Coming down from the high of flirting with a new crush at a friend’s dorm party, Jamie Simmons, 19-year old student and idealist, took her first starry-eyed step into the dorm room of Sam Brenner, 19-year old student and generic boy. Upon first glance of Sam’s bed, Jamie felt the crushing weight of reality coming down hard on her naive sensibilities. Despite the fact that the last three boys Jamie had hooked up with all had the exact same deeply disappointing bed, Jamie had held out hope that Sam’s bed would be different. Sam was different, Jamie thought. His taste in music was arguably good, although he listened to Migos a little bit too much. He was in a frat, sure, but he knew that it was stupid and lightly made fun of it. All things considered, Jamie’s natural naiveté allowed her to believe that Sam’s bed would be different from all the others.
Alas, the bed was not different.
It was high enough off the ground that you had to jump to get into it, and if there was a sexy way to do that, Jamie sure hadn’t discovered it. The mattress topper was thin enough that Jamie was almost convinced that there was no mattress topper at all–except for the fact that it kept sliding halfway off the bed every five minutes.
The sheets–or sheet, singular, to be accurate. A fitted sheet, sure, but no top sheet. The same navy blue “t-shirt” style sheet that made Jamie wonder if part of freshman orientation programing was a group trip to Bed Bath and Beyond to buy a value-pack twin XL sheet set in whatever color was left (Navy Blue, evidentially).
In lieu of a comforter, quilt, or any other type of appropriately warm bedding, Sam’s bed had a single microfiber fleece throw blanket. This was one of those cheap, lightweight blankets meant to sit at the end of the bed, on top of the comforter, for decoration. The color of Sam’s throw blanket could only be described as off-Navy Blue, as it nearly matched his sheets, but not quite.
As Jamie sat coyly on Sam’s bed with him, she chose to ignore the unidentifiable stains on the bed, which Sam clearly had also chosen to ignore before inviting her over. After some (predictably) generic sex, Jamie laid her head on one of Sam’s two pillows, which was lumpy and frankly not thick enough to comfortably support a human head. She tugged the throw blanket up to her chin, accidentally exposing her–and Sam’s–toes. Apologizing, she spent the next few minutes trying to maneuver a blanket that was never meant to fully cover two people to do just that.
As she began to drift to sleep below the watchful eyes of Sam’s Chance the Rapper poster, Jamie reflected on her night. Why is it, she wondered, that every boy’s bed is the exact same? A space with the sole purpose of being comfortable and pleasant, but somehow able to achieve the exact opposite effect. Maybe Will would be different, Jamie thought. Will was in her Spanish class, but only came to class half of the time. He wore jean jackets and rode his penny board around campus. Yeah, Will would have a good bed, Jamie thought as she snuggled against Sam’s scrawny chest, and she was determined to see it.
[Editor’s Note: Jamie was wrong. Will’s bed was exactly the same, except for a couple guitar picks haphazardly strewn between the singular sheet and throw blanket.]
Image via Sarah Clapp.