Pillow Top Ponderings
My bed is king sized with a pillow top covered by two inches of “memory foam.” When it comes to ideal sleeping spaces, I believe that size counts. In addition to enjoying the comforts of an enormous bed, it has been my custom during the past decade to sleep in the living room. After all, it’s generally the largest room in the house and the one most likely to have a fireplace. Lighting a fire and then leaving the room to sleep somewhere else never made any sense to me.
Since I’m an insomniac who is fascinated and soothed by flame, I decided to move my bed to where the action is. It’s ever so much nicer to enjoy the view from underneath my snuggly blankets instead of curled up on a couch — and making love while shadows dance around the room adds a primal elegance.
Since I’ve not made love in rather a long while, what with the surgery and the robbery and the breakup and all the drama resulting from each, my thoughts have naturally turned toward sex with increasing frequency. In spite of the fact that I watch literally hundreds of acts of fornication each month while reviewing videos, sex has developed a kind of mystique for me lately and I sometimes feel as shy and nervous as a virgin. I’ve been bold enough to strip halfway in order to bottom for a bit of single tail fun during a Leather Sash Bash dungeon party and I’ve certainly worn some daring vinyl and fishnet creations since getting out of the hospital – but I’ve done nothing more sexually intimate than French kissing, which I consider to be something of a litmus test, actually.
Experience has taught me that if you can’t make my mouth happy, it’s unlikely you’ll make much else happy. But the thought of “going all the way” is, at least temporarily, intimidating. Will it hurt? Will my new scar be too distracting? Will I start cramping or bleeding? The real world of sex comes with all kinds of baggage that fantasy and pornography are blessedly free from.
It wasn’t always this way, of course. When I was barely legal sex wasn’t as satisfying, but it certainly was daring. I didn’t exercise very good judgment when choosing partners, but I did find some creative locations for us to swap DNA.
My favorite place was probably the candy room of the now demolished Music Box Theater. The assistant manager and I worked at all three downtown Portland movie theaters and when we weren’t making use of one of the various projection booths, we would borrow the room where the goodies were stored and bang away to our heart’s content.
Occasionally, another employee would knock on the candy room door and I’d hop into the closet where the sweet stuff was kept to wait for the all clear. Sometimes it never came, because my booty call would leave the room and not tell me.
After the candy room, my most memorable trysting location was probably between graves in one of the SE Portland pioneer cemeteries. Thanks to the wisdom of the city planners, the cemetery in question is located directly next to a very busy intersection. During the pre-Darkladymobile Days, I hitched a few rides and had a few adventures. One of them took me to this wonderfully surreal crossroad of noisy, white working class urbanity and deathly still, shadow heavy eternity. What better place to make friends with a stranger? Yes, those were the days.
There are plenty of days ahead of me, of course – although now that I’m a 21st century girl they’ll likely involve a more formal getting-to-know-you phase. And I can think of far worse places to spend at least some of them, than in front of a roaring fireplace in a king sized bed with a pillow top covered in two inches of “memory foam.”
– Originally published in Playtime Magazine –