‘all, I have the most obvious face you’ve ever seen. It’s like resting bitch face, but inverted. You will always know what I’m feeling.

If someone upsets me, if I’m feeling sad, do you think I can escape before I dissolve into a blubbering mess? Nope. Not even a little bit. My eyes pull a Grinch heart and grow three sizes, my lip quivers, and I generally look like I just watched somebody kick a puppy.

Someone pissed me off? If I don’t tell them, my face will. A friend once fled the room because I was mad at another friend, and, according to her, I looked like I was about to “pounce like a leopard” and she didn’t want to witness the carnage.

Obviously, this holds me back in some areas: poker, listening to customers talk, social situations where it isn’t acceptable to dramatically roll your eyes. So, y’know, most of them.

But my lovers? They love it. Resting Obvious Face translates pretty directly to Obvious Orgasm Face, so they never have to ask me if they’re doing a good job. Every dirty thought and ounce of pleasure is written right out on my face for them to peruse at their leisure.

So, imagine the expression on my comically obvious face when I saw my first Tinder hook-up’s gigantic dick. Slack jaw, eyes popping out of my head like a goddamn cartoon. I may have even drooled.

I’d only slept with one very average-sized person up to that point in my life, so this was by far the biggest dick I’d ever seen. My face made that fact very clear.

Needless to say, Tinder Dude loved it.

Were my eyes bigger than my vagina? Hell no. I jumped on this giant man’s giant dick and rode it like a mechanical bull (I’m good at those, it’s a party trick. Thick thighs save lives!)

But not too long into this enthusiastic rodeo, I realized that I could hear the sound of the bed springs squeaking even over the explosions from whatever action movie we’d queued up on Netflix. I asked Tinder Dude (his title, both for the sake of anonymity and because I don’t remember the poor boy’s name as well as I remember his dick), whether we were being too loud.

Of course he said no. It could’ve been because he was hard of hearing, but I’d guess it was just because he was, well, hard.

So this went on for a few rounds, and eventually I decided we couldn’t be that loud and surrendered to the squeaking.

Squeaky sex was better than no sex!

We finished up, cleaned up, and I trotted back upstairs to my dorm room, thoroughly sexed and ready to sleep.

Cut to the next morning, and my friends and I are sitting (in my case, gingerly) on a bench in the hallway outside our first class of the day. Another girl walks up, and we don’t know her that well but, we start making conversation.

She looks exhausted. Absolutely haggard.

She tells us that things with her host family weren’t working out, and that last night was her first night in the dorms. With a growing sense of dread, I ask how it was. She grimaces, and says:

“Well, the person in the room on one side of me was puking all night…and the people on the other side were having crazy loud sex. The bed was squeaking and slamming around for hours. Like, who needs to scream like that? You’re in a fucking dorm, ya know? There’s other people around! Like, everywhere!”

My cheeks got so red this girl would’ve had to have been colorblind to miss it. She wasn’t, and she didn’t. We locked eyes for a split-second, and I looked away so fast I got whiplash.

She knew. I knew she knew. She knew I knew she knew.

Apparently the Universe knew, too. Today, I live in a teeny little apartment above a very loud, very ~ahem~ active couple. Karma, consider me served.