Thursday, November 24, 2005
Fuck Proudly, friends: Fuck Loudly
by David Berry
It comes in the night. Actually, it comes in the afternoon, too. And once, it came on Saturday morning. It is the haunting, incessant creaking sound that emanates from my neighbour's place.
Now, this is no normal creaking sound. It is a continuous—for a little while, anyway—steady, unrelenting, focused creaking sound. It is usually accompanied by the sound of solid wood bumping up against the bedroom wall that we share. It is the sound of passion, of our true purpose; it is the sound an old bed makes when two people are having sex on it, probably in the missionary position.
To be clear here, the sound itself isn't really so much of a problem. Living in an apartment building, which is more or less a shared space, I'm perfectly fine with odd noises coming from my neighbour’s places, even noises I'd normally expect to have to pay to hear. No, the creaking is fine. The problem is that nothing else ever accompanies the creaking.
See, it's quite obvious that there is sex going on. Very steady, almost rhythmic sex; the type of sex you could probably use as a metronome, if I could fit a baby grand into my bachelor suite. But, besides the bed and its enchanting creak/thump thing, there are no other audible signs of sex. There is no moaning, there is no sighing, there are no sweet nothings being yelled into ears, and there certainly aren't any orgasm-induced guttural screams being produced. These people, my neighbours, are having some seriously quiet sex. And that bothers me.
Now, look, I'm by no means an authority on how one should be having sex, but I do know that, generally speaking, one can expect some noise — some louder-than-average noise — at least some point in the general process. I mean, if I ever get to have sex with somebody who's conscious, I'm fairly certain there will at least be a bit of grunting, if not some screams of pain, or a "No, you're doing it wrong!" here or there. It just seems like there ought to be.
But no: these two barely utter a peep. Which makes me feel a little guilty. I assume, of course, that they're dancing this mime-esque tango of love because they believe the people who share the building with them would find it somewhat uncouth to hear "I want to shoot it all over you!" in a gruff, musk-soaked voice at 1am on a Tuesday. This makes me a party to what I can only assume is fairly unsatisfying sex, and I want absolutely no part in it - I spend enough time and effort leaving my own sexual partners unsatisfied, thank you very much, and I'll be damned if I'm going to start spreading the un-love like some sort of viral spore.
So, to my neighbours, and to all of you, I say this: get out there and make some loud goddamned love.
I mean, back when you lived with your parents, it was understandable why you'd want to keep it down; no one wants to be yelling, "Who's your daddy?" while your actual daddy is sitting in the other room watching Law & Order and wondering why his daughter left her bra in the living room.
But in the adult world, people should expect - nay, welcome - the occasional erotic moan, the sound of testes slapping against thighs, the foundation-shaking scream of the satisfied lover. They should cherish it a little as proof that, despite all the pain, and despair, and misery in the world, there is still love, still someone out there willing to try a little spanking once in a while, or tell their lover exactly where and how hard they want "it" put. It's a beautiful thing, and it should be shared with all mankind.
And, I mean, besides that, do you have any idea how hard it is to masturbate with that unending fucking creaking? If you're going to disturb my "me" time, you might at least contribute a little something. Otherwise, it's just plain inconsiderate.
Posted by Doreen at 2:46 pm