What is my space?

I have a bedroom that technically nobody is allowed to enter without invitation.

My bedside tables are these two huge speakers that I scored at a garage sale for ten dollars years ago. I've dragged them from house to house where they've been used as shelves, plant stands and only once before now as their actual intent. I've hooked them up and finally they serve as speakers as well as bedside tables - they're such a me thing. And loud! Hell yes. I can shut myself in there and the entire room becomes my theatre.

The bed is covered in a sheet set that I am still coming to grips with the girliness of. It's pretty, but... I just want suave. Dark sheets to set off the wood grain in the bedhead. However the pretty silken set is a light blue with cool copper and silver embroidery which I kind of like on some level. They're just not suave. I want to wrap myself in dark sheets and pillows rather than these ones that I blend with and pale between.

I have candles lining the top of the bedhead and bedside tables. Actually not the entire way across the bedhead - because I like to light them and sit there and read by the candlelight. It's not a particularly good idea to have your head near a flame when you're trying to relax, so I don't have them on my side.

I tried to set this room up to be a den of sensuality. An extension of myself where I felt comfortable, sexy and confident. And the fact is, I'm beginning to hate this space. It represents a failure to the intent. I bought a new bed to fit it. Since that purchase I have not had sex in my room at all. In fact I can count on one hand the number of times I've had sex in this house and still have fingers left over.

No, sex is not everything. But my bedroom feels like a complete and utter failure. It isn't a space I enjoy. In fact I'm hating my entire house. I can't keep on top of the cleaning. The kitchen is a bitch and the bathroom is not a place I want to spend any time. My studio is a box that barely fits me and my instruments let alone the flow of students that occupy it part time.

I need my own space. My own confident space. An entire house of it.
A room with a view of the city.
My guitars in my loungeroom with no worry of a drunken thoughtless idiot destroying them.
Leftovers for days on end, because I always cook too much.
Walking around with no top on, because I love to.
My art on the walls.
Music to wake up to in the morning.
Practising one bar for hours on end without guilt.
A place where I could spend time with someone I want to and not have the rest of the world talking about it, or wanting to be part of it.
My space.