LISTEN UP.

 

I have been fighting a cold for what seems like the past month, and it has been—as you can imagine—a pretty amazing experience. Being sick has so many perks: the morning phlegm explosions, runny nose/impending nosebleeds, and fledgling addiction to Theraflu are definitely starting to grow on me.

 

But the very best thing about being sick (besides my sexy Joan Rivers voice) is that I wake up every night at 2 am to an emphysematous coughing fit. Needless to say, I haven’t been getting many zzz’s these past few weeks.

 

So the other night, in an attempt to quell the cold and nix the cough, I climbed into bed early, shoved a menthol cough drop in my mouth, and propped my head up on some pillows (to aid the flow of nasal drip). With the soothing words of Deepak Chopra in front of me, I finally relaxed. But then, just as I was about to drift into a Vicks-and-karma-induced slumber, I heard it: the unmistakable sound of sex.

 

It was coming from an apartment across the alley, and the girl’s whimpers were bouncing off the brick walls like bullets off the Terminator. As I turned on the light and struggled to close my window, I thought, Here we go again. 

 

You see, I am no stranger to the sound of other people’s sex. When I lived in L.A. back in ‘07, my neighbor across the alley had a similar problem keeping her mouth shut (in more ways than one). Although another neighbor later told me that the vociferous culprit was actually “a petite blonde in her 20’s,” this lady sounded like Fran Drescher in the middle of a sex change. She would breathe, and I could hear her. It was as if she had a megaphone strapped to her larynx.

 

Without even having to fully open my window, I found out that she and her forty-something Filipino boyfriend Carl had recently moved from Ohio so that she could pursue her “acting” career, that she was resentful about her financial dependence on men, and that she was going to be famous someday. I also learned that she was a stripper by night, and that Carl rode a Ducati.

 

Every day that summer was like a fresh audio installment of Jerry Springer. Some days she’d talk to her mouse-voiced girlfriend about how she was going to leave Carl or, better yet, kick him out. She dished about her struggles finding an agent, her botched auditions, and the coke whores at the club (it was debatable whether or not she was one of them). Sometimes Carl would even make an entrance— often resulting in an emasculation crusade that lasted, I dunno, three hours. One day the police were even called because she wouldn’t shut up about his unsatisfying “member.”

 

But at night, it was a different story.  Whatever differences this couple had during the day apparently fell to the wayside when the sun went down. An argument could have been boiling for four hours straight, but as soon as the crickets started chirping, they got to it like jackrabbits in the hay. Whereas the couple above me “made love” occasionally, Carl and the chick across the alley bumped uglies every night, if not more. It was, in one word, unacceptable.

 

I say this not because I have an aversion to sex– in fact, it is quite the contrary. I am all for some good loving, whether it’s happening to me or to other people. A healthy sex life is the key to a healthy relationship. Even geriatric Dr. Ruth can tell you that.

 

But this couple was different. They did not have a healthy relationship, so the frequency and kind of sex they had were obviously trying to make up for it. Unfortunately, the rest of the apartment complex had to listen to them make up for it, too. The sound of skin-to-skin slapping and the low grumbles that emanated from that woman were hair-raising. She’d always say the same thing– “Yeah, yeah, yeah” (so original). It was like listening to a lawnmower choke on a rodent. Carl always remained silent, probably because he didn’t want to hear her talk any more than he had to. I’d shut my windows tight, but there was just no escaping them: they would have one long round, take a break, then go right back for more. Carl and his loudmouthed lover were going to get jiggy whether I liked it or not.

 

Since all calls to the apartment management and police proved fruitless, I invested in earplugs and tried to stay at friends’ places whenever possible. It wasn’t until a few months later, when Carl finally asserted his masculinity in a 3 am shouting match (his voice was actually quite manly), that the stentorian sexy time stopped. He sped off on his purple Ducati, and was never heard from again. Much to my elation, neither was she.

 

The other night’s lovers weren’t nearly as bad as Carl and the wench, but I was worried for a moment that they would be. This new girl sounded vaguely like a dying cat, and her guy was huffing like Kirstie Alley on a treadmill. Lucky for me, it lasted less than ten minutes. Not lucky for her, it lasted less than ten minutes.

 

But they aren’t the only ones hanging their laundry out to dry. There’s also the guy a couple of floors below them who climaxes with Fox Sports; the “film students” a few apartments over who have had some interesting “film shoots,” and the broad on the third floor who a) thinks that posting 11×14 photos haphazardly on her bathroom window can somehow take the place of a full-blown curtain, b) likes to loiter at her laptop next to said bathroom window naked, and c) plays with her boobs in front of the mirror almost daily (Breast exams? Nipple fetish? Fun with implants? It’s hard to tell).

 

People seem to forget—whether they are in their own apartments or on Facebook—that these days, someone somewhere is likely paying attention. I’m not a voyeur, but if someone flashes their junk in my face, I have no choice but to look. It seems that we have entered into an age of discretion deficit, and I, unfortunately (or fortunately?) am reaping the fruits of the loom. Either way, I’m sure there will be more to come.

 

Literally.