The Couple in the Group House

When I first moved to D.C., I lived in a group-house-in-name-only. We were a bunch of Craigslist randoms that just happened to cohabitate. The sheer nonsense of our union was exposed when I left work early one afternoon only to return home to an improvised meth lab, constructed like an elaborate game of Mousetrap™, throughout our house’s first floor.

As I acclimated to the D.C. queer scene and met more people, I traded weird dormitory-style living arrangements borne of necessity for more cohesive, organic group house settings--pretty much all in Columbia Heights. You don’t have to be Tangina (pictured) to sense the poltergeists of gentrification encircling the Party on a Whim aisle of the new Target, and likewise sending housing (group or other) in the Cola Hey into total chaos. So inevitably, my house sold into million dollar condos, and I was left scrambling for a new place to find passive aggressive notes about dishes and/or bills.

My girlfriend was moving into the Aqueerium at 14th and Monroe--a still to this day shambolic utopia of dance parties, DIY music-making, and well-fed garden rats. My temporary decision to move in with her until I found housing turned into nigh-on three years of living together in group houses. Sure it’s awesome to pay under $200 a month in rent, and sharing a room seems more feasible in the honeymoon phase of a relationship (okay maybe this is a particularly dykey statement). These perks aside, being the couple in the group house pretty much sucks an elephant-in-the-room-sized-dick.

I have to preface this by saying I love my friends that have lived with me and my gf over the years. But let’s be honest, no friends, no matter how close, want to partake in the cuddliness, mundane domestic logistics, or naked contempt that are part and parcel to the average relationship. Friend relationships within the house begin to morph around “the unit” of the couple; meanwhile, the couple is struggling to stay relevant as individuals while working on growing together in healthy ways.

Last year, my group house disbanded, and I got my own place with the gf. I’m sad that we’re all a little more scattered and a little less entwined, but I think it’s probably for the best. When I bike past my old group-haunts in the Heights, it is almost as if I can hear Tangina cackle, “This house is clean!” (of couples).