Flat dwelling requires extreme – note to self – extreme tolerance, urban understanding – biting of the tongue stuff. Be cordial, nod your head in the elevators and condone the odd ‘partythingy’ in the spirit of combined humanity in the square that is our home.
But I am exhausted. Weary, jittery, overwrought and exhausted; and it is time for the letter on the communal notice board in the 60’s hallway. I am all shagged out. Surrounded by shaggers to the left of me and shaggers above. Surround sound shagging. Before you condemn me as prude, let me stop you right there. Ain’t so, but for the love of sanity, the love machines in action are relentless.
My least favourite I guess is the Sunday morning special. I like to lie in a little, read the dailies with a strong espresso, and then the grunting begins. The grunting builds and I am in a threesome, sometimes orgy of grunting and begging, and sex talk and then I wait … as do all the other tenants in the building … we wait, oh yeah, oh for the love of God get it over with.
Remember the scene in ‘Sex and the City 2’ when Carrie and Big are at the wedding weekend, in the hotel with Samantha screaming to the heavens in the other room and baby yelling in the other – well, gives you an idea. Only this is our home so, not fair.
Does one simply bang on the wall, or the door and say ‘Excuse me, but your sex noises are a tad too loud?’ What are the rules on this occasion? Last one to begrudge amour when one can find it, but it’s kind of putting me off the subject.
Then I have to giggle at the thought of all of us in the building, planning and doing it so as not to alert the neighbours, having to think of someone else in the throes of passion rather than those in the bed; the couple downstairs must be aware for the music goes up a notch or two, but soon the ‘ la passion’ is in a dual with the notes.
Can one claim sick leave for lack of sleep due to second hand sex?
Putting the notice up and hoping the request will not backfire into a full one audio onslaught.