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9 Lansdowne St.
Suite 2
Boston, MA 02215
Her Campus may receive compensation for some links to products and services on this website. Copyright © 2021 Her Campus Media, LLC. All Rights Reserved.
College always promises experiences to remember but sometimes these memories aren't quite what we were hoping for. Freshman year coupled with communal bathrooms is a recipe for gross surprises and our writers got to experience them in full:
Oh gosh, I have been here for five years now and my fair share of dorm stories could probably create a small book.
My freshman year in college though, by far, exceeds almost any other year of insane stories.
In my freshman dorm, it was a wing of girls on the bottom floor and a wing of boys on the top floor. We all shared a community bathroom with six showers and five or six toilets (hard to remember after all this time ha). There was never really any problem with showers or toilets being occupied when you wanted to use them. There was, however, problems with them being destroyed or unavailable to use because people are crazy.
On several occasions, many of the toilets would have crap smeared ALL over the toilet, floor, and stall. Which one, resulted in fines; two, was foul? Who would be willing to shove their hand in poop to do that?; and three, resulted in limited bathroom usage.
One time I was taking a shower, curtain drawn and I had my towel hanging outside the shower - all clear indications I was using the shower and in it. This girl, who thankfully I never interacted with again, just walked up to the curtain and pulled it openly said something to me that I didn’t understand, stood there for a minute and then walked away. She wasn’t in a towel so I don’t think she mistakenly thought it was empty, she was fully clothed.
Another time, my freshman year, I left the lobby to get something from my room and as soon as I walked into the wing I could hear someone having sex - LOUD. And I thought to myself well okay then, ya’ll are loud as hell but as I got closer to my room it got increasingly louder. It went quiet for a bit when I got to my room and I went in - no one there - and I grabbed my stuff and then realized I had to pee. I went into the bathroom, which is right across from my room and walked in on two people having sex on the COMMUNITY bathroom floor.
My freshman year of college I lived in suite-style dorms where I shared a room with one guy and a bathroom with another room of two people. This story is just one example of the shenanigans that went on in that dorm.
One day while I was doing homework, one of my suitemates barged into my room with a bunch of his buddies. They all had huge grins on their faces like they had just gotten into something. I suspiciously looked at my suitemate and then I saw that he was holding a very large dildo in his hand. This thing was a Caucasian monstrosity. It was very thicc and was complete with testicles, veins, and even a suction cup at its base. Before I can even ask “Why?” he tells me the dildo’s whole backstory.
Apparently, the room below us had a string hanging from its drop ceiling at the start of the year. When those people pulled the string, they found a note attached that said: “Check the other room to find Richard”. The people went over to the conjoined room, lifted one of the ceiling tiles, and out plopped Richard.
My suitemate somehow knew those people and had just stolen Richard from their room. Richard really became our mascot for the year. We’d do things, like stick him to pretty much any surface in the dorm using his suction cup or put him under the pillow of whomever, was expecting a lady-friend over that night. At Christmas time I actually used sparkly pipe cleaners to make tinsel and a star to turn him into our Christmas tree. It was an interesting time, to say the least. Richard is still the centerpiece of my old suitemate’s apartment today.
Coming to college, I knew that I would experience all sorts of weird things. Though, I never expected that I would be subjected to the stereotypical the “I caught my roommate masturbating” occurrence.
My weekly schedule was always pinned to my desk, allowing my roommate to know where I’d be and when I would not be in the dorm. Except for one day, I got out of class early and returned to my dorm. I unlocked the door in a loud manner to announce I was coming in, but the headphones must have been too loud. I proceeded to enter, only to find him on his laptop, pants to his knees and tissue at the ready. I threw my belongings down, trying to leave as soon as possible, but he insisted on having a conversation with me while blowing his nose with the tissue.
