I’m sitting in a sumptuous double bed propped up against three pillows at the Dream Hotel in midtown Manhattan, reveling in the decadence of the mattress, linens and air conditioning as I write this. I took a little “staycation” to get some peace and quiet and escape the summer heat wave, and got to play tourist, watch Mad Men and feel like I could pretty much live between the layers of fluffy white warmth of this bed.

This is not how I usually sleep, which, lately, has been poorly, as I stretch out on the floor directly in front of my dirty fan, trying desperately to get as much coolness as I can. I’ve learned to ignore the whir of the fan as sleep beckons me.

What does this have to do with sex? A lot, actually, because for the last three years, at least, I have only let one lover inside my apartment, and that was for less than an hour. Partly, I’ve done that because it’s been a mess (to put it mildly), but also, I wouldn’t have anywhere for us to go, save for my couch, which is now my default bed (when I’m not sleeping on the floor). I have a two-bedroom apartment—after years of roommates, at 30, I decided I needed to live alone—one has a double bed, one a single. Both are fine for me, but neither accommodate two people. The double has clothes piled all over it, and the single is creaky and tilted.

My ex-girlfriend and I were able to sleep on the single, because she was very small, but there’s no way someone my size or larger would fit on it unless one of us was lying directly atop the other, which is okay for sex—less so, for sleeping.

As I prepare to buy the first bed I’ve ever purchased (along with a working air conditioner!), I’m a little nervous, and not because I don’t know if I should get a platform bed or a green bed or what. I’m nervous because I’m not sure I’m quite ready to invite someone to share my bed with me. My body, yes, but my bed is a different story. Sleeping next to someone can be, in so many ways, much more intimate than sleeping with them.

Part of why my last relationship ended, as far as I can tell, is because I never invited my ex over. While I had no idea until he sprung that on me that he wanted to see my place, even if it had been in a pristine state, I’m not sure I want a lover invading my home of 10 years, a space I’ve come to think of as exclusively mine. The fact is, I like going to other people’s apartments, getting to be a voyeur and only having to show them the side of me I choose.

When I was dating a guy who lived in San Francisco, one of numerous long distance relationships I’ve been in, mostly I traveled there, or we went to Los Angeles, Austin or Seattle. But for one week, he came to New York, and we bounced from friend’s places to hotels, including a stint in double beds at what was basically an elevated hostel. I see now that the inconvenience of constantly moving was probably draining, and I missed out on some bonding with him by not letting him into my home.
What probably makes me a hypocrite, is that when someone refuses to let me into their place, or expresses hesitation, I become skeptical. Thankfully, that’s a rarity, and because it’s more convenient to be in your own home with access to your clothes and belonging, most people I’ve dated don’t mind.

You can learn a lot about someone when you go to their home that you’d never find out on a date, from how they decorate their walls, whether there are dishes in the sink, what kind of bed they have (and how/if they make it)—and if their sex toy collection is worth coveting. I like finding out those things about a new lover.

For a one-night stand, it’s not that big a deal, but when I’m seeing someone, I like the ritual of learning about them through their home. I’ve seen how lovers interact with neighbors, iron in the morning, have only dry cereal in the house, and glimpsed at photos of their exes. I like spending the night somewhere new and walking around a neighborhood the next morning that isn’t mine—almost as if I’ve borrowed theirs.

I’ve gotten to know Sutton Place, the Lower East Side, Greenpoint and other areas, and what interests me most is seeing each neighborhood through someone else’s eyes, getting a bead on why they do or don’t like their little nook of New York City.

Shopping for a bed makes me wonder how long I’ll own it, and who will wind up joining me in it. It’s a big purchase, literally, financially and emotionally. It marks a break from who I was in my devil-may-care mid-twenties, when I’d stay out almost all night and rush home at 7 a.m. to change, to the me who is delighted when her calendar is pleasantly blank. I want my bed to reflect that.

I don’t want to bring home someone I’m not serious about, because once we fool around in my new bed, I’ll always remember that. I’m sure it’s a little naïve, but there’s a part of me that hopes I’ll take whatever bed I buy with me when I leave my apartment and move in with the person I’ve shared it with.

Mostly, I hate change. I’m a creature of habit. I eat pretty much the same breakfast every day (two eggs on whole wheat), go to a lot of the same events, have lived in my apartment for 10 years. Yet as I approach 35, I see that clinging to the old isn’t a great strategy for moving on. I want my bed and my home to be welcoming, because if I never let anyone into them, I’m never fully going to share my life with them and let them see the real me.

I haven’t decided yet which exact bed I want (though if I ever win the lottery, I will make room for one of these amazing bondage beds), and the truth is, all the details—firm, soft, headboard, box spring—bore me. It’s what the bed represents in my life that looms large.

Even the prospect of moving from my cozy living room, where I’ve become ensconced, back into my old bedroom full of memories, is daunting. Part of me wishes I could move to a new home and truly start over, but that’s not in the cards right now, and ultimately would feel like running away. Whoever winds up sharing my new bed in the long-term has to be someone who can handle me and all my quirks, even as I strive to improve.