For the non-engaged of any age, getting sexiled gets old

There's an old college trick that goes like this: When you're about to get lucky, slip a sock on the doorknob. That way, your roommate knows not to come in midaction, ruining the moment and making for an awkward time at the dining hall the next morning.

Luckily, my college roommate and I never needed the sock trick. We had our own love shack built into our miniature living space, a tiny closet just big enough for a spare mattress and a sweep of glow-in-the-dark stars across the ceiling. We decreed that a closed door meant the space was offlimits, thus sexiling the non-engaged roommate.

The system worked well enough for a while, but painted plywood does not a soundproof room make. As my own amorous affairs dwindled, my roommate's heated up, so I slept first with a pillow over my head then with friends down the hall. We discussed the situation and made peace accords, but like other non-binding treaties the situation reverted to its original state (and volume).

In later years, I opted for a single room, glad to be away from the wallthumping and mattress-rattling I associated with roommates.

Now that I'm nearly a decade out of college, I look back at those nights with chagrin. Were people ever that selfish? I had been relieved that this part of my life was behind me. Or so I thought.

During a Central American getaway last month, I wound up sharing a beach bungalow with a girl friend from my Spanish school and a Canadian backpacker whom we had just met. He wore a bandana over his hair and a silver hoop through his nipple.

On the first night at the beach camp, I slipped away from the bonfire at midnight, leaving the late-night drinking to the heavy party set. I awoke around 2 a.m. to the conversation of my roommates, and the exchange that ensued could only have sounded suave after a six-pack.

"You look hot under that mosquito net," the Canandian drunk-whispered from his bed.

My friend giggled in the bunk beneath mine. There was a long silence, and I thought they had drifted off.

"Hey, Christina?" This from the Canadian. "Wanna to go for that last swim?" Worst line ever, I thought.

Silence. Then, my friend: "Wanna come over here?"

From my bunk, I cringed. I pulled the pillow over my head, but the noises below became too loud to ignore. Angry, I climbed down the side ladder and stomped into the lit night. Thirty minutes later, the couple came out to apologize. "We're really sorry about that," said my friend.

"Yeah," the Canadian echoed. "Really sorry." He lit a cigarette and drew deeply. "You know, when you travel you meet new people, you have a few drinks. One thing leads to another." He

trailed off, and they both chuckled. The apology would have meant more without the post-game wrap-up. They finished their cigarette, and I glowered into the night. The Canadian stood. "Shall we all go back to bed, then?" As we lay there in the dark, e each of us in our separate bu bunks, I wondered if my anger was justified. Ma Maybe I'm getting crotchety, I though thought. Or maybe I'm just tired of getting sexiled.

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