Autumn is here and yet my summer of bed bugs rolls on. The irony that I thought the days of risking these and STIs was over when I stopped my casual sex journeying around different bedrooms across the city is not lost on me.
My Master and Princess however have made the ick factor easier to deal with. Around Easter time, just as they went on holiday the other consequence of casual sluttery caught up with me when a small sore in a very sensitive place turned out to be herpes.
The awkwardness of that only lasted as long as having to text them both in time before they boarded a long flight and it didn’t look like I’d been fucking behind their back while they sunned themselves. By the time they were back from their trip, we’d all more or less forgotten about it and none of us have had issue since.
Bed bugs on the other hand are less painfully physically but truly one of the most stressful and unpleasant and oddly upsetting and violating experiences of my life. Herpes felt no more significant than a cold sore but these make me feel contagious and dirty and have brought up all kinds of psychological challenges I never expected.
As I’ve said before there’s been a distinct lack of fucking in my house recently and most of the dirty talk has been about the disgustingness of insects not the smut of sexual innuendo. But it’s also allowed me to see a whole new side of my relationship with both my partners and created a different kind of intimacy between us.
In fact I’m currently camped out for a day or two in their spare room while I wait for the new pest control company to solve the errors of the first pest control company and there’s something about sharing a living space I didn’t expect to enjoy as much having always been the third person in relationships with my almost pathological need for space.
Having their company and support has definitely made the whole invasiveness and awfulness easier. Having accidentally hired a bunch of incompetents to begin with having strange men in my house all summer has been mildly annoying rather than anything else but having now hired a company who know their stuff, it’s made me feel oddly exposed.
I think we all know that I have a fairly thick skin when it comes to sexual matters. I’m not an exhibitionist but I don’t waste time these days on unnecessary shame either. So I didn’t bat an eyelid when the pest control guy phoned to apologise that he’d had to move some of my underwear that I’d hung on a rail to be heat treated.
He didn’t reference that it was all stuff straight out of an escort site or the old school version of Agent Provocateur but just wanted to make sure I didn’t think they’d been being nosy. I appreciated the customer service and the proper job baking bed bugs to death and finally freeing my house up again.
But when he called back to say that in doing the rest of the inspection of my flat he’d had to move the bags in the bath, my face flared hotter than their heat treatment. In heating your house to 60 degrees to kill the bugs, you are advised to move things that will melt or explode such as aerosols or candles or ‘hand held electrical items’.
This meant I’d taken the bottles of lube and my Doxy out of the bedside table reluctant to make bed bug hell more horrible or expensive by damaging that too. I’d bagged them up and put them in the bath to protect them but a rogue bed bug in the bathroom had led to the technicians having to take my Doxy out and check it before having to phone me to tell me this.
I’ve rarely had a more awkward phone call. Having got up early and done more by 9am than I usually manage in a day I wasn’t thinking when the guy started stuttering about opening the bag in the bathroom. Tiredness had me thinking it was the bag of facecloths I’d left to hot wash but the heat of embarrassment made me squirm inside when he practically whispered the words ‘personal toy’.
Two thoughts went through my head at this point. ‘Thank god I hid all the dildos in the garden’ and ‘thank god I never have to see you again’. I’ve heard ‘sluts never get cold’ but I was unprepared for the burning sensations in my cheeks and chest of knowing there were two complete strangers in my house holding my super powerful sex toy and seeing my sluttiest underwear and I had no idea what they were saying or thinking about it.
There is such a world of difference between the sexual image you portray to the outside world and style yourself as and the side people see by accident. I felt as awkward and obvious as the times someone has walked in on me fucking or seen me without invitation. If Sir had told me to leave the Doxy where it might have been spotted, I’d have felt no shame (even though I’d probably have declined due to workplace sexual harassment.)
But this inadvertent sneak peek into my sexual life left me surprisingly uncomfortable all day. When I went home, everything was packed neatly and without any sense of voyeurism but each detail made me wince. The giant jiggle balls in the same bag. The fact the lube is actually for anal play. The purse full of spare condoms long since not needed in a long term relationship. The Helmut Newton photos in the bathroom.
Your home hides and displays so much of you when you invite people into it and while mine paints an accurately slutty and sexual image of me, I also realised I don’t want that conveyed to strangers especially by accident. Like Loyd Grossman had gone through the X rated keyhole, I hoped I hadn’t just become pest control gossip.
But it did take my mind off the bed bugs. Especially when the company called to say they’d be sending the technician back in ten days to inspect the property and I realised I would have to stand face to face with him trying not to show my embarrassment and knowing there would be no point hiding anything now.
If I wanted to the bed bugs to die before now, I had an almost equal urge to curl up and die myself. Clearly I’ve met my slutty kryptonite in bed bugs and I need them gone if I am to regain my sexual superpowers…