Now, I certainly don’t profess to be an expert at college masturbation, or its protocols, and I certainly don’t profess to understand the first thing about straight men, or their curious behaviors, or what exactly they feel comfortable doing in the presence of other men. But I do feel confident enough in my own extensive experience on the subject to point out that there does exist a set of unspoken norms to which all college men implicitly agree, and at the risk of betraying its unwritten nature, they are as follows: always knock before entering a room, or at the very least flounder with your keys at the door for a few seconds to signal that you’re about to enter; if possible, post your schedule in public view so your dorm-fellow might better understand which times you’ll be away and when you might return; avoid shower masturbation, as it puts strain on dorm plumbing; and by all means—and this one should really, truly go without saying—keep your dick in your pants when another person is in the room, be they unconscious or otherwise!

Perhaps it was my mistake for not laying out these rules more explicitly, I wondered as I lay there motionless, plotting my next move. Maybe I should’ve gotten Troy to sign some sort of self-pleasure contract, or at least offhandedly mentioned once or twice that I’d appreciate it if he wouldn’t lotion up his lap snake while I was lying a couple arm lengths away.

But, there we were, the moans of his chosen film’s protagonist struggling to overcome the “squish, squish, squish” of her viewer’s strokes. He was making no apparent attempt to hide the fact that this was happening, either so enraptured by his task or so convinced that I was dead asleep across from him. His confidence made me wonder if this had happened before, if perhaps I’d been snoring through night after night of this and had no idea. And sure, while this entire incident sounds like the beginning of every gay porn ever filmed, I still wanted it to end. Nobody wants a masturbating dick they didn’t ask for, especially not one that’s attached to a vodka-soaked wannabe heartbreaker with a chronic cough.

I’m not one for confrontation, or for awkward encounters, or really for any interactions of any kind. I certainly wasn’t about to let him finish, but I couldn’t imagine sitting up, looking at him dead in his stupid, slack-jawed face, and telling him to unhand his sausage. So I did the easiest thing at my disposal: I let out a loud, prominent cough, accompanied by some light stirring and grumbling, not quite an “AHEM,” but a discernible enough action to send the message: “I am awake. I hear everything. Please sheathe your penis.”