We got a new futon today. Actually, it’s a ‘new old’ futon, from a couple that we’re friends with. They just bought new living room furniture, and don’t have room for it, and so we took it off their hands.
And frankly, I have mixed feelings about taking it.
It’s not that there’s anything wrong with the futon. It’s in great shape, very well taken care of. It’s not that.
And it’s not that we don’t have room for it. Actually, quite the contrary. It perfectly fills a niche in the room we’ve been calling the ‘library’ (because it’s got our bookshelf in it). Now that it’s actually possible to sit in the ‘library’, maybe we’ll actually use the damned room for something other than storing the vacuum cleaner and books that we’re never going to read. So that’s not it, either.
Actually, I’ll tell you what it is — this is a futon, right? A mostly-couch that can easily be converted into a guest bed, and — from what I understand — was used in just that capacity many times. And we got it from a married couple that’s been together for several years — probably longer than they’ve had the futon. See where I’m going with this?
No? Fine, I’ll spell it out. They’re a couple, right? And it’s well documented that couples only hang with other couples.
(There’s a secret handshake and a codeword and everything; it’s very complicated. I hear the people with kids even get a little tattoo so they can identify each other.
Of course, there’s probably no truth to the rumor that the tattoo is inked to look like deep, worried, sleep-deprived bags under the eyes. I’m sure there’s no truth to that at all. Right.)
Anyway, they’re a couple. And for years, this was their guest bed. For other couples. See? Get it now?
Oh, fer Chrissakes, do I have to explain everything? Look, couple may get together for a myriad of reasons — convenience, love, a shared passion for bocce — but one fact about all couples is incontrovertible: when a couple is out on the road, travelling, and especially if they’re visiting another couple, that is the time they’re going to have the wildest, kinkiest monkey sex that they’re ever going to have. That’s just the way it is. People don’t pack their inhibitions in suitcases, folks. Strange bed, strange sex. It’s an unwritten law or something.
So now, in our ‘library’, we have the… um, ‘stage‘ that was host to all manner of God-only-knows-what kind of ‘performances’ over the years. Presumably quiet performances, sure, lest they attract an unwanted audience, but still — if that futon mattress could talk, it’d have to go to ‘Skinemax’ to tell its tales. Network TV would bleep every third word the thing would say! The FCC would have a collective coronary. And mayhem would ensue, and the waters turn to blood, and there would be a great gnashing of teeth, and so on and so forth.
Okay, so it might not cause quite that much of a stir. Still, I don’t even wanna think about what sort of encounters have taken place on top of the piece of furniture now sitting innocently in our house. Or under it, or with one person doing a handstand beside it. Sheesh. That thing’s like a set of ‘Kama Sutra’ training wheels, or something. It’s outrageous.
And lest you think the problem isn’t as large as I’m making it out to be, I never told you the worst part. You see, these people that we got the futon from… well, they’re nice. No. Really, really nice. Wonderful, even. They’re thoughtful, and outgoing, and generous (see Exhibit A: ‘Futon, They Gave Us Their’), and generally swell to hang around with. It’s horrible!
Why? Well, because that just means that there have been oodles — nay, veritable hordes — of friends and colleagues and well-wishers who must have stayed at their place over the years and bumped big hairy uglies on that futon. Thousands of ’em! Why we couldn’t have gotten hand-me-down furniture from a couple of antisocial hate-spewing halitosis-heaving harpies, I’ll never know. Now there’s a futon you could sit on without paranoidly checking every three seconds for sperm stains. Where are the truly repulsive socially inept couples when you really need ’em, eh?
So, it looks like we’re stuck with this thing. (And may soon be stuck to it. *shudder*) And really, I shouldn’t complain. In all honesty, it looks pretty fantastic, and I don’t see any stains — love juice or otherwise — on the whole thing. It’s a great favor, and we’re really appreciative for the new furniture. It’s just what that room needed.
Still… it probably just means that all those bodily fluids — and chocolate syrup, and honey, and for all I know, kosher pickle squeezings — have sunk deep inside the cushion, just squishing and mixing and oozing together in there. I can almost hear the *sssppplllqqqttt* noise it’s going to make the first time I can bring myself to actually sit on the thing. We’ll probably have to put a drip pan or something underneath it, to catch all the excess that gets squooshed out the bottom.
I don’t know. Apparently, I still have my doubts. Maybe I can just sit on the arms of the futon, or sit in the floor, and carefully lean back — only against the wood parts! — while I read my books in there. Maybe that’ll work. Or I could wrap the whole cushion in Sarap Wrap… but yeah, that makes me feel a little kinky, really. I might be tempted to break the futon in myself if I start doing shit like that.
So, I guess I’ll just live with my unease, and eye our new futon warily. I’ll probably get over my anxiety and actually sit on it — eventually — but I’m not sure I’ll ever be truly comfortable with it. Call me old-fashioned, but I’m one of those guys who really prefers not to have ‘sex slobber’ randomly strewn all over his house. But if it is there, I wanna know whose it is, how and when it got there, and goddamit, I had better be involved in slinging it around!
Unless it’s in the guest room, of course. We have couples staying with us from time to time, too, of course. And I hear the creaking, and the giggling, and the pickle jars opening. I know what’s going on. But see, that’s just it — I know who is in there, and when the bed’s getting all messy, and why the wallpaper’s going to need a good scrubdown. And most importantly, I don’t have to sit on the guest bed, ever. So in many ways, the shenanigans in there are easier to handle.
But this new futon — who knows who’s been gettin’ jiggy on it over the years? Or when, or how, or with what sort of props? Are we going to find rubber bands and corkscrews under the cushion one day? Ugh. I can’t even look directly at the thing; it’s just too much. Who’s idea was this ‘used futon’ thing, anyway?Permalink | 6 Comments