Up on the housetop, squeak, squeak, squeak.
It's almost Christmas, so what better time than now to discuss the neighbors' boinking again?
Last night, the eve of Christmas Eve, my neighbors were in exceptional form, at least if the incessant and prolonged (as in more than five minutes) squeaking of the bed may be considered any indication of quality. I was just about to turn in myself, but then, upon hearing the tell-tale tattoo of love's labors, decided to return to my TV set and enjoy Meredith Baxter Birney shooting her lover in the head for the holidays on the Lifetime Network.
Sorry . . . my rich fantasy life at play . . . the movie had far less gunplay than that. Dammit.
Speaking of rich fantasy lives, I do have quite a wealthy one, but it is in no way augmented, encouraged, or satisfied by the shenanigans above my head. First of all, if I were interested in anyone in this pairing, it would me the male, uh, member, and he is very much a silent partner in this entanglement, saving all of his vocalizing for daytime hours when he's yelling at the kids.
Plus he is not my type--and pretty much everyone is my type--but then again, I, a cranky, bald, 50-year-old who has apparently become a very light sleeper, is probably not his type either.
But there are other reasons for me not to be engaged by the pairing upstairs.
Let's talk technique for a moment: I am spared any evidence of foreplay. Or perhaps there just is none? I cannot discern. Nor am I particularly keen to, I hasten to add. But the discovery of another man who lacks a sense of fun and foreplay always producing a sense of disappointment and mourning in my heart.
To ensure marital happiness, I might play Secret Santa and place a coupon for 50% off at Adam and Eve or some other online "marital aids" shoppers' paradise. But, let's face it: I don't want to foster more marital happiness. I'm not sure my delicate nature can handle that.
Plus I fear that if a vibrator became involved in the lusty labors, it would sound like a hydraulic jackhammer blasting through my ceiling.
So no.
But I digress . . .
Back to technique. Lack of a proper appetizer aside, we move on to the main course, which consists of some very rapid-fire bed-squeaking, intensely accomplished (I'll grant you that, dear couple) for five to ten minutes. This is occasionally accompanied by additional acoustical warbling in the contralto range, but nothing too excessive or even interesting. There are children and pets sleeping nearby, after all. Not to mention wide-awake neighbors.
After about five to ten minutes of beat-the-clock squeaking and then everything comes . . . to an abrupt and quiet end, which is accomplished (if one could label it that) without warning or arpeggio. This sudden end is immediately followed by the shower being turned on in the bathroom. After a few minutes of showering, both parties are reunited in the marriage bed, where, depending on the hour, the machine gun-like ratatatat of bed-squeaking may or may not resume.
The only persons in our world who must get a good night's rest are children and pets because none of those creatures ever stirs when the 'rents get freaky upstairs. No, all is calm, all is bright, except directly above my head. The sound-proofing between rooms is obviously exceptional. Between floors? Not so much.
I'm dreading tonight, Christmas Eve, and, good god no, New Year's Even is just around the corner.
Not sure sound-proofing will fit in a stocking, Santa, but new earplugs or noise-canceling headphones most definitely will.
It's almost Christmas, so what better time than now to discuss the neighbors' boinking again?
Last night, the eve of Christmas Eve, my neighbors were in exceptional form, at least if the incessant and prolonged (as in more than five minutes) squeaking of the bed may be considered any indication of quality. I was just about to turn in myself, but then, upon hearing the tell-tale tattoo of love's labors, decided to return to my TV set and enjoy Meredith Baxter Birney shooting her lover in the head for the holidays on the Lifetime Network.
Sorry . . . my rich fantasy life at play . . . the movie had far less gunplay than that. Dammit.
Speaking of rich fantasy lives, I do have quite a wealthy one, but it is in no way augmented, encouraged, or satisfied by the shenanigans above my head. First of all, if I were interested in anyone in this pairing, it would me the male, uh, member, and he is very much a silent partner in this entanglement, saving all of his vocalizing for daytime hours when he's yelling at the kids.
Plus he is not my type--and pretty much everyone is my type--but then again, I, a cranky, bald, 50-year-old who has apparently become a very light sleeper, is probably not his type either.
But there are other reasons for me not to be engaged by the pairing upstairs.
Let's talk technique for a moment: I am spared any evidence of foreplay. Or perhaps there just is none? I cannot discern. Nor am I particularly keen to, I hasten to add. But the discovery of another man who lacks a sense of fun and foreplay always producing a sense of disappointment and mourning in my heart.
To ensure marital happiness, I might play Secret Santa and place a coupon for 50% off at Adam and Eve or some other online "marital aids" shoppers' paradise. But, let's face it: I don't want to foster more marital happiness. I'm not sure my delicate nature can handle that.
Plus I fear that if a vibrator became involved in the lusty labors, it would sound like a hydraulic jackhammer blasting through my ceiling.
So no.
But I digress . . .
Back to technique. Lack of a proper appetizer aside, we move on to the main course, which consists of some very rapid-fire bed-squeaking, intensely accomplished (I'll grant you that, dear couple) for five to ten minutes. This is occasionally accompanied by additional acoustical warbling in the contralto range, but nothing too excessive or even interesting. There are children and pets sleeping nearby, after all. Not to mention wide-awake neighbors.
After about five to ten minutes of beat-the-clock squeaking and then everything comes . . . to an abrupt and quiet end, which is accomplished (if one could label it that) without warning or arpeggio. This sudden end is immediately followed by the shower being turned on in the bathroom. After a few minutes of showering, both parties are reunited in the marriage bed, where, depending on the hour, the machine gun-like ratatatat of bed-squeaking may or may not resume.
The only persons in our world who must get a good night's rest are children and pets because none of those creatures ever stirs when the 'rents get freaky upstairs. No, all is calm, all is bright, except directly above my head. The sound-proofing between rooms is obviously exceptional. Between floors? Not so much.
I'm dreading tonight, Christmas Eve, and, good god no, New Year's Even is just around the corner.
Not sure sound-proofing will fit in a stocking, Santa, but new earplugs or noise-canceling headphones most definitely will.
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