Charlotte

My sleeping chamber is a warm place. A pink and gold place with purple satin pillows and soft rose-covered flannel sheets and icy dark gold satin quilts. A black feather boa drapes over the white point of a Valkyrie's horned headgarb.

Marilyn stretches herself naked across white fur, her beautiful hands and fingers, her skin golden. Marilyn "moues" next to the mirror above the jewelry counter, her breasts saucily peaking from the cut of a smart black sheath, a black net veil and long diamond earring and red red lips adding class and mystery and glamour.

Virgins abound. I am born in the Virgin month, and on my lap rests the Unicorned Beast.

My bed is o'erhung with clouds of ivory satin worked in copper-gold thread. A single silken scarf in scarlet intermingles with crystals and rhinestones to reflect the light, apprising those who enter here of passion awaiting

A maiden in her yellow gown, her brown feet on the shale, stands beside a mountain rill.

Watching me at all times are the rabbit of Herr Durer and the Head of A Girl by Van Eyke.

My furniture is beautifully old - the Waterfall design popular in the 40s - our grandparents used these beds - wooden pegs interlock at the corners, bolts tightened with an Allen key, the wood itself a burnished shine.

There is still something of a little girl's bedroom here as well. Her bronzed baby shoes sit next to a red phone.

Her collection of stuffed animals - many of them old Steiffer toys given her as a girl of six, still protect her.

A dependable Wosk rests just that side of the pale gold satin dust ruffle, next to the bedside table holding a journal full of assorted fantasies, ravings, ramblings, musings, and occasionally budget items.

Things that glitter and shine hang from the walls - bracelets, a necklace of long silver chain all of these memories and images and sides of me are within this space.

I have a great big electric blanket -convenient for those times when there's no self-generating furnace of a babe in my bed.

I am fastidious about my boudoir, though, I must confess.

Recollections of short black socks and discarded boxer shorts strewn over the carpet, thrown there, granted, in flattering haste to get at the goods, as it were, but nevertheless clashing somewhat with the champagne flutes and other props of a carefully appointed boudoir set for romance.

Now, in my experience, butches' bedrooms are a whole different kettle. First of all, they often contain projects, or bits of projects. Whereas I might have baubles and jewelry boxes and doilies, s/he has that bit off hir bike s/he needs to remember to take into the shop and see if buddy has a 24XLG thingummy.

Hir bathroom doesn't have a seatcover on the toilet. Probably. Sometimes they do if their mothers did. You never know what kind of butch you're dealing with, that's the fun of it all. They're taking their cues from us as girls to see what girls do, but some of what girls do seems really strange to them. So, some of what they do seems really strange to us too.

Like keeping motorcycle parts in your bedroom. Or a 55 lb barbell under the window, where they like to do their lifts in the morning. On which I almost crack a toe because I'm drifting around in a peignoir with bare painted toes, not expecting exercise equipment in a boudoir.

But wait, this isn't a boudoir! It's a butch's bedroom. Sure to contain a special place for an assortment of sizes, colours and shapes. And I'm not talking about ties. Plaid sheets (yes, Virginia, they really do make 'em).

I've had to increase the size of my lingerie wardrobe (like I'm complaining) so I had something to match hir sheets. Darling - you don't want to clash. You want to look absolutely breathtakingly luscious so they swoon. Aha. I've discovered the source of the strewn boxer shorts. Shortness of breath. Trancelike behavior brought on by over-stimulation. Note - all femmes should resort to subliminal messages sewn into our lingerie..."Take me take out the garbage take me..."

Beds are for confidences. All kinds. They should love you because you love them. The beds, I mean. Really, I'm serious. If you really make your bed a place like the magic carpet, it will take you anywhere you want to go.

Charlotte