I was out for drinks with a couple of friends who were in from out of town. Before meeting them, I had picked up my platonic female friend C. from her place, and in the car she was telling about her glorious Sunday afternoon spent cleaning up her bedroom. She said that since a stray breeze or an askance glance could probably destroy its resplendent beauty, I should probably come in and see it (and pick up a textbook I had leant her) when I dropped her off later that afternoon. I said sure.
Anyways, after drinks, we stopped back by her house. I said hi to her parents, and we both went upstairs to get my book. She showed me her Salvador Dali posters and her miniature Smurf army. I was mildly stunned - how come I never knew she was an obsessive Smurf hoarder? These are things friends should know about.
Then yesterday, for some reason, I was contemplating said event, and decided that our society generally sees bedroom = sexroom, and that this was the reason why the Smurf fetish had never been brought up before. To invite someone into one’s bedroom is shorthand for “Sleep with me, baby doll, oh yeah.” We’ve totally sexualized a space that is used for hundreds of other purposes besides sexual intercourse. I mean, it’s not a revolutionary idea, but it’s what I decided.
But dammit, now I want to invite strangers, by the truckload, into my bedroom! My bedroom is me. There are all these pointless stories just waiting to be told, like the hammock I bought two years ago in Guatemala for the equivalent of $15 CDN on the slight chance that, someday, the weeds in my backyard would grow to the height and girth of Douglas firs. Or the two drums that comprise my fledgling percussion instrument collection. There is more of my history within those four walls than there is anywhere else in the Western Hemisphere.
Maybe I should adorn my door with a sign that reads “I Do Not Want To Have Sex With You In My Bedroom.” Then everyone would think I’m completely normal.
My friends and I always hung out in each others bedrooms until we reached about 16yo. Then the guys started peering into the girls underwear draws and it was just weird. All bedroom visitations ceased then.
Now days my bedroom is my sanctuary from the world. No-one but leechboy or me is allowed in there.
I invited people to my bedroom when I was in the Residence Hall on campus…it was the only place in the apartment that was me, and not shared with other girls.
Now I live alone, and I don’t think I would invite anyone to my bedroom just because there is nothing there. Of course, if they need to go to the bathroom they’ll see my bedroom, since it’s the only way to get to the bathroom.
I spend most of my time at home in my bedroom. In fact, I’m posting this whilst propped up in our king-sized bed, with our kiva (fireplace) lit. We have a large comfy chair and ottoman, an alcove with a small table and chairs where we have breakfast on Sundays, and a full bath up here. It is definitely my sanctuary and my most favorite place in the whole wide world.
Guests are welcome to visit my bedroom, but I usually prefer to be alone here with my husband. I guess I do feel rather private about it.
Nobody would want to come into my bedroom. I’m a total slob and my clothes and makeup are strewn everywhere. I wouldn’'t mind inviting someone in there though, especially a male someone.
As for hanging out in there with friends, that ceased when I was 14 years old and a friend of mine spilled chocolate milk all over my new quilt. I was quite pissed off.
People look in my bedroom all the time – it’s next to the bathroom, and from the hall door you can see a truly HUGE houseplant, so a lot of people stick their heads in to gawk at that.
