Rory Slept Here

It was unintentional. I left a huge spot on Samuels bedroom wall—and I was a bit embarrassed but not able to clean it off before I headed out to work. (Not that kind of stain—dirty dirty.)

It’s because of his bed—or rather his lack of bed. When we first started dating Samuel had a mattress on the floor—twin—and a lack of furniture. I jokingly named his little place the artist grotto because it was exactly how I lived back when I first moved to Los Angeles. Nothing matched, boxes for nightstands and just kind of empty.

Now I’m not very picky, I mean, I spent on a flip and fuck for the first two years I lived out here with nothing but bad film posters and postcards for decoration. The one thing I never did (and actively avoided in college) was share a twin bed with anyone. I just always thought it looked uncomfortable and so I just didn’t. Which is why I hooked up in elevators and common rooms when I did anything with a boy. (Sorry about that)

But recently that all started to change—mostly due to Kaylee. She switched up beds and gave Samuel her twin box spring, bed frame and eventually a new twin mattress as well. Samuel—being Samuel—didn’t know what to do with the original mattress so he stacked the box spring with two mattresses. Now this seems a smart idea but instead turned his bed into ‘Jenga!’ bed.

Which wouldn’t be much of a problem except a twin bed, with two sizable men, and of questionable stability was bound to lead to some issues. So when I spent the night next, we realized that for us to get any sleep it would all be about balance. Which lead to us holding each other, ala Rose and Jack, in a really gay version of ‘Titanic’ except if we fell it would be on a hard wooden floor.

But we were fine for quite a bit until I shifted and he didn’t and I had to throw my hand to floor to keep from falling off. We resettled and fell asleep for quite a bit but I got a leg cramp and shifted and had to grab at the wall to keep for impaling myself on a slew of books and “Buffy” script books while startling the boy out of a deep sleep.

Eventually we figured out how to get to sleep and were fine until the next morning when he had to get up before me, which caused another round of bed hopping. As he prepared to go to jury duty I fell back to sleep right away after finding my own perfect balance.

I must have been really tired because I didn’t remember him leaving when I woke up an hour later. And as I stumbled around his grotto I realized this was the first time I had been alone in his place. That he trusted me to just hang out and do stuff and let myself out. It’s a weird feeling.

So I did all my morning stuff and got ready for work. I was packing my bag when I heard a sound and looked out the window to see his cousin—who owns the guesthouse—and I felt caught doing something wrong—I’m not supposed to be here. So I waited till she left the yard because I didn’t know how I would explain myself. “Hi—I’m the guy your cousin is fucking around with and he’s not home but I’m not stealing anything. Just getting dressed for work—would you like to search my backpack to be sure?”

After that weirdness I turned to leave when I saw a hand print on the boy’s wall. My hand must have gotten dirty when I threw my hand on his floor and then when I touched his wall I left a mark. I tried to quickly wipe it off but couldn’t and I didn’t want to be late to work because my timing was off due to hiding out from the cousin and so I didn’t have time. So I left.

But I felt odd about it. Like I left this huge piece of proof that I had been there. It was like a huge picture of myself—Rory slept here—and I wasn’t sure what he would think of that. Because even though we’re boyfriends and in love we’re still in that weird spot where so many things just belong to us separately. My friends, his place, my television show, his music.

The funny thing is that we do leave little things at each others place—a toothbrush or sleep pants or a soda but they’re so little that they don’t seem like much. Like if we broke up tomorrow that it would take 2 seconds to get rid of the proof and poof—no boyfriend. But for some reason the hand print felt like something more. Like individual proof of existence.

Maybe I’m over thinking this. The boy was cool with what happened if not pleased. (“Were you hands dirty all night?” “Hey—if you cleaned your floor better I wouldn’t have gotten them dirty”) But it still seems deeply personal. Maybe I watch too much CSI.