The only good thing about southern California’s “June gloom” weather is that cloudy mornings are great for sleeping in. But even during this time of year, I’ll sometimes wake up too early or go through spells of sleeplessness. The other night, I lay awake for hours with a lame song stuck in my head and even lamer ideas about what I should write for this column. My memory foam mattress was sinking in all the wrong places, and I had to switch between four different pillows before I finally fell asleep. And this past weekend, I stayed at a friend’s new house in Palm Springs, where I was kept awake by trucks on the busy road outside. My usual sleep-aid of melatonin didn’t seem to work, so at 2 a.m. I poured myself a half-bottle of cheap wine. That did the trick, at least until 7 a.m.

Some people can get by on five to six hours of sleep, but not me. I need my seven to eight hours, which is the recommended amount of beauty sleep for middle-aged gay males who want to look like they’re 10 years younger. Eighty percent of the time, I get enough sleep and I do all of the right things for sleeping well, like exercising daily but not too late, avoiding liquids at night, not smoking, and not watching TV or porn in bed.

Ironically, the 20 percent of the time that I don’t sleep is always when I want to look good the next day – usually for coffee dates or dinner dates. The hotter my date might be, the more I’ll lie awake feeling anxious, and the next day I’ll end up with raccoon eyes. Thank God for eye makeup, because without it, my dates would all think I’m a sleep-deprived drug addict.

I’ve always been a light sleeper, and as a freshman in college I became dependent on earplugs. Without my trusty “pluggers,” my requisite beauty sleep would suffer from some unholy combination of loud roommates, noisy neighbors, barking dogs, squawking birds, planes, helicopters, trucks, or sirens. Last year I even woke up each morning to the sound of a very loud cock. A neighboring family decided that a rooster would make a great pet, and it crowed daily until animal control took it or until the family ate it – I’m not sure which.

Even my top-of-the-line, 32-decibel blocking earplugs don’t help when there’s a rooster next door, or when someone is sleeping next to me and snores loudly, tosses and turns, steals the sheets or slowly pushes me to the edge of the bed. So with that many potential obstacles to a good night’s beauty sleep, I’ve recently chosen sleep over men. I won’t sleep with dates until I’m serious about them, and then only on weekends. When I have out-of-town guests I’ll give them my bed, and I’ll sleep on an air mattress or the sofa.

Some people say that sex or masturbation promotes sleep, and I’ve done some extensive hands-on research to see if that’s true. Unfortunately, for me it doesn’t always work. Maybe I’m a prude, but some nights I’d rather just curl up with a good book.

I’ve also tried meditating to fall asleep, just without saying the “ohms.” Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t. If I just became a monk I’m sure I’d become a master at meditating, but giving up beer and sex doesn’t seem worth it.

One of my friends suggested I could learn to fall asleep through hypnotherapy, but I really doubt it. I did once meet a cute guy online who works as a stage-show hypnotist, and he would have been perfect to date because after our nightly sex, he would be able to hypnotize me to sleep. But on the downside, if he ever got mad at me he could put me to sleep in front of my friends and make me do embarrassing things like strip naked and make out with a tree. I didn’t date him after all.

At least I don’t suffer from narcolepsy or sleepwalking. The last thing I’d want is to do things in my sleep I might regret, like hookup on A4A with a random guy, get an STD, then sleep-drive to a 7-11 where I demand a giant lime slurpee and all of the cash in the register, get arrested, and end up on TV with green slurpee lips, cock-breath, and bed-head hair. And the next week, I’d see all of these sordid details splashed across the Gay and Lesbian Times.

In 25 years or so, I suppose my occasional sleeplessness won’t be a problem. By then I’ll live in a quiet home somewhere far from civilization, and I’ll be too old to get any hot dates. If I have a husband by then, I’ll have a king-sized bed… and an extra comfy sofa, just in case.