Strong language (for mature audiences only). Reader discretion is advised.
2018, North Carolina
My empty bed terrifies me. It’s a huge “California King” size—larger than a standard Queen and King bed. It engulfs half of my tiny living room, sits barren, and waits quietly for a discerning lover.
I had originally purchased this bed in 2018, in anticipation of my first hot date in many years. I hadn’t been with anyone since I returned to the States, from my Army National Guard deployment in Afghanistan. Six months after I started exploring a dating app on my smartphone, I was lucky enough to “match” with Nash.* Standing at a towering 6’2” in his pictures, with piercing-blue eyes, dark brown hair, a chiseled, muscular body that Greek gods would die for—he was truly the most beautiful man that I had ever seen in my life.
Nash wanted to meet and I was thrilled to pieces! How could this young, gorgeous 21-year old be interested in me? Did he have a “hot Mom” fetish? Was he looking for a “sugar-momma,” to lavish him with luxurious gifts, wine-and-dine him, and pay his cell phone bill? Who knows? Who cares?! For once in my life, I wanted to stop overthinking everything too much—and simply enjoy the ride.
Or, to put it more accurately—enjoy the ride on his hard popsicle.
I cleaned my apartment inside-out, and purchased brand new furnishings for entertaining my very first guest, since moving to North Carolina—household items like dishes, forks, spoons, cups, a coffee maker—things that made a home, feel like “home.” I even bought a set of white t-shirts, mini hygiene-kit and shower shoes, in case he wanted to sleep over and freshen up in the morning. I wasn’t quire sure how our first date would unfold, but I wanted to be ready for romance. Up until then, my apartment had solely been a place to be alone, as an artist—to eat, sleep and paint.
One key element of my domestic life that was missing, was a bed. Since I had converted my one bedroom into a makeshift art studio, to encase the toxic fumes of my oil paints and thinner, I had been sleeping on a cheap sofa-bed in the living room. The sofa-bed was barely big enough to fit my 5’3” frame, and had grown so dilapidated that there were huge pits indented into the foam cushion. Trying to sleep on the sofa-bed was like trying to rest on a layer of a potholes. Laying in a dead man’s casket would have been more comfortable. My back begged for merciful relief, as I woke up each morning with stiff joints and a crooked neck.
A realization suddenly hit me—here I was, 42 years old, living without a REAL bed! How could I call myself an “adult?” More importantly, how could I ever expect to acquire a boyfriend? It was time for this cave-woman to go on a hunt and find a suitable nest for her den.
One afternoon, I walked into a mattress store in Fayetteville, NC. Two male sales clerks in the back of the quiet store, who remained seated in their chairs, gazed at me with heavy silence and bored eyes.
“Hi there,” I tried to smile. “I’d like to buy the biggest bed that you have.”
Enticed by the possibility of a big-dollar purchase, a sales clerk finally rose from his chair and introduced me to their in-store, digital sleep-assessment bed. After inputting my height and weight into a computer, which was connected to the bed, he had me lay down so that he could run a diagnostic test. As the bed hummed and whirred, I found myself slowly drifting towards blissful slumber….
After a few minutes, the vibrating bed suddenly clicked to a mechanical halt. The sales clerk courteously waited for me to get up.
I didn’t move. I was just too damn comfortable. Couldn’t we continue this diagnostic test, for a few more hours?
“Ahem,” the sales clerk finally cleared his throat, as a signal for me to peel my lazy self, off of his high-tech robo-bed. Like a sloth—with droopy, half-closed eyelids—I lumbered off and pretended to listen to the sales clerk, who expertly explained the results of my sleep-assessment analysis. I tried to fake my enthusiasm for mattresses, but I really just wanted to hurry up and buy a bed, so that I could be ready for my first hot date in years. Couldn’t he see that I was on a mission? Nevertheless, I politely followed him towards the sales floor, to explore my mattress options.
“Did you want a headboard?” asked the sales clerk.
“Of course,” I wanted to say, “What else could I hold on to—?” I caught myself, just in time to avoid exposing my inner freakiness.
I laid down and tested my back on firm mattresses, medium-soft mattresses, and mattresses with coils so flexible that I could have done raunchy gymnastics on them, without waking up the neighbors. In the end, I chose their largest beauty—a firm California King-sized mattress, so that my 6’2”-sized soon-to-be-boyfriend could freely stretch out and rest comfortably.
The cave-woman had completed her mission—almost.
With the mattress delivered and dressed with sheen, silky linens—my bed was as ready as I was, on that following Saturday night. Wearing a fresh dress and high-heeled shoes, dolled-up in curled hair and carefully painted make-up, and smelling like thick Italian perfume, I waited for Nash to ring my apartment doorbell. My thoughts swirled like Neapolitan ice cream, of his refined Renaissance body and angelic face. I dreamed of his strong arms, setting aside his protein shakes and embracing me. As I would run my fingers along his perfectly-carved deltoids, he would gaze at me with his piercing blue eyes, adoringly address me as his “Baby Girl,” and whisper how happy he was to find someone as mysterious and intriguing as me. My thoughts kept rising, higher and higher in grandeur, while I sat waiting….
And waiting….
And waiting….
….until I finally realized that he was never going to show up.
He didn’t even bother to call or text me! With a sinking heart, I realized that I was nothing but a forgotten afterthought on his dating app. Maybe he had found someone younger and prettier? Maybe I wasn’t the sexy Asian vixen I had thought I was? Maybe I was just a washed-up, hopeless “cougar”—with delusional pipe dreams of barrel-chested studs in Calvin Klein underwear, waving palm fronds to cool my pre-menopausal hot flashes, while feeding wine grapes into my mouth by the poolside.
My massive California King-sized bed still sits unused, waiting to be christened. I’ll keep my chin up, and keep “swiping right” on my dating app. Maybe one of these days, I’ll get lucky again, and match with someone who might actually think that I’m worthy of a first date.
*Real name withheld, for privacy purposes.