I was sold to Gordon in 1980 for $399.00. One of the last sleeper couches that May Company carried. I arrived on 4527 Gilbert Place in East Hollywood fully loaded. My mattress never straightens out, having been folded for most of my life. My springs enjoy hearing the creaking as I open. When Scott was recuperating from his pneumonia, I assisted in the healing process. He could sit up in bed with his head folding into my firm, restful back cushions. He could easily eat in bed. He wouldn’t disturb Gordon’s sleep.

My second move was to the heart of West Hollywood. Hampton Place on King’s Road became my new home in 1988. My floral print was reupholstered just after I arrived. Dark blue stripes hide the dirt that showed up in my previous life. My facelift was complete.

I loved looking out the sliding glass windows to my Rear Window view of the courtyard. I could watch television and glance at the dining room table.  I had a brilliant view of the door and could greet guests. I captured sunlight to illuminate Gordon’s obsessive reading habit. His taste was head spinning as he would read the latest John Irving followed by Danielle Steele or Jackie Collins.

After Scott died in 1989, I anchored Gordon.

Gordon has been such a slut since his lover died. He answers ads and brings new people back to the condo every other week. His taste in men is insane. There is no type. Old, young, fat, thin, pretty, ugly, feminine or butch.  I don’t like them sitting on top of me for very long. Who knows what disease or strange smells they are tracking? Gordon can’t smell so he wouldn’t know. My job is to get them so stimulated from kissing that they move to the bedroom.

I hear the buzzer. A male high-pitched voice. Oh, it’s a friend. I can relax.

“Come in, Ben. I want to tell you about my trip to Ireland.” Ben and Gordon met at gay temple Beth Chayim Chadishim two years ago. Ben is studying psychology at Antioch for a second career. His hands are jumpy. They both sit on me.

“Do we have enough time to see the Bergman film?”

“Yes, we’ve got an hour.”

I use my springs to gently pry Ben closer to Gordon just for fun. I visualize them kissing and they take their clues from me. Ben and Gordon have hugged as friends but nothing further than that. Oh my god. I am seeing a twinkle in Ben’s eyes. Should I let them kiss? It’s so difficult to switch things up from friendship to sex.

Well, here goes Gordon. He is following Ben’s lead. They are grabbing each other around the waist. I see tongue action. They dig into each other’s mouths. Oh no! Suddenly they are stopping. What happened?

Ben blurts out, “Remember when we watched the mini-series And the Band Played On?

Gordon finishes his thoughts with, “I was sobbing in your arms at the end.”

“We’ve been such close friends I thought we could…” Ben explains.

Gordon sheepishly nods. A short embrace as they unglue. Ingmar Bergman is waiting.

Two weeks later, on schedule I see a new man enter.

“Hey. Greg,” Gordon addresses this towering man.

“This is such a large condo. How long have you lived here?”

“Four years. Let’s sit on the couch.” Ah, that is my clue that Gordon is in a pouncing mood.

“I saw six patients today. It’s crazy building clientele.”

Oh, another psychologist. Gordon should know better. These guys tend to be a mess.

Greg jumps on me with his dirty shoes. He stretches his legs across. My cushions feel squashed. His big butt is squeezing the life out of me.

“Come on, move over so I can sit.”

I know Gordon wants him to remove his shoes.

Greg tries to unzip Gordon’s Levi’s. Gordon ignores the hands and presses into Greg’s lips. Hard to tell if Gordon is getting hard. I know he’s never sure about whether he will perform. I send my vibes.

“Let’s go in the bedroom. It’s more comfortable.”

What an insult. I am cozy snug. Keep smooching!

As they dribble off to the bedroom, I hear Greg say, “How many times do you cum?”

“Usually once. I’m worn out.”

Greg gives a hardy laugh “We’re doing it at least three times tonight.”

The night of the yearly Golden GB’s Academy Award party is a real workout. Gordon tries to fit thirty-five people with only twenty seats. Everyone wants to grab a place on me—especially the overweight. I am the prime location for Gordon’s drag performances, the videos from movies and plays, and Gordon’s being able to get up to present awards. The coffee table is loaded with goodies. Once a guest plops down on me they never move, fearing someone will steal their seat. Oh no. I feel a blast and a strange noise. Is that a fart? Now I will stink for days. Gladys, the housekeeper, must come right away. I love when she sucks the crap out of my cushions with the vacuum. It’s ticklish and almost erotic.

The following morning, I feel rumbling. I’m about to slide. I bump against the wall. Earthquake!

Gordon wakes and calls his mom.

“No serious damage except I scratched my leg trying to get past the chest that fell,” she calmly tells him. “I don’t want to be alone. Can you pick me up?”

She lives three blocks away. Then Sy calls, “I’m not staying alone in my place tonight.”

Gordon replies, “My mom will stay in the second bedroom and you can sleep on the converter couch.”

“Is the mattress clean?”

“Of course. We hardly use it.”

The nerve of Sy.  I’ve never had bed bugs.

Two weeks later an odd character is on the couch. It seems that Gordon picked this guy up on Santa Monica Blvd. How does he know if this guy is a murderer? Well, he looks harmless. Short and boring.

“So, this is my condo, Alex.”

“Nice.”

He sits on me. Don’t they always do that? I mean there is a recliner and side chair.

Quick kisses followed by unbuttoning. 505’s, jockey briefs, soiled white socks shoot across the room. Oh no, they aren’t going to the bedroom. I can irritate with my rough fabric against their cocks. The tight squeeze from my three cushions should clue them to move. I don’t want cum on me. That damn Wet lubricant could stain. The cushions will get stiff if they don’t get the semen off immediately. And what about their body sweat saturating me?

I try loosening a pillow so they’ll fall off. Yes, yes—they are going to the bedroom. Emergency averted.

To celebrate the new century Gordon repaints and installs new carpeting. He’s locked himself with Neal, a new boyfriend,  for two years. Who would have thought Gordon could change his wicked ways and become monogamous? He looks at me. “It’s time to get a new couch from Jennifer sofa. It’s been twenty years!”

But what about all I’ve done for you? All the men you’ve had because of me. You’re just going to discard me?

I pray that Gordon will sell me and not let me be destroyed at a dump. I am relieved when he puts an ad in the recycler. A young boy enters the condo. He observes my condition.

“Wow, it’s hard to believe this sofa is twenty years old,” he tells Gordon.

“I had it recovered ten years ago.” The boy plunks down on me.

“Comfy. Nice. How much did you want for it?”

“$50.00 in cash.”

That’s all I’m worth?

“Good deal. I’ll come by with a friend who has a moving truck and we’ll pick it up this weekend.”

Afterwards Gordon sits on me, opens his book, relaxes into me. Is he crying? Relishing his past or my history. The ghosts of men linger.

I am traumatized as I get transported to the boy’s apartment on the weekend. He has posters of girls covering his walls. Oh no—a straight man. Can I adjust? A nude woman on me? What will that feel like? Help!