Everyone knows the worst part about being a freshman in college is the communal bathroom. At first, I thought this was just an exaggeration, it had been smooth sailing once you get past having zero privacy. That was until the fateful morning when I walked into the bathroom stall--my favorite bathroom stall--and saw a horror unfold. There was poop everywhere. It was on the back of the toilet, the toilet seat, the floor, the stall walls. Now, I thought this was a single occurrence; maybe someone just had a rough night. Nope! Every other Friday there was this murder in the stall. Fridays, coincidentally, when the janitorial staff would not be back on duty until two days later on Monday. Not only did I lose my favorite stall to the wreckage, but this person moved on to the shower stalls.
An entire side of showers would be off-limits thanks to this person’s -ahem- bowel movement on the floor. An entire floor of girls had to share two showers that weekend. This person then moved their games right to the middle of the bathroom where you could be brushing your teeth staring at someone’s digested breakfast. It was disgusting and an experience that truly bonded the floor of girls for life. Honestly, though, I hope whoever was the culprit is doing well and has curbed their appetite for public pooping.
When it comes to being a freshman in college, you will experience new things. For many people, this often comes with the fact that you have to use communal restrooms, as well as the fact most people have to share a room with a complete stranger. When I was coming to school, I was so excited to meet my roommate. I always pictured us as hanging out, and being pretty close. I found my roommate online, and it seemed like we had a lot in common but I soon found out that this wasn’t the case. We always seemed to be stepping on each other toes, and I realized that we had nothing in common.
Before we came to school, we planned our rooms together. She told me that she was really into decorating, and I was so excited to decorate our rooms together, but after about a week into school, I realized that I had the roommate from hell. She might have been the dirtiest person I have ever meet. She would always throw her clothes all over our room. She would invite all of her friends over and they would sit on my bed and my desk. After stepping on multiple acrylic nails that she ripped off and threw on our carpet, I thought I had experienced it all, unfortunately, it got worse. One day after a long day of classes, I came back to our room to eat some dinner. I went to go throw something in our garbage can to find a used (and full) condom just sitting there among one of my ramen noodle wrappers.
After about five minutes of gaging, and crying, I decided to have an uncomfortable talk with her. Nothing really seemed to change so I ended up making the decision to move out. Nothing could have prepared me for all of the crazy, and gross, things I have experienced as a freshman, but without all the crazy stories, freshman year would have been a dull one.
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9 Lansdowne St.
Suite 2
Boston, MA 02215
Her Campus may receive compensation for some links to products and services on this website. Copyright © 2021 Her Campus Media, LLC. All Rights Reserved.
My freshman year of school, a stroke of unfortunate luck landed me with a roommate who was—for lack of a better word—an addict. The substance in question? Pure, unadulterated sex.
Though I'm usually not one to judge a book by its cover, the first time I met Beth, her sturdy frame, bushy hair and nondescript garb didn't exactly do much to scream "seductress." In fact, as she unloaded her boxes of physics and calculus textbooks the first day of move-in, "sex-addict" was possibly the last label I would have ever branded her with.
Though Beth and I were paired together courtesy of our school's blind housing system, a bit of Facebook research revealed us to actually have a few things in common—namely, that we were both Texas natives, musicians and aspiring scientists—so I had high hopes that the match would be a good one. As she was my first ever roommate, I wanted to do my best to ensure that we had a smooth and perhaps even amicable relationship. And for the first few weeks of classes, we succeeded. That is, until she met Rafi.
That day, she came home late, smiling coyly as she glided into the room and collapsed on her bed. I didn't have to ask what happened because at once, she turned to me eyes alight with satisfaction and said simply, “I met someone.” At the time, I thought this news was spectacular. And it was. I considered Beth a friend and was happy to see her succeed in the shark pool that is the college dating world.
But to say their relationship progressed quickly is an understatement. That very next day, Beth came home even later than she had the night before. And this time, she stumbled into the room giggling. I took this to be a positive sign and smiling, I prompted, “So I assume you talked to Rafi again today?”
“We didn't do much talking,” she responded as she dissolved into a fit of laughter. I chuckled nervously, not really registering the connotation. Then, she dropped the bomb: “But the police did give us a citation for doing it in the park.”
