I’ve gone to bed with a lot of different men recently. Oh yes I have. But BDH knows about it, and he’s okay with it.
For the past week, I’ve cuddled up in bed with Rupert. Oh, sure, he’s beautiful, but don’t let that pretty exterior fool you — he has some substance too. He’s saucy, he likes to gossip — but he’s got that romantic tone and that devil-may-care attitude that I just love. He tells a story very well. Sure he’s a big queen — but I don’t mind. I’ll spend a few more evenings with him this week, I am sure.
Then there’s The Doctor. The Ninth Doctor. MY Doctor. He’s good for a little light bedtime entertainment every now and then. Full of angst and drama. Always getting involved with trouble. And he’s got that — CONNECTION — with Rose. (Oh, she’s all right.) But I love that he’s passionate and brilliant, and he likes saving the world. He’s got that knight-in-shining-armor thing going on, which is irresistible. I may have to go to bed with The Doctor again sometime.
A few weeks ago, it was Sidney. Classy. Elegant. He’s a man who knows his own mind. And he’s just done so much and had such an interesting life. Curling up in bed with him makes you think you’ll learn something by the end.
But it’s not always so wonderful, going to bed with these famous men.
I went to bed with U2 a month or two back. They were pleasant and interesting enough, don’t get me wrong. But OY — HEAVY! And big, too. Hardly any room for me in the bed. And that Bono guy sure can talk.