Wallbanger(4)

musical instruments al her life, she could never pass up a joke when she saw a flute. She was twisted.

Al three of us were unattached at the moment, something rare. Usual y at least one of us was dating someone, but since Sophia had broken

up with her last boyfriend a few months ago, we’d al been in a dry spel . Luckily for my friends, their spel wasn’t quite as dry as mine. As far as I

knew they were stil on speaking terms with their Os.

I thought back with a shudder to the night when O and I had parted ways. I’d had a series of bad first dates and was so sexual y frustrated that I

al owed myself to go back to the apartment of a guy I had no intention of ever seeing again. Not that I was averse to the one-night stand. I’d made

the walk of shame many a morning. But this guy? I should have known better. Cory Weinstein, blah blah blah. His family owned a chain of pizza

parlors up and down the West Coast. Great on paper, right? Only on paper. He was nice enough, but boring. But I hadn’t been with a man in a

while, and after several martinis and a pep talk in the car on the way, I relented and let Cory “have his way with me.”

Now, up until this point in my life, I’d shared that old theory that sex was like pizza. Even when it’s bad, it’s stil pretty good. I now hated pizza.

For several reasons.

This was the worst kind of sex. This was machine-gun style: fast, fast, fast. This was thirty seconds on the tits, sixty seconds on something that

was about an inch above where he should have been, and then in. And out. And in. And out. And in. And out.

But at least it was over quick, right? Hel , no. This horribleness went on for months. Wel , no. But for almost thirty minutes. Of in. And out. And in.

And out. My poor hoohah felt like it had been sandblasted.

By the time it was over, and he yel ed, “So good!” before col apsing on top of me, I had mental y rearranged al my spices and was starting on

the cleaning supplies under the sink. I dressed, which didn’t take that long as I was stil almost ful y clothed, and departed.

The next night, after letting Lower Caroline recover, I decided to treat her to a nice long session of self-love, accented by everyone’s favorite

fantasy lover, George Clooney, aka Dr. Ross. But to my great regret, O had left the building. I shrugged it off, thinking maybe she just needed a

night away, stil experiencing a little PTSD from Pizza Parlor Cory.

But the next night? No O. No sign of her that week, or the next. As the weeks became a month, and the months stretched on and on, I

developed a deep, seething hatred for Cory Weinstein. That machine-gun fucker…

I shook my head, clearing my O thoughts as I crawled into bed. Clive waited until I was situated before snuggling into the space behind my

knees. He let out one last purr as I turned out the lights.

“’Night, Mr. Clive,” I whispered and fel right to sleep.

Thump.

“Oh, God.”

Thump Thump.

“Oh, God.”

Unbelievable…

I woke up faster this time, because I knew what I was hearing. I sat up in bed, glaring behind me. The bed was stil pul ed safely away from the

wal , so I felt no movement, but there was sure as hel something moving over there.

Then I heard…hissing?

I looked down at Clive, whose tail was at ful puff. He arched his back and paced back and forth at the foot of the bed.

“Hey, mister. It’s cool. We just got a noisy neighbor, that’s al ,” I soothed, stretching my hand out to him. That’s when I heard it.

“Meow.”

I cocked my head sideways, listening more intently. I studied Clive, who looked back as if to say, “T’weren’t me.”

“Meow! Oh, God. Me-yow!”

The girl next door was meowing. What in the world was my neighbor packing to make that happen?

Clive, at this point, went utterly bonkers and launched himself at the wal . He was literal y climbing it, trying to get to where the noise was

coming from, and adding his own meows to the chorus.

“Oooh yes, just like that, Simon…Mmmm…meow, meow, meow!”

Sweet Lord, there were out-of-control pussies on both sides of this wal tonight. The woman had an accent, although I couldn’t quite place it.

Eastern European for sure. Czech? Polish? Was I seriously awake at, let’s see, one sixteen a.m. and attempting to discern the national origin of the

woman getting plowed next door?

I tried to get a hold of Clive and calm him down. No luck. He was neutered, but he was stil a boy, and he wanted what was on the other side of

that wal . He continued to caterwaul, his meows mixing with hers until it was al I could to do to not to cry at the hilarity of this moment. My life had

become theater of the absurd with a cat chorus.