Once Upon A Mattress, Or: How A Maternal Cockblock Ruined My Life

On Homecoming Saturday I flirted with the full spectrum of past, present and future.  First, I ran into a recent graduate with whom I used to have an infatuation; I later high-fived a guy from class at the ’Pelt, then, that evening rekindled my cougar instincts as I awkwardly introduced myself to the freshman with the voice of an angel, who had read my blog along with all of the Penn Six list serve recipients. Great job Saturday, guys.

My Homecoming really was full of shoulda…woulda…coulda sentiments, but it was with the additional overwhelming festivities of the weekend that I came to the unnerving realization that despite the fact that I have the libido of a 16-year-old boy, I do not want a single guy to step foot in my bedroom this year.

I’ve had the same room off campus since my sophomore year. It’s quiet, and the floor space is spectacular. However, about a week before moving into the place back in 2006, my mom and I went to Sleepy’s. When I settled on the perfect mattress, jumping up and down with the salesman who was allegedly as ecstatic as I was, my mom broke the moment as she said, “great--we’ll take it in a twin.”

I clearly heard the woman wrong. “Mom. My room is huge. Queen?”

“I like your sheets from last year. We can get you a nice ottoman.”

“Mom, I had an extra-long twin last year. I live in a real house now. With a sink I won’t pee in when I’m drunk.”

“Carlin, you’re in public.”

“Mom, I’m just being a good friend. What if someone wants to sleep over?”

“You hate sharing–-we’ll get a futon for friends.”

The woman plays hardball, but I was willing to fight back.

“Ok. What if I want a BOY to sleep over? I have needs.”

My own mother cock blocked me. To make the entire situation worse, every member of my house moved in with big, beautiful queen size beds--and the smiles of oblivious parents.

You know what they say though, smallest bed, biggest slut. I refused to allow a bed to control my sex life.However, routine comments about the bed and nights with no more than 5 minutes of sleep due to dead arms among other things started to wear me down.

After returning from abroad, I began to resent not just the bed, but the microscopic television, and the refrigerator that fits a singular handle of vodka--my room was all floor which I utilized with a carpet of laundry. At this point, the resentment has extended to the constant maintenance visits, the Pottery Barn Teen rug that sheds more than I do, the Hello Kitty calendar, and the fact that I grew an inch and half over the summer (I’m confused too). Now I can’t fucking sleep with my stuffed animals in here, let alone a six-foot-minimum male. Anyone taking boarders?