"Magee and Mileer 1997, p.19. See also Fuss 1993 and Magid 1993. There is an alternate theory of male homosexuality as hypermasculinity (Senegoopta 1998). According to some, such hypermasculinity explains why gay men in the modern U.S. are so sexually active. By analogy, lesbians may overexpress female sexuality, seen as a lack of sexual desire. This viewpoint has been used to explain so-called lesbian bed death (Symons 1979).

Lesbian bed death? Sounds serious. Probably brought on by an over-indulgence in cuddling and sharing of underwear. Like a creeping, inevitable force (known in places southern as Kudzu) - these things will eek their way into a lesbian relationship. Resist, I say! Hence with your cuddling and socialist underwear sharing tendencies! Keep sex alive!

You'll wake up one morning and see your lover (that's what you called her before the bed death happened and you decided that "partner" had a better ring to it) looking at your dresser with a pensive expression.

"What's wrong?" You'll ask, still groggy with sleep and possibly fatigue because she'd fucked your brains out the night before (back before the bed death happened, you never "made love").

"Well, we forgot to do the laundry last night because you attacked me when I got in from work. And now I'm out of underwear, do you have any?"

You're still groggy and not entirely compus mental because the part of your brain that's functioning is preoccupied with how you're going to limber up enough to get her back into bed and make something of it, so you say, "Dunno, look."

And then she does. She finds a pair. Walks over to the bed and starts talking to you. "So," she says, slipping them on. "What are we going to do today?" (It's Saturday - the lesbian day of sex - what else does she think you're going to do?)

"Dunno," you answer. Wondering that if you tilt your head just so, she may accidentally sit on your face.

"Come on, wake up!" She insists, crawling back into the bed to rouse you.

Before you know it, she's wrapped her arms around you and come in close, so very close. She says, "Someone's awfully sleepy. Did I tire you out, poor thing?" And she tucks your head under her chin and embraces you with her warmth. It's a lovely sensation and your groggy brain is comforted, eased... appeased. And you drift off to sleep.

You wake to a new reality. You're in bed, she's in bed. No one's had sex. She's wearing your underwear. You think, "Shouldn't she have showered before she put those on?"

Presto. Your bed is deader than a doornail. Not a damn thing you can do to revive it. It's got lesbian bed death, baby. Throw that sucker out or you're not getting any for another day in your damn life.

Speaking of bed death, we're lesbians, we ran out of clean clothes - our bed died. We have to get another one. It's an urgent state of affairs... or lack thereof. Heh.

Before I get a bunch of smart-assed condolence notes - I'll just tell you that I was employing my literary license, in a liberal fashion (what else?), to segue into my next startling observation...

Buying a bed is a complex undertaking.

We're buying a new mattress/boxspring type deal.

I hadn't thought it would be complex. It's a bed. You lie on it. What's so complicated?

I'm glad you asked.

I've told you about the massage therapist who tortures me every now and again - well, he's pro bed. Pro - expensive, high-tech, supportive bedding (such things exist, trust me). And he thinks that Ume and I need just such an item. Maybe she's been complaining about the cuddling and underwear to him behind my back, I don't know, but he's been adamant that it's the thing for us to do.

And if I must be truthful... our futon is as dead as a corpse that was shot and dragged after exhumation. What can I say? We were once the kind of people who thought that a real bed was suspect. Of what, I'm not certain... but of something, for sure... like, maybe if we got a whole night's comfortable sleep, we'd wake up as normal as other folk and start liking Anne Heche 'cause she's so spunky and stuff like that. As it turns out, Anne Heche could use a good night's sleep and has probably got a futon of her own she should chuck out.

Where was I? Oh yeah, the bed shop. There are environments that challenge my carefully crafted public persona. The bed shop is an example of such a challenge. We walk in and there are all of these beds (I'd expected that) - and the only way you're going to find out if you like them or not, is to lie on them (I hadn't really thought about that). And the only way you can figure out if they are uncomfortable with another person on them is to have another person on them with you. That means, either asking the friendly bed shop guy to jump in the sac with you, or coming out to the bed shop guy (who just got a whole lot less comfortable while watching you and your partner hit the sac a deux). Well, aren't I a narrow minded, full of assumptions, oppressed minority? Not only was our bed shop tour guide, Stu, a terrifically knowledgeable sleep technician, he was also the kind of people-person who could see, from just looking at me, that I had all kinds of issues about getting comfortable in his bed shop. He was having none of 'em. Queer or no, Stu encouraged us to take off our coats and try every bed until we found one that worked right for "us". No matter how comfortable he thought we should be (comfort is not my middle, next to last or even hyphenated name), it wasn't likely to happen in this lifetime - but I appreciated his efforts on my/our behalf.

I test drove this one model that almost cost what my car does and I'll tell you - that bed would have given our puritanical forefathers a fit. It's a dangerous temptation. How the hell would you get out of a bed that comfortable in the morning? After I'd tried it out, I was standing near it, looking at another, when a guy walked over and I warned him to not lay on it if he didn't want to be dissatisfied for the rest of his life. He glanced at me sideways and with a rebellious glint in his eye, lowered himself onto it. "Oh man!" he said. Then he scooted all of the way back on it and went spread eagle. He started laughing. We discussed the evils of high tech foams and whatnot and how we'd never get a damn 'nother thing done if we bought a bed like that. Meanwhile, Ume was over testing out the cinder-blocks that are more likely to end up under yours truly.

I decided that while I enjoy a pillow top thingy (squishy extra bedding stuff) on a firm mattress, it'd be hell in the summer unless you ran air conditioning all of the time. And besides, sadistic Massage Therapist Guy said that I need a firm mattress and Ume would just have to suffer along with me. We narrowed it down to a few and told Stu we'd come back (when he was working, because he'd darn well earned the commission), with our final decision. It was just too much to do in one go. I mean, there's a lot of pressure involved, it's a five year commitment (minimum) and hopefully ten if all the high tech stuff is doing its job. Which makes me wonder what we'll be doing on that bed in a few years, when say... we've got all our laundry done and we're awake enough to not fall into the cuddling trap.

PS. To the young and unpartnered lesbians who may be unfortunate enough to have nothing better to do than read my bloggage - do not let this story alarm you. You can avoid lesbian bed death without actually purchasing a new bed... if you want to, that is. Lesbian bed death has nothing to do with cuddling and sharing underwear - really. I was exercising that artistic license again (keepin' it in shape). I have nothing better to do with my time, apparently.