|Not a portrait of the author.|
I've never had to share a bed -- although I do from time to time -- and I've always taken steps to ensure I've never had to. As a (only) child, I had a bed all to myself (when the monsters weren't out; then it was bunking with Mom and Dad).
Whenever friends stayed over, I let them fight over my bed. I slept on the floor or in the closet. (No bullshit -- LOL.)
My peeps and I used to journey to New Orleans religiously, either for Mardi Gras or the Bayou Classic. One time we rolled out there eight deep, as I recall. While the others were drawing lots to see who'd get to sleep "butt to dang-dang" in the motel room's two beds, I was checking to see if the bathtub was clean enough that I wouldn't wake up with a rash.
That's right: I'll do anything to sleep solo.
Sleeping with a woman -- not as a euphemism but as genuine R&R -- is damn uncomfortable. If she wants me to be all up on her (spoon), I'm the one that has to wrap myself around her like a parenthesis. My arm will fall asleep long before I do and I'll be breathing in hair until morning.
I like to switch pillows, too -- 'cause I can.
As a man of not-eighteen-anymore, I need my rest. Eight hours, if I can swing it. I change positions at least five times before nodding off; last thing I need is someone doing their rotations right after. My pillows ... my sheets ... my blankie-wankie.
[Postscript: I sleep in the prone position; it's not as bitch as it sounds.]