Last week Dave decided we needed to buy a new bed.

Huh.

An unexpected expenditure, but not one that would exactly break my budget. Or have any impact on my budget for that matter. But I did note that that ‘we’ is the same ‘we’ responsible when shopping in Bangkok with Noom. And since it was technically my bed we were talking about replacing, I didn’t think answering a few questions was out of line.

“Why.”

“‘Cuz I think we should have our own bed.”

“We do. It used to be my bed. Now it’s our bed.”

“Yeah, but that’s not the same thing.”

“It’s that wet spot thing, isn’t it?”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“Someone told you it really isn’t a gay rule that the bottom always sleeps on the wet spot, didn’t they?”

“You’re such a bastard.”

Dave is still new to being gay. He figured out the basics pretty much on his own. Well, not entirely on his own. My dick played a supporting role. For the rest, he turns to me for instructions. Which provides me ample opportunity to devise an entire set of rules that all gay men live by. Rule #3, I think, just got tossed out the window. And no, ya don’t want to know what Rule #2 is.

“But that is partially the point.”

“What.”

“This is your bed. It’s got your entire sexual history on it.”

“What!? These are clean sheets!”

“That’s not what I mean.”

Whew. That was a close one. So maybe I’m not gonna have to buy a new dining room table too. I considered arguing that it wasn’t just my sexual history, that it was our sexual history too. ‘Cuz there certainly were numerous nights when I masturbated while fantasizing about doing him. Back before he decided he was gay. But some things are best left unsaid. I briefly contemplated the phrasing for a new gay rule that would result in keeping my bed too. But I’ve been doing the same for one about handcuffs. And ya really got to learn to pick your battles.

“So are we talking just a new mattress and box spring, or an entire bed. ‘Cuz there’s a reason I like my four poster bed, ya know.” (The trick to successfully establishing a new gay rule is to drop lots of hints leading up to it.)

“No, the frame is fine. But there’s a lot of new types of mattresses on the market these days.”

Uh, oh. Waterbeds were once a new kind of mattress too. Fortunately they went the way of the dinosaur. Not quite quickly enough, but extinct now nonetheless. The bed industry keeps trying to invent a better mouse trap. What ever they come up with never catches on for long. There probably needs to be a gay rule about that. Or one about Dave watching too many television commercials.

I’m not proud of it – but I love my bed, and it’s entire sexual history – so in a last ditch effort I played to one of Dave’s not-strengths: his coming out process.

“Ya know if we’re shopping for a bed together, the salesclerk is gonna know you are gay.”

Pronouns, you’ll note, are often an important distinction in winning any debate. And that one made him weigh his needs. Maybe he remembered about the preponderance of gay men working in retail. Or maybe it was just pay-back for that wet spot thingy. In either case, my ploy didn’t work.

“That’s fine.”

“So you’re cool with me dry humping you in the middle of the showroom when we test a few out?”

Hey, never say die. It was my bed we were talking about. Or, from the look Dave shot my way, what used to be my bed. No problemo. But I wasn’t kidding about that dry humping thingy. Our new bed was gonna have its sexual history established a lot sooner than he’d thought.

I’m not set in my ways. But I am set in my preferences when it comes to a bed. The mattress has to be soft. Not soft like your dick is before that little blue pill kicks in, soft like Ted Cruz’s dick got when he heard both Jeb Bush and Mitt Romney were making presidential runs. My bed – okay, our bed – is the closest thing to a vagina I get to these days. At least until I vote for Hillary in 2016. Or Marco Rubio. When you jump on it, it needs to engulf you. In a warm, womb-like embrace. So on top of the soft mattress there needs to be a down-feather mattress pad. And then a down-feather mattress. With another one on top of that. Think Princess and the Pea. But a non-vegetarian version of the tale. If Green Peace ever decides baby geese are in danger of becoming extinct, I’m gonna personally blow one of their fucking boats out of the water.

So obviously Dave should have know ‘our’ new bed was gonna look a lot like ‘my’ old bed. But we had to check out the new-fangled mattresses on the market first. He was fascinated by the Sleep Number ones that allow you to adjust each side to a different firmness. So I reminded him how badly I suck at math. And then asked the cute (and gay, big surprise) salesclerk just how firm he was talking about. Dave, wisely, cut that conversation short.

Memory foam sounds suspiciously sinister to me, but we had to look at those too. That one was close. Until I told him those wet spots served the same purpose and were all the memories he’d ever need. Besides, who wants a mattress with numerous, permanent large divots in it? They would sell more mattresses if they came up with one that erased all traces of everything you ever did on it. To wipe the slate clean, so to speak. For bedtime memories, we already have the iPhone camera.

There was one that electronically adjusted heights and angles too, separately for both sides. I think bed manufacturers are trying to take American back to Leave It To Beaver days when couples slept separately in twin beds. Dave didn’t seem serious about that one. But, just in case, I reminded him my preferred position on a bed is to stretch out diagonally across it.

“Yeah, we need to talk about that.”

