My bedroom has been the setting for a lot of the events in my life. I've been laid up in it with pneumonia, shingles, flus, sprained ankles, and mono. I've spent hours and hours decorating it, painting it, cleaning it, and doing it all over again. It's been my shelter, my sanctuary, and, of course, my boudoir. Over the years, it's taken on a life of it's own.
I guess, if you wanted to analyze it, you could say my innermost vulnerabilities show up in my bedroom. The "show" bedding that I have is light green satin and lace, matching the hue of my eyes. The single lamp I have in there is draped in a scarf of the same color. These are probably the sole decorations in my room that are not influenced by anything else but myself.
I had a painting over my bed that Perse had given me. It was one she had done after a trip to New York, where she had been the victim of a sexual assault. The painting was amazing, but it got to a point where I had to give it to Stacey. The painting, while beautiful, was filled with images of penis shaped heads emerging from the ground, with churches in the background, and a man fellating a woman. After awhile, it started to effect my dreams. So I changed it to a painting that reminds me of someone that used to be friends with (referenced in my Edie And Andy entry), and who had broken my heart completely, because I am sadistic. His sister had painted the piece in question of a cross section of a person's head/brain, with a map of Portland in the brain. He has a brain tumor that he has been fighting for over a decade. I purchased the piece because it hit me on several emotional levels, it being his sister, and a brain, and the map of Portland, a place that means a lot to me. And now, when we can no longer be in the same room together, I oddly enough sleep under that painting every night. I need a painting over my bed because I don't have a headboard. I gave up on having headboards. Between them taking up wall space that can be used by art, and the fact that I have a tendency to break them, it seems to be a better fit to go without. And I don't break them how you think I do. I break them by changing the linens on my bed. Over time the screws and such that hold them to the base board just fall to pieces. So, no, I don't break my head board by too much play. That's how I have broken my bed itself. I wish I was exaggerating.
There are several other paintings and drawings in my room, some done by myself, but many done by my friends. On one wall, I also have several religious icons. Being Greek Orthodox, icons - images of saints and Jesus - are an important part of the faith. Being an artist, it is an aspect of the religion that I understand in my soul, but it did make for weird bedmates, the saints and Perse's penises. Probably another reason I swapped the pieces.
My bedroom used to be painted white. It's not anymore. It's red. Blood red. After a fall out with an ex-boyfriend, I took it out on my bedroom and painted it menstrual red. For some reason, I needed my own version of the Red Tent. A bedroom as passionate and outspoken as I am. To top it of, my bedroom isn't overly large. It's a very cozy small red bedroom, just big enough for my queen sized bed, wardrobe, and nightstand. My house is also very old, and my room is partially under the staircase, leaving a low, sloped ceiling in my room, just about a foot away from my bed. I only mention this because this placement has been the cause of many injuries for gentlemen callers. When they get up in the morning to put their clothing back on, and they stand up to their full height after pulling their pants up, they smack the shit out of their head on the sloped ceiling. The first time it happened, I felt horrible for the guy. After watching different guys bonking the crap out of their heads, it became difficult not to laugh. I have been itching to install a secret video camera there just to catch the moment they beat the shit out of their domes.
That brings me back to all those icons. It never occurs to me at the time, but I'm sure it's got to be weird to the guys to have all these saints looking at them while we do what they would frown upon. Somehow, most guys that I have dated didn't let it effect their performance, and the ones that had performance issues didn't seem to be bothered by them either.
In many ways, my room has become my bachelorette pad. Between the red walls, and the veiled lamp light, it has a lusty feel to it. I have my hiding spot for my prophylactics and fun stuff. I have my candles and incense, which I only light when men come over. I don't care about that frilly stuff when I'm on my own. I have a selection of music that I keep near the player, in case of a more spontaneous encounter. I even have a selection of guy friendly movies, depending on the temperament of the guy, that I fall back on. Movies including 300, Black Dynamite, Fifth Element, Scarface, American Gangster, and Sherlock Holmes among others. A selection put together for their ability to make dudes comfortable, but not draw all of their attention, so they can pay attention to me, as well. If these walls could talk, they would tell of similar conversations with different men over the years ("why do you have a spiked wooden mace hanging from the wall?" - can't tell you how many times I've had that conversation...), about men nearing concussion, and about the good, the bad, and the ugly in sex. I can't be too embarrassed though. I've lived in this house for almost 15 years, and am in my mid thirties. All that experience had to happen somewhere, at least it's where I reign, in my blood red heart of a room.