I stared at Beth in utter astonishment as she continued laughing. And I was still staring in shock when, a few minutes later, she spilled the contents of her large backpack bag onto her bed to reveal upwards of about 80 condoms. My draw dropped to the floor. “Are those…?” I gasped, pointing at the gleaming pile on her mattress.
“Yes!” She responded, excitement animating her plain features. “They had the flavored ones in the Student Center today! But there were barely any left when I got there...” She added, clearly disappointed. I balked, taking in the condom pedestal that was once her bed. Then, with an expert sweep of her arm, she pushed the mound into her nightstand drawer (where dwelt her burgeoning dildo collection) and clicked off the light.
It stunned me how she could take her situation so lightly. I admit I'm somewhat of a Chicken Little when it comes to anticipating worst possible scenarios, but I was imagining Beth's impending expulsion, housing eviction, eventual career failure and angry children who grow up to become drug-lords or strippers—or even worse—drug-lord strippers... Needless to say, my mind was racing. But hers... wasn't. She was fast asleep. And for the first time, I began to wonder what kind of person my roommate really was. 
A couple days later, she came to me with a request. It was close to midnight as I was walking back to the dorm from my late volleyball practice when she called to ambiguously ask me if she could “have the room” for a few hours. The circumstances were beyond inconvenient (seeing as it was very late and I had heaps of work due the next morning), but I hesitantly agreed under the naïve guise that this was a “one-time” thing. I figured Beth and I had our differences, but I would still try to do her the courtesy of compromising to accommodate both of our room needs.
However, the next morning, as I was yawning through my chemistry test, I reflected back on the night before and how bold it was of Beth to make such a difficult request of me. I was bothered that she could be so inconsiderate, but additionally, I was shocked at how soon she had taken to “bedding” Rafi. Coming from my relatively sheltered background (cue Catholic upbringing, close-knit family and a non-existent social life), I was amongst the few girls over 15 who still believed kissing was a big deal. But that discrepancy wasn't enough to compel my bad judgment. The issue wasn't that she was sexually active; it was how her sexual appetite eventually grew to take over and impede my life.
That first night of sexile was the first in a string of many over the course of the next few months. Beth took complete advantage of my compliancy and began ousting me multiple nights per week—always between the hours of 11 p.m. and a.m. Regardless of what tests or papers I had to complete, she never failed to message me for "room time." 
By late October, Rafi had all but moved into our dorm. Because he wasn't a student and only had a part-time job at the halal food cart on the corner, he was always around. He had clothes stashed under her bed, a toothbrush in the drawer and on the few occasions he wasn't in the room itself, he was staked out in front of the floor elevator, watching for when I would leave. Almost every time I returned to my room, I would either be walking in on them in the act, having to step over condom wrappers to get to my desk, or I would be shooed away at the door by a naked Rafi waving a slimy dildo in his outstretched hand. 
At one low point, I walked in to find him sitting bare-bottomed on my desk chair. And at an even lower point—towards the end of the year—I found out from Beth's closest friend that she and Rafi had apparently regularly pushed our beds together when I went home for breaks so that they could have an “increased surface area” for their sexual escapades.
To say life was miserable would be an understatement. I felt like I wasn't welcome in my own room. Beth's sex addiction drove my life into the ground, and no amount of mediation or housing-transfer requests was able to stop it.
In retrospect, though this experience isn't one I look upon fondly, I can say that it taught me a lot about not only myself, but also other people. Living with someone who led such a profoundly different lifestyle than my own was challenging, but at the same time, it forced me to really face the reality of the world we live in—that, contrary to what we all learn in Kindergarten, not everyone is going to get along. At the end of the day, you just have to know who you are and what you are comfortable living with. So, in closing, even though Beth's sex addiction made my room feel like a part-time brothel, it was ultimately thanks to her that I discovered a deep passion and appreciation for single rooms.
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