Huh. I feel a new gay rule coming on.

As if there was ever any other possible outcome, we ended up buying a bed that looked and felt just like my old one. But without the sexual history. So it smelled a bit fresher. And would probably stand up to a black-light test better too. He dealt with arranging to have it delivered while I got on-line and ordered the necessary dead baby geese accessories so they’d show up at our doorstep before the new bed did. Before Green Peace got involved. And it was almost a done deal. Until Dave suddenly remembered he’s now a gay man.

“Look! They have linen spray!”

Oh fuck me sweet Jesus. Home fragrances are for people who need to up their house cleaning efforts. They are marketed as products to add a wonderful scent to your home, but are really used to disguise the disgusting smells people have made that they don’t want to be reminded of. Obviously, potpourri was invented by the French. Probably by French folk who owned cats. As for bed sheets, if you want them to smell like a bountiful garden of summer flowers, try washing them a bit more often. Preferably in laundry detergent that the manufacturer is not trying to convince you smells like a tropical rain forest. Tropical rain forests smell like mold, decay, and the dead bloody carcases of small furry animals. And I’ve already covered that base with the dead baby geese feather mattress pad, mattresses, and duvet. The only thing your sheets should smell like is Tide. And the occasional wet spot.

“Lavender!”
(Spritz, spritz.)
“Doesn’t that smell wonderful!?”

Yeah. Because when I’m elbow deep in ass, the smell of grandma is really what I want permeating the air of my bedroom. Our bedroom. Whatevers. I just don’t get the fake smell home fragrance market. If you really need your house to smell like roses, stop at a florist and buy some. But I thought maybe my nose was missing something. So I Googled it. Ya know what the top selling home fragrance in 2014 was? Monkey Farts. I kid you not. Monkey Farts. I don’t even want to think about how they capture that scent. Or what kind of person would want their home to smell of them. Or what their home smelled like that made them think Monkey Farts was a better way to go.

It’s like when strawberry, bubblegum, and cherry flavored lipsticks were popular among the girls I dated back in high school. (Yeah, I’m that kind of gay.) I never got that point either. But would still have to wait patiently while my current skank applied a fresh coat before we could get down to it. So I asked once.

“Baby, lipstick is about color. So why do you buy flavored brands?”

“‘Cuz then when we’re together I’ll taste like strawberries!”

“But Baby! My dick doesn’t have a sense of taste!”

Obviously. Or I wouldn’t be banging you. Ya know. ‘Cuz you don’t have a penis. (Yeah, I was that kind of straight too.)

The same holds true for flavored condoms. Unless your asshole has talents I don’t know about. What’s the point? Cleanliness is next to godliness. That’s all that matters. And I don’t need your douche smelling like a bowl of bing cherries either. The scent of a man is as close as I need to get to heaven. That natural muskiness beats anything the personal fragrance industry can ever come up with. If you must, a tiny hint of whatever over-priced cologne you just had to buy is fine. But that after-trail smell from some guys’ cologne – that unavoidable tidal wave of aroma that says his limited vocabulary doesn’t distinguish the difference between ‘lightly apply’ and ‘heavily douse’, that reeking, all pervasive stench that would make a coroner gag – does not make me want to do you. It makes me want to take you outside and hose you down. While I hold my breath. And I certainly don’t want my bed sheets smelling like that cheap, knock-off bottle of Chanel No. 5 that you bought instead either.

Why is it that the guys who complain the most about smokers in bars, claiming their filthy habit results in the complainer’s clothes smelling like cigarette smoke, are always the same guys who wear so much cologne that that nicotine never stood a chance in the first place? And why do they think that is such a righteous anti-smoking argument when anyone with an iota of personal hygiene sense would have that outfit laundered before he wore it again anyway? I suspect those are the same people responsible for Monkey Farts being the top selling home fragrance in 2014.

“Come on dude! How about vanilla? You like vanilla.”

Yup, I do. As an ice cream flavor. That doesn’t mean I want to sleep with it. In fact, vanilla is the last thing I want associated with my bed. Or our bed. Which Dave should know by now. Maybe I need to work on that gay rule about handcuffs a bit quicker. In any case, if he’d been paying attention to the aroma from my bed’s sexual history, he’d know the scent I prefer is rice. With an occasional burrito thrown in. For the ambiance.

“How about Tropical Breeze? It smells like the islands.”

“Dude, you’re Hawaiian. You’re what smells like the islands to me. And I don’t need to drop $14.95 for that pleasure. I just need to bury my nose in your arm pit. Come to think of it . . . ”

Fresh from being dry humped on a mattress in the middle of the showroom floor, Dave quickly caught a whiff of where I was headed and decided to quit while he was ahead. He’d have to be happy with just the new bed. And as for that wet spot thingy, all things considered – all things being my comfort – I think I’ll try to convince him those are a symbol of our love. Literally. And he should be happy to wallow in them. Because he loves me. Otherwise, he can change the sheets on ‘our’ new bed while I’m in the shower lathering away the scent of our relationship.