the bedroom

I've been in my new house for almost a year now. A year! And what a year it's been. Arctic Monkeys bought a new album out. I saw them live. I saw The Killers live too. On Thursday I'm going to see Milburn (picked up their new album yesterday, and it's a corker). I've had MMF and FFM threesomes. I've had sex on the streets of London, in Travelodges, in gay hotels, and on cam. I've spent a ridiculous amount of money on toys and sexy undies. I've been dogging. I've broken a Ford Mondeo. I've read books. I've taken a shitload of photos, and had a shitload of offers. I've seen alot of cock. I've met some very strange and interesting people. And I've learnt much about me. It's been exciting, traumatic, challenging, time-consuming and downright fucking expensive.

I'm not complaining. God, no. I just wish there was more time, and more money to do more, buy more, see more.

And I wish I had (or could afford) a boudoir. A luxurious room in which I could relax and indulge myself, and pretend I'm in some kind of sexual heaven. A sanctuary. My sanctuary. A room that filled me up with all kinds of warm. A room that was easy - no - kind on the eye, and soul. A room that I could "entertain" in on the very rare occasion I manage to get rid of all the kids.
But alas, I do not have such a room. What I have is a place to crash, which isn't the same thing at all. The sexiest thing about my bedroom is that it has a mortice lock on the door. It's bare, it's lifeless, it has magnolia walls for fucksake. Ok, so it's a step up from my last bedroom, which had a chronic case of mould, but still. Magnolia. In my bedroom. And it ain't just the walls. The floor is bare. the bedding is ready for the bin, and as for the soft furnishings.... what soft furnishings? I suppose this is the price I pay for having what can only be described as "a life". So busy shagging and crying and buying flesh-coloured dildos, that not once have I thought about paint, or cushions. But given the choice of Dulux or dildos,... well, it's not much a choice is it?

Oh hark at me. I watch some brain-draining "home improvement" show, and I come over all Linda Barker. I start thinking about colours, and mood-boards, and functionality, and budgets, and "swatches". I start to want a bedroom that is tranquil and sexy and and... coordinated, dammit. I think "ooh yeh, accessories", and I think I like that idea.
But it's hopeless. I'm hopeless. What makes a room sexy? Candles? Satin sheets? Fluffy cushions? Flowers? The lingering scent of patchouli? Plastic mattress protectors? Red lightbulbs? Shag pile carpet? Mirrors on the ceiling? Me sprawled on the bed in fishnets and fuck-me boots, heh?
I need some inspiration. I need to stop thinking about cock.