My readers might have noticed that I’ve not been online much in the last week. I apologize for that. No, nothing to worry about. My health is fine, and I don’t have any stalkers making my life miserable again. I’ve merely been moving into my home.
Most of you guys who’ve been on this ride with me for a while know that when I moved to the east coast three years ago, it was into an apartment meant to be temporary. I ended up staying in it a little longer than the three or four months I expected. Now that I’m finally in place more permanently, I’m having to haul everything that’s been in storage for the duration and find a place for it. It’s a grubby process, made more mystifying by locating numerous items that I’m not even sure I knew I had. There are some huge decorative bowls, for example, which we all gazed upon blankly with absolutely no recollection of whose they might be or where they came from. (Last-minute moving gift? Surprise Christmas gift one of us forgot to give the other, then just plain forgot? Stolen from the neighbors?)
I was very happy to find, on the other hand, a box of sex toys and accessories that I’d squirreled away four years ago when I put my old house up for sale. I remember making the cache when I considered all the prospective buyers walking through the house and poking into my bedside drawers. So I took a couple of cock rings I used regularly and a bottle of lube and kept those accessible. Laughingly, I expected to sell the house within a couple of months and assumed I’d be in a more permanent place a few months after that. But the rest of the sex toys I put into a box, taped it up, and hid it away from prying eyes.
The problem was that when I arrived in my new location, I’d forgotten exactly what that box looked like, where I’d tucked it away, and how I’d labeled it. I’d made several excursions to the storage locker to try to find the thing, but they’d all been fruitless. I was about to give up the notion that I had a secret cache of sex toys hidden away somewhere as a mirage when something triggered my memory this week, and I investigated an old trunk that was my mom’s—a present from her parents when she went away to college. It had been at the back of the storage unit, taped up and dusty, and held a rug, a trumpet mute (another of those mystery items, since no one in my family plays trumpet), the stuffed teddybear that was my present for my first birthday, and a shoebox made impenetrable by multiple layers of tape (and helpfully marked ‘Shoes’).
When I cracked open the shoebox, all sorts of things tumbled out. A half-dozen cock rings of various sizes and materials. Four bottles of lube. One Fleshlight. Two butt plugs, one teeny-tiny, one long. Two sets of snake bite nipple suckers. One pair of nipple clamps with a metal chain. One enormous double-headed dildo.
Let me tell you, there’s nothing better than finding your sex toys after they’ve been gone for years. It’s like a pervert’s Christmas morning!
So please forgive me if I take a few more days finally to settle in. I promise I’ll be back with more stories of fucking in the near future. Until then I’ll just be unpacking pounds and pounds of dusty books and shoes, and putting that Fleshlight to good use.
Let’s get to some reader questions. Today I’m attending to some questions written directly to my email box. If you’ve got questions you’d like to ask, just hit me up at the address in my sidebar. Put the word ‘Question’ in the subject line, just to help a geezer of my advanced age sort out the wheat from the chaff, would you?
What size bed to you sleep/play in at home (usually)?
Growing up, I slept in a creaky old single bed that had belonged, box springs and dusty mattress and all, to my father when he had been a kid. It was fine. I didn’t know any better. I graduated to a new twin mattress and springs when I started high school. That’s the bed I still sleep in when I visit my dad, these days. In college and grad school, I always had a twin-sized mattress. I already had the sheets for it, after all.
I’ve always been way too tall for a twin bed, though; my feet dangle off the bottom. So when I finally got hitched and moved into a home of my own, I discovered the luxury of a queen-sized bed. Oh, I loved it. I could stretch out and not have to compromise by letting limbs hang off the bed’s edge. If I was on my own, I could even spread my legs wide apart (get your mind out of the gutter!) and still not touch the corners.
Even though I secretly envy those with a king, these days I still sleep on a queen—a memory foam mattress on a wood platform bed, to be exact. Best bed I’ve ever had in my life. I’ve had less insomnia and less tossing and turning on the memory foam than any other bed, anywhere else. The queen-sized bed seems a little smaller these days than it used to, but I suspect that’s because usually I have one cat parked between my ankles all night, and other shoving her butt in my face as I sleep.
Do you end up doing lots of laundry then, to keep fresh sheets and towels handy?
The only kind of laundry I don’t mind doing is sheets and towels. They’re a breeze. They don’t require sorting or hanging up. Just wash them, dry them, fold them, and you’re done. I never really mastered that technique people use to fold fitted sheets, though.
I know this admission is going to make a dozen readers write in and tell me how easy it is to fold fitted sheets and how even a child can do it and there are videos and YouTube that’ll show me how easy it is. I know that there are six-year-olds who can best me at fitted sheet folding. I’ve seen the videos. All I know is that when I attempt to replicate this ‘easy’ technique, I end up with what looks like a dead body wrapped up for dumping in the East River.
If you’re wondering specifically how I keep the bed clean for fucking, I usually put a spare blanket atop the (queen-sized) bed that I and my partners fuck on. Then afterwards I’ll just pop it into the laundry. It has square corners that I can fold as well as any kindergartener.
Do you get the chance to sleep (overnight) with any of your partners, or does that take a whole other level of planning?
It happens, but it’s rare.
I probably could count on two hands the number of men with whom I’ve had overnighters in the last twenty years, and even then I’d suspect I’d have a lot of fingers left over. It’s not something I do casually, because it involves a lot of fortunate timing and planning on my part; I tend to have my sexual encounters in the daytime or early evenings instead of during the usual sleeping hours. I’ve also done sleep-overs when I’m traveling.
I think the last person with whom I slept over a lot was Spencer—and he basically was living with me and sleeping in my bed for the better part of a year.
Also, I really don’t get asked to sleep over, that much. Even though I’d probably have to say no, I’d be honored to be asked.