The Bed, And What It Means
June 19, 2007
After the wrap party Paul brought you back to his house. Stumbling tipsy up the dark stairs. In the hallway he let go of your hand to turn on a light and when the room opened you–
–Something’s off. Is the room really big? Or is…no. It’s his bed. Why is his bed so small?
His bed is really small. It’s like a twin? No, maybe a full-size but still. Kind of random but whoa his shirt is already off and he’s pulling you towards him. No time to chat about it, apparently. He pulls you down and, OK this is just cramped. This is just– ow, fuck this is awkward. This is seriously his bed? This is where he has sex with other people? His hands are on you now; part of your brain is trying to pay attention to where your various items of clothing are ending up, already thinking about later. And really? Not a queen-size? This is just so…intimate. Weird that that’s the word that pops into your mind, because hello, look what he’s doing to you right– Whoa, easy, tiger. That is intimate. And one of your legs is like completely off the bed.
But whatever, you do it and it’s not your best performance but it’s fine. It’s fine.
Afterwards. You’re both lying there and God every part of his skin is touching every part of your skin. No one on Earth could think of a way to work up to it tactfully, so fuck it you just go:
“So this bed is kind of small?”
and leave the question hanging there.
And he turns his chin up thoughtfully and says “Hmmm, is it? Huh.” Like it’s never even occured to him. Like no one’s ever mentioned it? Are you the first person he’s ever brought back to his house? Paul Rudd? The actor guy? Surely he got treated like a pornstar after Clueless?
“It was my parent’s,” he says. “They were married for 45 years. I inherited it when they died.”
OK. Focus. Maybe try to find some sort of kinky thrill about having sex on his parents’ bed? No. No there is not a kinky thrill. He is a grown man, this is not high school. His parents grew old and shed hair and suffered from diseases and died in this bed. And it is a fucking god damn small-ass bed.
He’s rubbing the headboard kind of lovingly now, lost in thought. Where’s your clothes. “It didn’t go with the room, originally. I stripped and repainted it. Doesn’t it look nice? Took forever to find the right shade.” Do you need an excuse or should you just run for it. Your underwear is way over there, to hell with finding all your clothes. You map out the essentials as waypoints towards the door. He’s still rubbing the headboard. He’s a million miles away. Maybe if you just–
You tense your muscles. Hold your breath. Slowly start to shift your weight.