According to my mom, the three hallmarks of adulthood are appreciating jazz, a taste for cantaloupe, and sleeping in a bed that is larger than a twin. Unfortunately, Mom’s wisdom does not apply to dudes here in New York City, specifically in the arty enclave of Brooklyn, in which I dwell. Sure, they have the jazz and melon part down, but what about the boys whose rooms I’ve stumbled into, ready for action, just to discover that—really? We’re working with a twin-sized bed? I’ll admit it, I’ve dated not one but three guys with twin bed. None of this took place during college or even high school years, which is the only time that having a twin bed is acceptable. I may have an affinity for artistic men who put domestic evolution second to the pursuit of art, music, and/or blogging. I can make some concessions for the cute, artful types. But miniature beds always deflate my girl-boner big time. Immediately, I think parents’ houses, dorm room one-night stands, dirty boyhood.
My last twin-bedded boy was a 32-year-old writer who lived in a railroad-style apartment, an architectural challenge that plagues Brooklynites. For this reason, I shrugged away the fact that his room looked like a space-saving dorm set up more suitable to a 19-year-old than a grown-ass man. Though he’d been sleeping in this twin for two years, he assured me it was a temporary situation, one that came about only after a failed live-in relationship that he was still mentally screwed up over. NB: A twin bed is an indicator of larger problems.
After the first time I went to his house, where we shared beers on his bed and chatted like teenagers, I went back for more. I figured he couldn’t be a player or a jerk, what with his child’s bed and all. Weeks after dinner dates and party-hopping, I found myself excusing the elephant in the bedroom. One night he asked me, “Is it creepy that I have a twin bed?” Deciding that honesty was the best policy, I answered in the affirmative. Him: “Yeah, that’s what my ex-girlfriend said. Must not be too creepy, though, since you are here right now.”
His brazen defense convinced me to stick around. After a few weeks, we did it. One night, I invited him to my bedroom, which included a bed large enough for not one but two adults. It was only then that I could get in the appropriate mood requisite for adult-minded sex. After we banged, I had no expectations that he would stay the night, nor was I ready to extend the invite.
However, when he got comfortable on the other side of the bed with my grown-up flannel sheets and fluffy pillows, I asked if he was staying. “Yeah. Your bed is way nicer than mine.” Then he settled in for some zzz’s. Exactly, dude. That was the first and last time my twin-man slept over. Now, I consider the size of the bed congruent to the size of the man.