On Futons
I have gone on two dates with a guy who allegedly sleeps on a futon. He’s a lot of fun, and has a great personality, but the futon concerns me. You see, the futon stands for so much more than just a poor nights’ sleep and creaky noises during sex (or that he might want to date me for my normal, adult bed).
The futon is acceptable in college. Sleep doesn’t matter, your back doesn’t matter, it’s all just fun and drinking, and the casual college hook up that isn’t going to anywhere past graduation. I get it; maybe someone’s a starving artist and can’t afford a bed, but why not at least get an air mattress until a real bed is int he affordability cards? That’s what my roommate did, and she put it on a bed frame. It gave the resemblance of “bedroom” with the convenience of “no mattress right now.” That kind of creativity demonstrates maturity, and the ability to deal with not the finest of situations. I’m not one to brag, I’ve lived in a basement, but I put out traps for the cockroaches, at least.
He just moved here, and I want to imagine that maybe it’s just an interim situation, until he gets more settled here. But if he bought a futon with his hard-earned cash, I highly doubt he’s about to throw down dollars for a real bed in the near future. After all, where would the futon go? It’s probably a murphy bed situation, where it hides as a couch in the day, and comes out as a bed at night! It’s a couch…and it’s a bed! Who wouldn’t want a bedroom that is part living room and part bedroom? He could say, “let’s hang out on my couch,” and out of nowhere, a make out session on the couch turns into doin’ the deed, AND YOU DIDN’T EVEN HAVE TO GO ANYWHERE. (This is aside from the awkward pause of, “hey, let me turn this couch into a bed.”) Do you think drunken futon manipulation is dangerous? (Quick, if you have a futon: check if there’s a not to be used while under the influence of alcohol warning.)
But this isn’t about money. I’m a starving artist; I’m a writer-performer, I certainly skimp on things, but there are some expenses that I know I must pay for – things that involve taking care of myself. For instance, toothpaste. Even if rent is due, and I’m out toothpaste, I’m never like, “shit…do I get toothpaste or not?” Toothpaste is a necessity. Then again, I have been fortunate enough to never be in a situation where I had to choose toothpaste or beer, but I’m also relatively good with money, aside from the wallet-skimming caffeine habit that I share with all other New Yorkers. I don’t make a lot of money, but I’m (mostly) responsible. I by no means mean to wear a nobility hat; I’m far from noble, I’m writing about somebody that I’ve been going out with – no, I’m just speculating!
Someone who sleeps on a futon probably doesn’t care too much about his health, his sleep (which is tangential to one’s health) or well-being. He probably showers twice a week, and probably doesn’t change his sheets – oh wait, he doesn’t have any. He probably wouldn’t make a good boyfriend; if he can’t take care of himself, how can he take care of you? He probably lives out of boxes, cooks eggs in the same frying pan from the day before, eats eggs that are six days old, and doesn’t do his laundry. Used condoms are probably strewn about because they are Magnum condoms, and that golden ticket is something to brag about, baby! The apartment is probably the size of a pencil case, which is fine, but it’s probably filthy, and he probably has a huge stash of porn that he keeps on display for all of his potential women to see (this is what I want you do to, okay?). He probably leaves the porn on as “background music” during sex, because the porn has a good 1990s R&B soundtrack to it (which, as we all know, is how babies were made in the 1990s. Thanks, Boyz II Men.) He can’t hold down a relationship, can’t hold down a job, but has a ton of flings – in public places, no less, and therefore is prone to wild, impulsive trysts.
So naturally, I want to see this place.