Thomas Pitilli
Not next door, it turned out, but on top of, a somewhat horrifying discovery I made one morning soon thereafter when I woke to rapid-fire male grunts echoing up from the floor and through our mattress. Ben and I knew who they were—we’d seen them heading in and out of apartment 2C—and frankly, we were surprised. They were average. Dumpy even. Both looked to be in their mid-forties—she was a disheveled Asian woman, and he was a squat, bearded blond guy. In short, not the kind of people we’d necessarily expected to have a rollicking sex life.
At first we were riveted.What could they be doing? we wondered. Was that even a human noise? “Hit the decks!” we’d yell when one of us heard them starting to get down, and we’d splay ourselves on the floor, our ears pressed to the boards:
“What are you wearing baby?”
“My cowboy outfit, you like?”
“I love. You are a big, big boy. Will you lick my—.”
It was, in a word, delicious. Ben and I would lie on the floor together laughing with such gusto that one of us would invariably begin to snort and we’d jump up, worried we’d been heard.
Soon, however, our laughter gave way to something else. It was a total turn on. Ben and I had been in the midst of a mini-drought before our new neighbors moved in—after five years together, we were having sex maybe once or twice a week. But these people were doing it every night. And with brio! As soon as we heard them, we wanted in. It didn’t matter if I had on my pimple cream or Ben was popping antacids. Thirty seconds of eavesdropping and it was on.
Our enthusiasm only lasted a handful of romps until we realized that, while free porn was fun, we were seriously out of our league. Turns out, there’s nothing quite so deflating as having fought your way to what you thought was a highly satisfactory climax only to realize your neighbors are only just getting started.
After a few weeks of being non-stop outsexed we were pissed. “Who can even deal with this profanity?” I’d whine to Ben. “I’m from Connecticut.” We decided to convey our resentment WASP-style:We wrote a letter: Dear 2C,it began. While we respect your right to a love life, we ask that you please keep the volume to a reasonable level. It has become disruptive and has made having guests over an embarrassing ordeal.Thank you.We stuck it in an envelope that I labeled Dear Neighbors and decorated with a smiley face. It sat on our kitchen table for weeks. “You do it,” I’d say to Ben as he was leaving the apartment.“Not on your life,” he’d fire back. Frustrated as we were, neither of us, it appeared, had the courage to drop it off. It just seemed so uncool.
Turns out, we didn't have to. About a week passed before we realized that our nights (and Saturday mornings around 10 a.m.) had suddenly become a whole lot quieter. The sex screaming had stopped.We kept our ears open. Nada. A few nights later our neighbors started up again, but all we could hear were faint whimpers, not the non-stop screams from the days of yore. Sessions were significantly shorter, too: 20 minutes rather than the superhuman two-hour affairs we’d come to expect.
What had happened? we wondered. Had they fallen ill? Broken up? Had someone actually complained? After much conjecture about what was behind the lull, we eventually agreed that most likely, it was because our neighbors were just like us. Their sexual relationship, like ours, had cooled with time. The sex they were having was probably still good, but it also sounded, well, routine. We were, Ben and I admitted, surprisingly disappointed. 2C’s sexual antics had been infuriating but they’d also been contagious and inspiring. Knowing that you could be short, plain and presumably monogamous and still have a raucous sex life had given us hope. As a tall, plain pair planning to be together for a long time, it was a refreshing reminder of all the fun we could have.The cooling of their ardor felt like a loss for coupledom at large.
These days, we’re actually hoping that they’ll bring back the loud sex. So much so that every once in a while after I’ve had a glass too many, I'll let out a few moans and stomp my feet, even if Ben and I are just sitting on the couch or fussing with dinner. I guess I’m hoping that I’ll light a fire under them the way they once lit a fire under us.We haven’t heard anything yet, but we’re staying optimistic. So if you’re reading this, 2C, we haven’t given up. We’re upstairs, waiting.
Catherine Pearson is an editor and freelance writer. She lives in Brooklyn.
EMAIL SUBMISSIONS TO EDITORIAL@NYPRESS.COM
