The silliest thing an obese, sexually active man can put money into, is IKEA furniture.

The mattress had been with me long enough to see some of my most prideful conquests. The stains were proof of that. The lumps too. Each partner’s favorite stroke was practically etched into the face of the mattress. That spot was worn in for my knees when I’d bear down on top of them, pushing their legs back so I could thrust my cock as deep as possible. And these lovely indentations toward the bottom are from where their boots would mercilessly stomp the Swedish designed mattress amid fantasies of cowgirl dominance, clothes on, boots on, hair on, just doing whatever had to be done to milk that dick in a hurry.

Sure, when you’re in the store, and it’s all biopsied and diorama-ed for you to see what they would have you believe is the foundation of comfort, you see the culmination of matriculated wisdom put before you, the proud display of capitalist derivatives, this thesis of industrial design laid bare before you, sliced and diced the world over as some sort of logical beauty. They are certain the insides will inform your sleep well. It resembled something of a beautiful candy bar. A… um… uh… whatchamacallit.

But now all it resembled was a chewed up wad of Laffy Taffy. Is it even possible for something to look comfortable in the first place? Can rational hedonism exist when there is supposed to be a confluence of flesh and widgets? Fantasy versus production? Is there some mystical element to synesthesia I could think back to, standing in the store, in which the mathematical, erotic beauty of pocket coils and hardened foam spewed out of hot industrial indifference could supplement the pain I feel in my back as I lay in postcoital confusion in my bedroom, simply wondering, “What the fuck happened to my bed?”

Our bodies worked to create a topography within the mattress. My right thigh rested within its abyssal plain, while my left was beached on a shore of pillows. My head lay off the face of the earth, staring out into the exosphere. Lakes of scoria dotted the landscape, and many slags would follow.

I loathed through this whole length of ownership the idea of putting the feet on the foundation. It would be only a matter of time before the driven trance of hard fucking would make the metal forks twist with our passion. Every time I pushed my partner into the bed with their hands tied behind their back, each time I bent them over the mattress and laid into them from behind, each and every downward stroke to the tip of my cock just barely squeezed between their lips, every little stifle and twitch and juicy tremor was absorbed by these poor little legs. And as much as they loved CBT, carriage bolt torture, the strain would become too much. And after two of the legs gave way, I fucked on an angle for a week. It had the added challenge of simply trying to stay balanced.

Disemboweled, crippled, maimed. It was time to say goodbye to the IKEA mattress, the corpus delicti of my perversions.

But what the fuck happened to my bed? It died an honorable death.