Twins

On Memorial Day weekend, I fulfilled a longtime fantasy by bringing home identical twins.

Swedish, no less.

The twins were just as pretty as they come: pale, lean and tall, with long legs that just don’t stop.

I found them online. When I saw their photos, I knew I must have them.

Getting them to my home was surprisingly easy.

I poured wine as we got acquainted in the living room.

I did my best to be cool, but there was no doubt that I was eager to get them into my bedroom.

I had to hold those legs tight and screw them right.

After a glass of wine, the twins were on either side of my bed, looking gorgeous and ready to go, just waiting to serve my every need.

I could not take my eyes off the two of them, soaking in their naked glory.

I could wait no longer. I made my move. I had to top them.

I put a lamp atop each of my Swedish twins.

“Oh man, I am in love,” I murmured.

My new nightstands are smoking hot.

My trip to Ikea had yielded lovely bedside tables—assembly required—and lamps with steel bases and very satisfying pull chains.

Since moving into my apartment, I have largely made do with cast-off furniture, most of it stuff I have never much liked.

Over time, I have tried to replace the essentials with items better than those I had chosen on the fly when originally setting up housekeeping as a new bachelor and single parent.

The first thing to go was my full-size bed, with its black cast iron headboard and footboard.

My ex and I had given up this bed years ago. It had been our first step up from having a mattress and box spring on the floor.

All three of our children were conceived on this bed.

It became my bed again when I moved out of our house. To me, it felt like sleeping on rocks.

“Sorry about the uncomfortable bed,” I would apologize to my new lovers.

They looked at me blankly. “Your bed is fine,” I was told.

Maybe it was just me. The bed had too much history. I wanted it gone.

At the time, I was dating May.

May, who is very resourceful, found a solution to my bed woes.

A friend of hers was moving in with her fiancé and no longer needed a high quality bed she had recently purchased. It was mine for the taking.

This put my marriage bed out of commission. I offered it to Dacia, who offered it to her roommate. The roommate was very happy to have it.

Only one problem: May’s friend was moving imminently and I was about to leave town.

The task of transferring the beds fell to Dacia and her roommate. They rented a van. They took my new bed from May’s friend and installed it in my bedroom. They took my old bed and installed it in the roommate’s bedroom.

I came back to town to discover my new bed awaiting.

My well-storied bed was retired to stud, off to new adventures at Dacia’s place.

Everyone was happy.

Only now, the nightstands rankled. They were also remnants of my marriage.

One night, back when we were trying to conceive Jason, my wife Lucy was doing bong hits and watching television.

She shouted for me to come running.

Was she ovulating? Did we need to make a baby?

“Look! Look at that nightstand!” she exclaimed.

There, on the Home Shopping Network, was a black wrought iron nightstand with a glass top.

“Won’t they look great with the new bed?” she asked. She clanked the headboard with her bong for emphasis.

“Black metal,” I replied, peering at the screen. “And we do need nightstands.”

“Give me the phone,” she said. “Those suckers are mine.”

They arrived via UPS. As I assembled the tables with an Allen wrench, I grew to hate them. They were ugly and looked dangerous.

What were we thinking? I thought. We are trying to make a baby, and we bought a glass table?

The tables survived three children and the remains of my marriage.

Only one of them survived Dacia’s rotation of the beds.

Somehow—and I don’t know how—I lost a nightstand on the night Dacia exchanged my beds. Was it broken? Did her roommate assume it went with the bed?

I didn’t care. Good riddance, I said. Too bad they left the other one.

Except that, you know, nightstands are handy.

My remaining nightstand was crowded by my lamp, phone, pencil holder, clock, candle, book and a photograph of my children. My bourbon rested there. On sex party nights, it was covered in condoms and containers of lube.

Anyone on the other side of the bed had nowhere to put anything.

This had to change.

A true slut provides a nightstand for sleepovers.

And now I have that. Sleep in my bed, and you can keep your bourbon and your eyewear handy on your very own table.

You can read or fuck by the light of your very own lamp.

Finally, the last vestiges of my marriage are exiled from my bedroom. Now the objects there have a new history.

Here is the bed May found, delivered by Dacia.

The mattress rests on a box spring broken by William’s gangbang on my birthday, broken again by Mitzi’s gangbang on her birthday, and broken a third time by heavy hearts when Madeline and I ended our first (and to date, only) weekend together.

One either side of the bed are the nightstands and lamps I bought while shopping with Bridget.

On either side of those are the comfy black chairs that Shelby and I rescued and returned to life as sex chairs.

On the opposite wall are my built-in chests of drawers and bookcases, filled with non-fiction, alphabetical by author, L-Z.

The walls are painted the soothing color of sea mist. The art on the walls is original and good stuff.

The large ficus tree that usually resides here is summering on the terrace. It will be back in the fall.

This bedroom feels more and more like my bedroom.

Now, about the living room . . .

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