Karma's a Bitch

Karma’s a Bitch

The arrangement of hostel rooms is much like a maths equation. Place two girls in an eight-share dormitory with six boys, and inevitably, someone will end up bunking and bonking.


It was a Tuesday afternoon and I was in the foyer of my Canadian backpackers drying my hair with the breeze created by the automatic doors. All of a sudden, I was rudely interrupted from my beauty regime by a pile of Aussie snow bums, who entered the building in a cloud of Lynx deodorant and cigarette smoke. Knowing our only roomie had just been kicked out to make space for a group of six guys, I instantly realised they must be our new guests. Naturally, I sprinted upstairs to my friend Karen to inform her of our fate.
“Oh shit,” she whispered, knowing full well what the next few days would entail.

The boys grinned as they entered our room, apologising profusely for how “pewch” (aka putrid) they planned on being for the next week or so. We laughed off the warning like fools, unaware at the time of the lung cancer we will now probably develop from the bongs they pulled inside our room. Although their bogan discourse was like a foreign language at first, we bonded instantly, and I fell head-over-heels in lust with the shortest of the group, Callum.

On night one, we all headed to the Mexican bar downstairs for rounds of tequila shots and some attempted cripwalking. Callum – decked head-to-toe in the kind of clothes A$AP Rocky would wear – was a pro, and despite the fact that I was at least two inches taller and ten inches wider than him, I was smitten. Later that night, we recreated the spaghetti scene from Lady and the Tramp, only instead of spaghetti it was a cheeseburger and instead of a romantic Italian restaurant we were in a bunk bed. Fortunately, everyone else walked in before he could discover how long overdue I was for a Brazilian wax, so we snuggled next to each other and went to sleep.

The next few days saw us interacting in a perfectly normal and friendly manner. He taught me how to do the Bloods gang symbol with my fingers; I taught him that the plural of you is “you guys”, not “youse”. He taught me the art of five-finger discounts in the snow shop; I taught him how to use chopsticks. Come the evening, we’d get drunk and pash – nothing out of the ordinary, or so I thought. On our last night in British Columbia, as the eight of us we were getting ready to go out with a bang (literally), Callum sat me down.

“Have I been acting a bit strange towards you the last few days?” he asked with a serious face.
“No…?” I replied, bewildered.
“Well, I’ve been trying to distance myself from you a bit. I have a girlfriend,” he said, looking at the floor with a guilty expression.
I was aghast. We’d pretty much spent every day and night together – hooning, gooning and spooning – and the maximum “distance” between us only ever really being a couple of metres.

But before I could say anymore, my incredibly drunk friend Karen burst back into the room talking shit about the dreadlock she had developed as a result of the friction from her ski jacket. So we headed out before Callum and I could exchange any further words, and when we got to our first destination, he just sat there dejectedly. I didn’t really know what to do or say, so I bought us each a shot and told him not to worry. The shot turned into 20, and before I knew it Callum and I had made the decision to go home early and have a big chat about “life”, something we both pretended not to know was a euphemism for sex.


After talking shit for about an hour, I bade him goodnight and went to roll over onto my other side (an immensely difficult task when two people are wedged together in a single bed), but before I made it Callum started kissing me. This is obviously where my own morals should have stepped in and made me clamber into my own bed, but I’d polished off a bottle of red wine earlier, a beverage I find isn’t really conducive to sexual integrity. Anyway, one thing led to another and we ended up having sex. It was really good – great actually, but if I wasn’t bound for the flaming depths of hell before, I definitely was now.

Post-coitus, I leaped out of bed and dashed out of the room to get in the shower. Each dormitory had its own small bathroom just outside the door in the hallway, so I didn’t have far to run. I savoured the water’s heat: obviously 1am showers were the way to go, as every other time I’d jumped in they’d been icy at best. As I turned the tap off, a sinking feeling began to make its way to my stomach (obviously adding to the sinking feeling that I’d just fucked a guy with a girlfriend). Not only did I not bring any clothes with me, but I’d forgotten a towel. I nervously shuffled from the shower to the door of our dorm and began knocking furiously.

No response. 10 minutes elapsed, by which point I was freezing cold and on the verge of tears. Callum wasn’t going to open the door. Ever. I could hear someone munching on crisps somewhere down the hallway, so shouted for help. The culprit – a chick with dreadys – stared at me blankly without moving. I swore and dashed madly across the hallway, jumping from bathroom to bathroom. To my relief, on my third attempt, I found a floor towel. It was covered in suspicious brown stains and rather damp, but to me it was more beautiful than any garment Vera Wang could ever whip up. I clasped it to my chest, giving myself tinea and scabies, and was relieved to find that it covered me from my nipples to where my box gap would be if Doritos weren’t my favourite food. My back and derriere were uncovered, but I figured there weren’t many people left on earth who hadn’t seen my bum, so no biggie. More naked and desperate than I’d ever been in my life, I pressed my back against the wall and shuffled the green mile down the hostel hallway towards the staircase.

When I made to reception, the guy behind the counter started to laugh so hard he was having trouble breathing.
“I’ve been locked out – please let me back into my room,” I sobbed, a fragile, broken victim of fate.
“Don’t worry,” he snorted, “this isn’t even the worst thing that’s happened here.”
I began to feel strangely reassured, but then he gestured up the staircase and said, “After you!” I glared at him haughtily, which is a hard task when all you’re wearing is a filthy floor towel and a tonne of eyeliner, and stalked up the stairs. My bare cheeks bounced in his face, and I resisted a very strong urge not to browneye the prick.

Once back inside the room, I turned on the light. Callum was on his back stark naked with an erection that was still going strong, completely unconscious.
“You f*&#%*^ c*&^!” I screamed, launching myself and my wobbly bits at him with full throttle. He didn’t even break the rhythm in his snores. Fuming at myself, Callum, Siddhata Gutama and whoever the fuck else was responsible for what had just happened to me, I stormed over to my own bed and got in.

Karma’s a bitch, I thought, karma’s a bitch.

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