In 34 years of being alive, I have had four roomates, a string of boyfriends, but only one live-in boyfriend.
I have to say that living with BB was the least romantic thing I have done with a man. The place was a wreck with just me and having two of us made it exponentially more disgusting. My socks everywhere was a problem but *whew* his socks were everywhere and they stank to high hell. He never did the laundry. He washed the dishes one time while he lived with me and flooded the kitchen doing it. He would ask me to feed him and then complain about what I cooked. He was a lovely cook who dirtied every dish and pan in the house and never cleaned up. He never paid for a single utility or contributed to the rent. He was extremely critical of me "for my own good, to help me grow as a person" and always went on about how all the girls at work wanted to have sex with him (he said that he was just being honest with me). There was not enough laughter or forgiveness to get us through this. Eventually he moved into his own place and broke up with me so that he could start having coffee (and sex) with these fascinating women.
There were moments when we were in bed and the cat was curled between us that it felt like domestic bliss. Like something beautiful that we shared. But mostly it sucked.
My Guy and I are planning to move in together at the end of the summer and the echoes of my past are making it hard to look to the future. Now that we have agreed that this is going to happen I am having flashbacks to bad old days. It has been many years since I last tried to live with love and I am a little scared about it. I want it to be a good thing. We have a different chemistry and a different relationship. I think it will be a good thing. I guess, mostly, I don't want it to be the new least romantic thing that I have done with a man.