November 04, 2002 @ 12:52 a.m.
Man, I'm such a fucking stud, yo

Dude. I broke my motherfucking bed.

I was going to lead up to that vitally important and cataclysmic piece of information, but what the hell. Introductions are for chumps.

Before I get into the story, let me tell you that I looked up 'cataclysmic' on dictionary.com to make sure I had spelled it right, and it took me three tries to type in 'dictionary' correctly in the address bar. Wheee.

Anyway. The bed.

It's been a bit creaky for a while now. We (meaning His Stuness and I) have been meaning to tighten it up for a while now, but as we tend to forget about the problem until it's actually making itself known, which is when we're in the midst of attaining carnal knowledge of each other* and hardly in the sort of mindframe which sets about getting maintainence chores accomplished. It was getting increasingly loud, which meant it was also getting increasingly annoying. Not to mention increasingly embarrassing; there's nothing that says "Hello housemates, not only have we had more sex in the last week than you've had in the last year, but we're HAVING SOME NOW" like a creaky bed that seems to have uncannily good rhythm for an item of furniture usually known for its tendency to be entirely motionless. I really don't like advertising/rubbing that fact in. For one thing, it's one of those things that tends to be assumed of couples (particularly couples where the female member of said is prone towards making statements like "I don't like no bitches what don't put out"). For another, Stu has a colourful courtship ritual which involves taking his pants off and leaping around the loungroom to the strains of "I Want Candy" whilst leering in an unbridled manner at anyone present. Especially visiting parental units.

So Thursday night rolls around, and having done our bit towards being sociable by catching White Zombie at the Astor, we make our merry way back to my house. Some time into the act of fornication and I'm grasping the bars at the head of the bed to give myself that all-important extra leverage. I notice briefly that the bed seems to have slightly more motion than usual, but dismiss the thought just as quickly. What I think may have been seconds later, I hear a CRACK! and the head of the bed suddenly jerks towards me.
"FUCK!"
"What?" Stu is not in the habit of paying attention to outside influences at the best of times.
"We just broke the fucking BED!" I speak in caps a lot, I really do.

The first problem is to get out of the bed without it collapsing on or under us. This is solved swiftly and carefully, with no harm to either party. Next, the damage must be assessed. It is determined that the bolts connecting the head and base of the bed have pulled their, uh, connecting agents (me no speak technical talk) out of of the legs of the bed, thus making it irreparable.

While Stuart inspects the damage, I light on the idea of stealing Deb's futon mattress, which has been living in the lounge room while she's been away (Deirdre and I put it in there for a friend of ours who was crashing for the night, and it kind of never got moved out again. This was several weeks ago). Clothing ourselves enough to not induce embarrassment or hysterical laughter from my housemates, we troop into the lounge. Deirdre and Eliza are fussing with a cable for the TV.
"We're stealing the futon," I say.
"How come?" Deirdre asks.
"Er, we kinda broke my bed."
"How did you manage that?"
The best response I can muster up is a slightly embarrassed "Tee hee!" I'm not sure what brought on the guffaws more; the obvious answer to the question, or the incredibly sheepish expression on my face.

After well and truly discerning that the bed was FUBAR, we change the sheet on the futon and load it up with doona, pillows and ourselves. After some more giggling of the slightly incredulous variety ("We broke a bed while having sex in it!") as well as the slightly cocky variety ("Heh. We broke a bed while having sex it it!"), we resume matters where they had been interrupted, until they reach a more natural conclusion, or if you prefer, what I believe is referred to in the massage parlour trade as a happy ending.

Possibly not for my bed, though.

*Yeah, you'd think we'd know by now, but we keep having to remind ourselves.

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