They may be neutered, but that doesn't make them less possessive dicks.
I should have known the moment I looked into his furious golden eyes that he would be my undoing. Instead, I think I just went "daaaaaaw" and ruffled his head to make him look extra angry.
Thus began the longest sustained relationship I've had with any man who isn't a family member. His name is Rumi, and he's my cat.
While he looks perpetually on the verge of cussing you out and/or talking to you about the dangers of diabetes (Wilfred Brimley joke, topical!), a sweeter cat you're reluctant to find. His preferred mode of sleep is with as much of his person wrapped around my head as possible. If he wants to be cuddled (and he often does) he will repeatedly poke me until I cave.
Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night to find him watching me and, while I know it's because he's trying to figure out if I'm dead and if it would be OK to eat me, I'm just enough of a romantic to pretend to myself that he's gazing at me with pure, rapturous love.
As far as my romantic life is concerned, Rumi has maintained a species-appropriate ambivalence. If there was a dude in my bed, Rumi wasn't in my bed. That all changed when Batman came along. (To be clear, I'm sadly not dating Batman. That moniker has been bestowed upon the hyperactive ball of black fur I adopted two years ago. The plan was for Batman to keep Rumi company, and, when the unspeakable happens, to keep me company in Rumi's absence.)
That's exactly how it's worked out, with one additional and unappreciated catch. Together they have decided to destroy my sex life. While both cats are neutered, they are still male, and as such make excessive demands upon my personal time and space.
When I was dating The Painter and we were hooking up for the first time, his fumblings with the condom beneath the blankets enticed Batman to pounce upon his erect dong. And so it was: my angry cat got some before I did.
In my relationship with The Comedian, the cats went for bio-chemical warfare instead of a full-frontal attack. My partner was highly allergic to cats, making overnights nearly impossible. As I lay in bed, horny and annoyed, the cats took up residence on either side of my face, purring contentedly. The bastards.
As Rumi has gotten older he has less time for my romantic escapades and Batman's bad toddler behavior only encourages him. I'm currently dating someone. Sometimes we're at his place, and sometimes we're at mine. When we're at mine, we're subjected to passive-aggressive glowering, which I can cope with just fine. It's what happens when we're at his that I cannot abide.
Should I DARE to spend the night in a bed with someone other than my cuddly, farting, furry duo, I will be greeted with a neat pile of sh*t in the middle of my bed upon my return. Once, it was on my pillow.
I know Rumi's the culprit because he's a Persian, and as such, he's got long ass hair. Things get stuck in it. Horrible things. Fecal things. Unfortunately, Batman only makes the situation worse. Cats being naturally fastidious, he will attempt to bury said poop. But since my bed isn't a litterbox, this normally just leads to spreading the poop around, or, on one particularly traumatizing occasion, getting it all over my doorknob.
I don't know what the future holds. Maybe my cats will make peace with the fact that I'm a sexually-empowered woman with needs. The odds of this don't seem likely. I'm currently researching chastity belts and/or plastic tarps.