Many years ago, I lived with a guy in a guesthouse on a big estate. I won't say how long ago, but the fact that we had a waterbed should give you a clue.
We liked our bed. It was heated, had padded side rails and a beautiful handmade quilt on top given to him by his grandmother. I have two, very vivid memories about this bed.
The first happened around the holidays, when this particular gentleman and I were having problems. On the verge of a breakup, actually. We went to a Christmas party thrown by my employer, and I proceeded to get totally blitzed on scotch. Yeah! Me! Only 20-something, swigging the hardstuff like it was water. I ended up on the restaurant's bathroom floor inside a locked stall. A girlfriend crawled under and dragged me out.
Somehow, my guy loaded me into the back of someone's van and took me home. I lay on that damned waterbed for two and a half days, sicker than all get out. It's a wonder I didn't die from all that alcohol poisoning. And if I moved, even the slightest muscle, that bed would swish and roll and amplify my nausea tenfold. Great memory, huh?
The other thing I remember is sex and tsunamis. Ever had sex on a non-baffled waterbed? (Baffled has nothing to do with confusion; it's just a waterbed construction with lots of "walls" inside to help control movement of water.) This was a big old bag of water. The rhythm of intimacy really got the waves going, and with them, the sound. Waterbeds, you understand, have to be "burped" periodically to get out the small bubbles that form. An unburped bed can be, well, quite noisy. I think that's enough of a visual for now.
Today, my noisy-sex-bugaboo is the electric blanket controllers that hang on the corners of the headboard. Must tether those suckers down somehow before someone takes a fatal blow to the head.