I was pulling. He was pulling. I began to grunt. His breathing grew heavy. Tiny beads of sweat began to form on my shaved head. A trail of perspiration became obvious—saturating his t-shirt—before disappearing into the waistband of his shorts. Eventually, I grew exhausted and had to quit. He kept going. His pulls were long, determined strokes. At the end of each heave, he would release his spine back into an upright position, finishing it off with a considerable groan. We were so close to each other, that as I hung—stretching my torso—from the pole above us, I could feel his breath on the back of my legs. The whole scenario sounds incredibly hot: two guys worked into a sweat, breathing heavily and grunting as they ardently pulled away— made all the more sizzling because cables were involved? Perhaps. But…No—he wasn’t the hunky cable man we all fantasize about. And no—we weren’t engaged in some elaborate bondage scenario. We were side by side on the cable machine at the gym. I, doing a shoulder exercise and somewhat distracted by our situation, while he feverishly hauled his way toward a broader back—thinking who knows what.
Anyone observing our circumstances would effortlessly deduce that we were complete strangers; just two guys going through their workout. But, as far as I was concerned, the man beside me was uncomfortably close. And, as he continued feverishly pulling away on the opposite cable, a dead feeling overtook my being—as if I’d been cast in the starring role in a zombie film.
In terms of the gym space, he was within a socially acceptable distance. So, why was his proximity making me feel as if he were smothering me with a pillow? Because we’d been much closer before—slept- together closer! But, because of our past, I played along, reclaiming my (now reoccurring) role as his dead- bed zombie star. This was not the first time I’d died. I’d already been dead to him for several years. The first time I saw him—a week after we’d slept together—my face was bright and welcoming. We both knew—or so I thought—that our drunken interlude would advance no higher than the climax of the moment. Yet, because of the naked intimacy of our encounter, I figured a cordial hello in passing would transpire. Not! Instead, he chose to simply pass, sans hello, wearing a blank, detached expression akin to the walking dead in zombie-themed horror films. Thus, I entered the after-sex life—joining the countless men, buried alive by those I now refer to as “Bed People.”
This Bed People “condition” (BP) is, thankfully, something I’ve encountered only once before. But, you all know what I’m talking about! For years now, I’ve digested countless stories of trysts with a BP twist—morning after amnesia from sexual interludes. And I regret to report that it appears that BP are rampant in the gay community! Everyone I petitioned had at least one BP story!
So—do you see Bed People like I do? Has one of these heavenly bodies inhabited your bedroom, then made you invisible the next time you crossed his path? Does that bed-you-then-dead-you guy, who once lusted after you, now look the other way or cross the street to avoid you?
At times, it seems that this post-hook-up horror can start off rather hopeful: a knowing wave from across the street/gym/bar/party. But, eventually, BP inhabits his being, degenerating his condition into what one friend likes to call “sexual amnesia.” Another acquaintance recounts sleeping with someone several years ago. Now, after numerous years have elapsed (since his allocated bed death), he’s been reincarnated. His blinded bedfellow has (apparently) recovered from his bout of BP and considers my friend a fresh new prospect— diligently recruising him at every opportunity! Then there are the Double-Bed People: the married ones. They have it the worst—suffering from both pre- and post- party amnesia: First forgetting their boyfriend before bedding you, then forgetting about you afterward. And, from what I’ve been told, there appears to be a serious outbreak of DBP. But, here’s my favourite example: While out walking with a friend who spotted a past bed-buddy, the B-B saw him/us approaching. To avoid a post-conquest conversation, he abruptly morphed into a BP and acquired a focused interest on the nearest store window. It was Victoria’s Secret! Oops. Once my friend overcame his status as deceased, he laughed death in the face; but it had an afterlife in my thoughts.
So, while I seeped in my own bed-death, again, I thought about why basic considerations like acknowledgement passed away after we’d been to bed. I never called. But neither did he. Years have elapsed since I entered his after-sex life, and I suppose the reasons are buried or forgotten. But, as we puffed and pulled at the gym, the situation was still eating me alive! I just couldn’t seem to get past our intimate past. Why, I wondered? Because, unlike friendships or business alliances, with “Bed People” there is something more: intimacy-our shared secretive desires, our unguarded yearning, and our naked truths revealed.
I once read an article where the word intimacy was broken down = In-to-me-see. And I wanted to remind him that we had both been naked and exposed—pulling back our “covers”—that we had both revealed our physical and emotional flaws, needs, fears and desires. But, have you ever tried talking to the dead?
Eventually, my BP moved on to another machine, but something had changed for me. After thinking so much about the whole thing, I wondered: Was it the fear of rejection that inhabited the post-party-pretend-I-don’t-know-you syndrome or “BP” my cable guy had acquired? Perhaps, if he pretends not to see me—after I’ve seen him fully exposed—then our sexual interlude will be swept under the bed, along with his insecurities?
Suddenly, I felt more alive and overcome with compassion instead of frustration, even if I was still dead.
Throughout our lives, in various ways, we “get into bed” with a myriad of people, whether it be for business or pleasure—fur ther developing ourselves through these alliances. They are a necessary part of life. And with these new associations comes a myriad of effects, including a certain amount of risk. Even writing about such grave circumstances—admitting that I have been a drop-dead bedfellow—subjects me to further risk and (possibly) ridicule. But, the way I see it, it’s better to be part of the living, better to get up on the right side of the bed, and better to converse after sex. So the next time you step out of bed, throw off your covers and say hello. There may be more to the after-sex life than you think.
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