Roomies, not Roofies
Not since college have I slept four women in a room, two to a bed — and usually it was under the influence of Thunderbird and Night Train Express.
So you can imagine my distress when — at the tender age of 47 –I was planning to room with three other grown women I didn’t even know at a conference in New York.
I arrived one night later than the others, so bed assignments were already arranged and I would be sleeping in a slender double with a lovely woman named Sarah.
We warned each other of our sleep peculiarities, among them; sleep apnea, snoring, tooth grinding, leg twitching, insomnia and the odd Tourette’s-like sleep exclamations.
(Some of my most infamous ones, “When you’re dead I will!” or “She’s not coming to my wedding!” or, “But what about the fucking gecko?”)
And so Sarah and I settled in.
She with her sleep apnea mask, and me with my dental guard and 5 milligrams of Ambien. Both of us pajamaed to the hilt.
An army of Sultans could not have deflowered us, swaddled as we were.
The bed was unexpectedly comfortable, with just the right amount of firm but soft. The pillows were neither flattening beneath the cheek nor cranking of the neck in a 360-degree contortion a la Linda Blair. They were just right.
Sarah slept quietly and she smelled good.
Quickly, I drifted off to sleep, dreaming inexplicably of pickled herring, when I woke abruptly to find Sarah’s masked face staring down at me.
She was telling me something I couldn’t make out because of her sleep apnea mask, until I realized that my feet were on her side of the bed attempting to molest her feet.
I had her right heel trapped by both my sets of toes and was fondling it.
“Thhorry,” I burbled through my night guard, “Tho thorry.” I retracted my wayward, wandering feet and sunk back to sleep.
In my dreams, I was a spy. Bad guys were chasing me in the desert and shooting at me. I executed James Bond parkour-like maneuvers off of cliffs and rocks and landed in a body of water where I pounced on a water wienie being pulled behind a power motor boat. I hung on for dear life as I was dragged through the wake and the spume of the boat.
Someone was calling my name, only it wasn’t Bond, James Bond. It was, “Shannon. Shannon!”
I awoke to discover Sarah peering down at me once more. I was spooning her. “Oh my gotthhh, I’m tho thorry,” I exclaimed.
The rest of the night passed uneventfully, but I’m fairly certain Sarah wore a chastity belt our remaining two nights, just to be safe.
Tell me your challenges you have when sleeping with women.