Page 121 of The Fed Sex Man

“It’s so exciting,” she exclaimed.

Being with Jo was a constant reminder that excluding sex, I knew nothing of what it took to make a woman happy. Seeing her elated over something as simple as bedding hinted at who she truly was. Her desires didn’t venture beyond life’s necessities. She was a modest woman with minimal needs, most of which I could satisfy by simply providing her with my love and affection.

We spent the evening washing the new bedding, stripping the bed, re-making it, and arranging the pillows. When we were done, she stood in the corner of the room and admired her handiwork.

“Now I want new bedding,” she said.

I stared at the mountain of pillows, confused. “You have new bedding.”

“I mean for me,” she replied. “This stuff is yours.”

“It’s ours.”

“It just seems weird. There’s your house, and there’s my house,” she argued. “I don’t feel like I live in either one of them. It’s like I’m in limbo, or whatever.”

Strangely, I felt the same way. Early in our relationship, I liked the separation. Knowing at the end of the day that I could retire to the comfort and solitude of my own home. I now had no desire to spend so much as a single night without her.

“We need to think about consolidation,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

We’d silently made the decision to sleep at each other’s homes. A few nights here and a few nights there was getting old. It was time we discussed taking our relationship one step further.

“This is, I don’t know, kind of silly,” I said. “We sleep at your house for a few days, sleep here for a few days. We need to get our heads together and decide what we’re going to do. We need to pick a place and live there.”

She gasped. “Move in together?”

I looked at the pillow pile. In the past few minutes, it seemed to have multiplied. “Yeah. Like normal people.”

“My home is perfect,” she said excitedly. “It’s older, but the bedrooms are much bigger. The kitchen’s just been redone, too.”

I hadn’t given moving into her home any consideration, whatsoever. Moving away from the home my father raised me in seemed like an impossible task.

“I was thinking we’d live here,” I said.

“Oh.” Her eyes searched the room before meeting mine. “We can talk about it.”

I nodded toward the pillow pile. “Maybe sleep on it.”

She smiled. “With our new pillows?”

“Our new pillows,” I said. “I like the way that sounds.”