Originally Posted: 2004-12-10 15:28 (no longer live)

An Open Letter to the Girl Upstairs (or, An Urban Eavesdropping Diary)

Hey neighbor! It’s me, the guy who lives one floor below you. We’ve traded brief hellos in the stairway or vestibule, but not much more than that. It’s kinda weird that even though our building is small, I still don’t even know which of the buzzer names is yours, but it's cool. Some people just like their privacy.

But not everything about you is private, and I just can’t stand it anymore. I’m too fucking curious not to ask: What the hell is up with your sex life?

Let’s face it, as humans, we’re all interested, in one way or another, with other people’s sex lives. There wouldn’t be celebrity gossip columns if we weren’t. I personally could give a rat’s ass about who Jennifer Garner’s been fucking, particularly since I’m almost certain that the guy she’s been fucking isn’t me. But I’m not about to say that I’m similarly incurious about the sex lives of people I actually come across in my daily life. I always walk around my office wondering who likes to get whipped with a riding crop, who gives the best blow jobs, and who’s favorite thing in the whole wide world is to have their wife pee on them. But there’s no way to prove or disprove my theories about people without actually asking them, and that’s just rude. I may be a perv, but I still have manners.

You, on the other hand, are a person about whom I can gather vast amounts sex-life intelligence quite easily, seeing as how your bed is located approximately ten feet above mine, separated only by your floor, which is also, conveniently, my ceiling. Even if I’d been completely disinterested in knowing what kind of sex life you have, it’d be nearly impossible to avoid knowing a good deal about what you like in bed.

At first, I was pretty sure you liked girls. I figured this out about two days after I moved in, when I heard the unmistakable sounds of sexual congress through the ceiling and determined that there were two different female voices, and no male voices, involved. And since no male voices ever materialized, I eventually concluded that you were a lesbian.

Before you say anything, let me make clear that I had absolutely no problem with this. Since I knowingly moved to Andersonville, I couldn’t very well claim surprise at the fact that lesbians lived in my building. And though I didn’t move to Andersonville with the express hope that I’d have the chance to regularly eavesdrop on randy lesbians, I wasn’t crushed to find so ready an outlet for my aural voyeurism. It was certainly better than the incredibly routine and uninspired Trixie-on-Chad hetero-fucking I’d heard through the walls of my old apartment in Wrigleyville. And, let’s face it, since I’m a guy, the sound of two women goin’ at it above me is undeniably arousing, even if you’re a real lesbian and not the kind of lipstick lesbian you see in porn who’s only all about pussy as a way to get off before some guy comes all over her face. The sounds a girl makes when she comes are just way prettier to listen to than some guy’s groaning, and you and your girlfriend doubled my pleasure in that regard.

So while I was happy to have a new set of sex-sounds to investigate--and, okay, fine, occasionally masturbate to while lying in bed--it wasn’t only the girl-sex that piqued my curiosity, it was the apparently prominent role that your vacuum cleaner, or some other mechanical device, played in your Sapphic encounters. That and the fact that you both seemed to rile yourselves up by chasing each other around the room, rearranging the furniture, or some combination of the two. Now, as a hetero guy, I don’t claim to know the first thing about lesbian arousal. The adolescent side of me hoped and prayed that you’d be turned on by the notion that I, having knocked on your door to borrow a cup of sugar, might join you both, but I knew that that couldn’t possibly be true. So I just assumed that you’d be turned on by the very same things that turn most people on--like, say, the sight of your partner naked, well-executed oral sex, the occasional dirty word, and so on.

But the vacuum cleaner?! What, I ask, the fuck was up with that?! Before I moved to the apartment below you, I would never have equated the vacuum cleaner with sexual arousal. Do dust bunnies turn you on? Was there some erotic use of the vacuum cleaner attachments for women that I had not previously considered? Was there some kind of bizarre role-playing going on up there, where your partner was the virtuous maid, whose vacuuming behind the dresser was interrupted by you, the amorous homeowner, who enjoyed chasing her about the room until she submitted to your will?! For nigh on to a month I laid awake in bed wondering exactly how in the hell the vacuum cleaner figured into your sexual congress. And I’m still baffled. But whatever the role, it sure seemed to work for you, as you panted and moaned and screamed your way to your at-least-thrice-weekly orgasms. And not just any orgasms, but big ones, climaxes that unmistakably broadcast your complete sexual satisfaction courtesy the good folks at Hoover.

Though puzzled, I was nonetheless happy for you in those first two months, when you and your vacuum-wielding girlfriend got it on pretty regularly. But then, it just stopped. No vacuum-cleaner sex, no furniture sliding across the floor, no orgasmic moaning and screaming. Instead, you spent your nights for most of the next months sobbing and crying. Actually, no, you weren’t just crying, you were WAILING, making the kinds of sorrowful sounds that I thought were only reserved for the untimely deaths of children from croup in 19th Century novels. You nearly screamed in anguish and again took to throwing the furniture around.

What, again I ask, the fuck was up with that?! It was pretty clear that your former lover was gone, and that her departure was the cause of your distress. But, while it was pretty clear you were into her, your solid month of outright keening was a bit much. You got over it, thankfully, and for most of the summer and fall, you were quiet as a church mouse. Sure I’d hear you poking around, but those were mostly ordinary sounds, the sounds anyone would make as they went about their daily life. I didn’t blame you for giving up on the sex for awhile--I myself was abstinent for more than a year after my fiancée dumped me.

But now I’m confused, neighbor. There’s definitely a man up there fucking you. A man with a deep voice and heavy feet, which led me away from my initial suspicion that you’d just found someone really butch, and towards the inevitable conclusion that you’ve given up on the girl-sex. Nope, that’s definitely been a man fucking you these last two weeks.

What, I ask for the third and final time, the fuck is up with that?! Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to hear you back in the game, but what the hell happened to the interesting girl-sex? Not only is this man fucking you NOT a girl, but he is neither chasing you around the room nor employing the vacuum cleaner to erotic ends. Instead, you and he seem to be engaged in the same kind of banal hetero-neighbor-sex that I was pleased to have escaped when I moved some 20 blocks north.

Based on the perfectly regular creaks of the ceiling, he seems to just pound away at you with the rhythmic precision of a metronome, all the while groaning and growling like a Kodiak bear. And what’s worse, you don’t seem to be enjoying him as much as you did your last lover. I’ve heard barely a peep out of you, a far cry from your earlier screams of orgasmic delight. Last night was the first time I heard anything even resembling a moan out of you and even that was barely a peep compared to the squeals of delight you made previously. And don’t tell me that I just can’t hear your moans because he groans so much; his basso profundo rumblings make eavesdropping on you a pain, yes, but if I could hear you squealing with delight over the vacuum cleaner, I should certainly be able to hear you over his huffing and puffing.

Please, neighbor, I can’t take it any more; inquiring minds want to know. What’s up with you? Was the lesbian thing just a fling? Given the apparent depth of your grief at losing her, I wouldn’t think so, but I just don’t know. Is this hetero thing for real, or are you making one last-ditch attempt to convince yourself you’re straight--and straightlaced--by letting some tool your mom set you up with fuck you? Should I start learning to sleep through you fucking him like I did with all the other hetero couples I lived below? And what the FUCK was up with the VACUUM CLEANER?!

I await your kind reply.

Apartment 1A

this is in or around Andersonville

post id: 51906018