name, beautiful?" routine. In general, I love how my beauty is so strong it radiates through the phone line, but at that point I promptly ended the conversation. He reminded me of a kind of person I’ve slept with before… a kind I sleep with and, afterwards, find myself taking tranquilizers and hoping I never have to experience such horrors again.

On to the second encounter with Qualeeb. The crazy girl who owned the phone came to my house in a huff. She explained that she had been kidnapped for five days by Qualeeb and he had been feeding her coke and keeping her prisoner. I think she wanted to take refuge with me but I had no coke to feed her so I could not kidnap her (thank God). I never saw her after that. I'm not worried though.

Next, I heard my boyfriend say that his friend Qualeeb was coming over, and that he was considering living here. I was thinking, "Oh shit... this can't be the same cocaine Barry White nightmare who I had the unfortunate chance of talking on the phone to." I told my roommate/boyfriend about this weirdo, and he assured me it was another person. For some reason I believed him. In retrospect, I don’t know why. How many fucking Qualeebs are there in this world.

The Qualeeb I had dreaded came over that night, and he and my boyfriend went out for drinks. When they came home it had already been decided that he was going to be the person who would occupy the third room. I would have shit myself, but it was explained that he'd only be there on some weekends because he was going to school in Florida and he just wanted to fly up to Chicago sometimes to DJ and do his thang, and that he wanted a place to keep his stuff. To endear himself to me, he assured me that everything that the nutty girl had said about him was a complete lie (which, for some reason, I decided to believe), and then he demonstrated his vast musical talent by playing an original song for me. "I'm a recording artist, Princess," he said in his smoothest most convincing tone. "DMX is my cousin, and you know, me and him fixin to get a lil’ somethin’ together. Check this one out."

It was very hard not to laugh at the DMX thing, but I wanted to hear this man's song. Boy did I get to. It seemed endless. I swear it was 20 minutes long. It was seriously an epic. And it was him playing acoustic guitar and rapping, but the whole rap – the entire 20 minutes – was about one thing: his dick. How beautiful it was, how big it was, how it satisfied everyone, how its shape was perfect, all the girls it's been in, just anything and everything you could possibly hope not to hear about this man's appendage. He went on and on. I thought the fun would never end. By this time I knew for sure he was a nut. And now, he was our roommate.

Qualeeb moved his stuff in slowly and, at first, really wasn’t around. One day though, when he decided he was officially in, he started to set up his room. He had a thing of sage that he was burning as a "cleansing ritual." The whole thing seemed extremely gay to me, but the smell covered up the ass, alcohol, and cigarette smell of the house so I didn't object.

The more he unpacked, the stranger his room got. Then he brought it in. His altar. He was a practicing Buddhist, which was also gay and soon proved how much of his chi and chai and chakras he had in check. The altar was made of a very elaborate, ornate, Dollar Store, wooden table with crappy placemats, some incense, and a daily reading book. In front of the altar he placed another shitty mat which I guess was where he sat when he chanted. He sometimes invited me to chant with him, but I would always decline. I found out he only chanted very loudly when people were around, to impress them and get them to ask him about it, but quickly stopped when he found out it was of no interest to anyone around him. He used the Buddha shit to get girls to polish his beautiful cock so that he could add lyrics to his epic song. Yup… this man was one of a kind.

Two weeks went by and I saw him maybe three times. Then, one morning at 9:00, I was woken up by a banging on my bedroom door. Not knocking so much as break down the fucking door banging. My always predictable and testosterone fueled boyfriend yelled, "What the fuck?!?!"

Qualeeb swung open the door and said, "MAN WE GOTTA TALK." My boyfriend calls him a motherfucker for waking us up so early, and Qualeeb, his nose caked with cocaine, yelled, "YOU ABOUT TO CALL ME MOTHERFUCKER, MOTHERFUCKER, YOU DON'T KNOW ANYTHANG BOUT THA NIGGAZ I ROLE WIFF."

Apparently Buddha carries a glock and the chanting must just be some 50 Cent lyrics in a different language. The fight escalated to the point that we had to call in our gangster neighbor with a gun for protection. And what was the reason for this uprising? Qualeeb was pissed at the front door not being locked that morning. Qualeeb demanded his rent back, and I, always calm under pressure, asked him if that was what he really wanted, and he said it was. I could totally live without the dick songs and Buddhist chanting, so I happily agreed to go get his money and return it to him.

When I came back with the case, he explained that he and Buddha were cool with me, but unfortunately he was going to have to kill my boyfriend for "steppin' to him." I figure it was a tragic loss, but then again, I guess my boyfriend shouldn't have stepped. Whatever.

Qualeeb grabbed my hand and held it ever so earnestly, his nostrils still caked with cocaine, and thanked me. Then he looked into my eyes and said, "Princess, I'm gonna have to leave my altar here for a couple of days until I get a car to pick it up." (Apparently DMX wasn't around that weekend to help him move out.) "Will you make sure no one messes with it?"

"Of Course," I said, overjoyed that he had left the care of the almighty altar in my power, "I'll make sure no one touches it."

"You cool, Princess," he said, then he left the room without so much as giving a flesh wound to my boyfriend (which I’m still pissed about).

And here it is, a month later, and his altar is still where he left it. Naturally, I’m earnestly awaiting his return so I can get it the fuck out of here, but I have a sinking feeling that it’s not leaving anytime soon. Who knows? Maybe I'll start chanting and get in touch with my chakras so I can someday write an epic song about my dick.

Nope, I'm not touching that altar. I’m too scared to. Besides, it’s a beautiful reminder of my two weeks with Qualeeb. Like I said, he was a special one. I've had my share of degenerate, pock-marked, pig roommates, but none of them had fucking DMX as a cousin. That's tight as hell.