One of my standing house rules is that at home, I’m usually naked. Well… mostly naked. She prefers I at least wear underwear.

Apparently fully bare on the couch is “gross.” Her word. Not mine.

To be fair, she has a point. Furniture is expensive. Also, I tend to sprawl.

The funny part is she’s the one who buys my underwear. And it’s never the boring stuff I would grab for myself. No plain cotton multipacks. No sad gray boxer briefs. It’s lace. Silk. Straps. Low-rise little numbers that make me feel like I lost a bet and won at the same time.

She likes me dressed that way. Says it looks better. Says it frames things properly. Says if I’m going to lounge around like a pet, I might as well look decorative.

So that’s my compromise. Naked everywhere else, but when I sit on her furniture, I’m in whatever ridiculous, sexy, expensive underwear she’s decided fits the vibe that week.

Honestly? I don’t hate it.

It’s a weird little power move. I don’t even buy my own underwear anymore. I just wait for her to toss something new on the bed and say, “Try this on.”

And yeah. She’s right.

Totally naked on the couch probably is kinda gross.