Upstairs was the apartment of the swingers and their ghost-hunting roommate who likes the word "heteroflexible" since it captures the fact that he not only is willing to rub scrotums with another guy during a double penetration, but also is not ashamed to admit to the fact that he finds it pleasurable. There were hardwood floors and tastefully-painted walls, and the refrigerator had a leopard skin adhesive wall paper type thing on it, and one wall was a chalkboard with a schedule on it, and then there were tables that had glass tops over visible, artistically-arranged drawers which contained paranormal-related shit like Ouija boards and crystals and whatnot.
The swinger lady had earlier introduced me to the prof who ran the sex study, and when I was up there to get a beer, me and him finally sat down and talked a bit. I somehow mentioned that I had biked up there, as well as the fact that a friend and I were hitting local soul food restaurants all summer long, and he was saying that he loves to bike and he loves soul food, and he's also an "aficionado of ghettoes from way back".
"How is that?", I was like.
"When I was doing my doctorate at [name of the university removed]," he was like, "My wife at that time and I lived in a ghetto, and it was a new experience for me."
"Plus," he was like, "My marriage wasn't quite what it should have been, so I got to know it quite well from going out every night to pick up prostitutes."
"It was a dark time," he added.
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