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The No-Sex Couch

2003-11-20 - 10:16 a.m.

So today I read two journals in which futons were mentioned (actually one mentioned a futon and the other quoted a different journal which mentioned a futon) and it reminded me of the No-Sex Couch story. I figured I’d share while it was on my mind.

For a time I was roommates with my oldest friend Marida. We’ve known each other for over half our lives and how we became friends is a worthy story I’ll save for another day. Now, when I first moved into Marida’s apartment, we were a little apprehensive because we were good friends, but good friends don’t always make good roommates. We each had our little quirks and peculiarities – would they be compatible or not? Time would tell us that, in fact, we had almost the exact same quirks and preferences. (Toilet paper should hang over the roll, not under against the wall. Glasses should be put in the cupboard rim up, because dust can fall on the shelves and putting a glass rim up would allow very little time for dust to fall into the glass, but putting it rim down would bring the rim into contact with dust build-up, which would then be transferred to our LIPS!! *shudder*. And it’s not like our shelves were dirty, but we’d have to wipe them every other day to make them clean enough to want to put the glasses rim-down and who has time for that?) Initially though, we had to get some stuff out in the open.

Marida sat me down and said,

“I have only one rule that I ask you to follow. You see this couch?”

I looked. While I had brought a couch to the apartment and it was against the other wall, I was currently sitting on Marida’s futon couch. I knew she’d made the cover and that it was an unusual design.

“This couch,” she continued, “Is very precious to me. I made the cover out of a design that I printed on the fabric when I worked for a silk screener.” (Marida, incidentally, is an artist.) “I love this couch. All I ask,” she paused meaningfully, “Is that you never have sex on this couch.”

“Bwahahahaha!!!”

She continued through my laughter, “I just can’t stand the thought of sperm,” she shivered with distaste, “Swimming and wiggling and working their way into this couch.”

I managed to sputter an inquiry as to whether it would be OK if I was a lesbian and there were no sperm involved. She tilted her head thoughtfully.

“Weeelllll, it would be better, but it still wouldn’t be OK.”

We made a pact that there would be no partaking of sex on each other’s couches.

Before - After


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