You cannot call the person you live with your roommate if you don’t have a room in the house.

I once hung out with a cute, stylish guy who was couch surfing at his friend’s house and had no plans of leaving or contributing to the household in the immediate future. I didn’t put this together at first, as we weren’t banging. But I can tell you this much: The moment he tried to make a move on me on that couch, in my drunken stupor, I suddenly realized there were only two bedrooms in the house and three inhabitants. It didn’t add up, and I realized I was the girl who was allegedly ok with getting it on in the living room. Perhaps the only thing worse than a leech with no intention of leaving, is the slut bag not bothered by this arrangement. That was the last night I saw him, I escaped that scenario immediately.

In an effort to offer complete disclosure and context to my feelings on this issue, I should clarify that I did — once — sleep with someone on a couch in a living room after a long night of partying. A skanky mosaic of a sex scene, this interaction occurred in awkward snippets, as his so-called “roommates” walked to the kitchen and the bathroom throughout the wee hours of the morning. When the sun began to rise, its rays shone through the hippie tapestry being used as curtains. At this point, I noticed his battered backpack on the floor and I realized that I had just fucked a “technically homeless” man on a stranger’s couch.

Mates, each with a room

I couldn’t blame the pseudo-hobo completely for my serious lack of suspicion. So, like the majority of my slutscapades, I blame my actions on naivety and complete denial… that paired with the use of drugs and/or alcohol. I was obviously hammered enough to not question when we were going to advance to a unkempt bedroom, dirty boy-bathroom or even a fucking closet at some point. However, upon hearing one mention his or her “roommates,” you sort of assume the person speaking pays rent and has an actual room in a house (and, apparently, that they’re so turned on by you they simply cannot force themselves to pause ten seconds and move to another room, as was clearly the case.)

It comes down to this: I honestly don’t care if you’re a couch surfer. Whether you’re traveling, or need to save money, or have some other reason for doing so, that’s your prerogative. And who‘s to say I won‘t be in the same a position at some point? The ways things are going, I‘m likely lingering toward life on a loveseat. However, you can’t call someone your roommate if you don’t have a room in the house. The word roommate says it all: mates, each with a room. If this is not the arrangement, they are the host and you are their guest.

It seems to me that the relationship between a host and a couch surfer somewhat parallels the relationship between a host cell and the virus or parasite that drains it of energy and resources, such as nourishment and shelter. At this point I will put on my nerd glasses and observe the relationship from a biologist’s point of view. *Note: If you are or have ever been a couch surfer, I am not calling you a parasite/virus; I am simply comparing and contrasting two types of hosts. Don’t blame me, this is science talking.

The Hostess with the mostess

Primary/definitive host. If the parasite is lucky, it has a primary, or definitive host. This cell, or in our case, person, allows the virus to reach maturity (in some cases a contradiction in terms) and, if applicable, reproduce sexually (most likely on their “roommates” couch.) This means the person serving as the host is willing to provide shelter until it’s guest has gotten his or her shit together (an admirable characteristic of a true friend). This person is also comfortable with the fact that it's visitor will most likely attempt to nest and at some point ejaculate on its sofa — assuming, of course, it finds someone who is attracted to parasites and, therefore, getting nailed on a rust-colored, crumb- and pet hair-covered couch while scenes from Family Guy flicker romantically on the plasma screen.

Secondary/intermediate host. In terms of the host, it’s a wise idea to serve as only a secondary or intermediate host. This person harbors its visitor only for a brief, transitional period — perhaps allowing its guest to crash for a week or two while the person finds either a job, or girlfriend, or other sponsor to exhaust of its assets and mental wellbeing. I’d imagine this host doesn’t require rent or help with utilities, but simply offers it’s guest a safe place to get one’s affairs in order — an ideal situation for both parties.

Dead-end host. Then there’s a dead-end host, most likely a bigger parasite than the one seeking assistance, albeit one with a lease. This kind of host prevents its guest from completing its development, and will likely encourage toxic behavior. “Don’t have a bed? Fuck it; you can sleep on my forest green papasan chair if you slang this coke for me.” A dead-end host may be more dangerous than living on the streets, as such an environment does not allow for growth and progress.

In the end

So, is a couch surfer a deal breaker? Not necessarily. You cannot judge a person’s character based simply upon their dwellings. Everyone needs a little help sometimes and, as friends, it’s our job to provide assistance to those who would do the same for us. Plus, I’ll take a couch over a cardboard box any day; beggars can’t be choosers.

If you have a shirtless photo taken in a mirror with a camera phone, and you're not gay, then... wait, you're totally gay, huh?

Chances are pretty good that half of your male gay friends between the ages of 18 and 30 have one (or 136) photo(s) of themselves flexing, without a shirt, taken in a mirror (oft-times in a bathroom or closet) with their camera phone. The shameless shirtless self photo shoot is as gay as glitter and, if you live in Denver, as gay as Thursday night.

I would argue that the gays have stolen this and made this their own, along with the rainbow, and Uptown. What I can do without, however, is straight men attempting this technique. It’s funny how this look only offends me when the person taking the photo is someone I could possibly consider having sex with (whether I’d have to be drunk off my ass or not).

Another time this look fails is when straight women share practically nude photos of themselves and gather them in albums labeled “Modeling.” Just because some creep talked you into dressing scandalously and greasing up for his photographic and pornographic pleasure, doesn’t mean you should post 45 nearly identical photos of yourself wearing lingerie, and licking a lollipop with a come hither stare. If these photos are in a magazine or advertisement, you’re a model. If your photos are in some guy’s spank bank, you’re just undressing for a pervert with a camera. There’s a thin line between self-promotion and self-exploitation.

If you’re wondering whether you should be sharing photos of you topless and in the mirror, I’ve made a simple little equation for you:

Gay = OK; Not Gay = No Way

I can’t describe what it is exactly that makes this photo procedure so wrong on a straight man. Featuring a straight man, these pictures seem silly, vain, hilarious; while when depicting a gay man, the photos are sexy, confident, flirtatious. Why is it that gay men can get away with this when straight men cannot? It could be because, in my eyes, the gays can do no wrong — they can pull off a mesh neon tank top, and they can pull off the rightfully-confident-look-at-my-sexy-body pic.

I’m unabashedly obsessed with gay men. My fantasy is to one day marry a homosexual male (insert dream sequence fuzz). We would have an impeccably decorated house, host amazing cocktail parties, spend our days shopping, have our own separate sex lives, and share all of the dirty details over martinis and Scrabble. I can see it now: My homo-husband and I are laying beside the fire in matching “OMG” monogrammed silk pajamas (his pink, mine blue), watching Mean Girls, playing the popular word game, and gossiping about our latest mistakes. I’d would play the word “fellatio” on a triple word score. “48 points, biotch!” “Whore!“ he’d respond. Then, spilling my drink, I fumble for the remote, “Girl, it was this big!” to which my husband would reply, “Aw, heeeeyyy!” and we’d cheers, leaving practically no drinks left in our glasses, and calling the dog over to lick the booze off our $1,500 dollar rug.

I can’t get enough of the half-nekkid photos that gay men promote themselves with. I find them horribly amusing, and seeing as I’m a total pervert, a free show. As I walk through life, I basically check out everyone: men, women, grandfathers, baby daddies, grocery store checkers, your mom, security guards, department store santas, preschool teachers, sluts, and so on. I’m like a construction worker, except I don’t wear hunter orange, have less of a gut, and do not have a penchant for the arrogant ability to shout out things that could make even a sexual predator cringe (instead I say these things under my breathe to anyone who is within ear-shot of a whisper.)