Wallbanger(9)

Sophia and Mimi peeled the covers from my face just as the chick screamed, “Oh, God that’s…that’s —” hahahaha “— so good!”

“The guy next door can make a woman meow?” Sophia asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Apparently so.” I chuckled, feeling the first wave of nausea wash over me.

“Why is she laughing? Why would anyone be laughing while they’re getting done like that?” Mimi asked.

“No idea, but it’s nice to hear she’s enjoying herself,” Sophia said, laughing herself at a particularly loud guffaw. Guffaw my aunt Fanny…

“Have you seen this guy yet?” asked Mimi, stil staring at the wal .

“Nope. My peephole is getting a workout, though.”

“Glad to hear at least one hole is getting some around here,” Sophia muttered.

I glared at her. “Charming, Sophia. I’ve seen the back of his head, and that’s it,” I answered, sitting up.

“Wow, three girls in three nights. That’s some kind of stamina,” Mimi said, stil looking in wonder at the wal .

“It’s some kind of disgusting is what it is. I can’t even sleep at night! My poor wal !” I wailed as I heard a deep groan from him.

“Your wal , what does your wall have to do —” Sophia began, and I held up my hand.

“Wait for it, please,” I said. He began to bring it on home.

The wal began to shake with the rhythmic banging, and the woman’s giggles got louder and louder. Sophia and Mimi stared in wonder, as I

just shook my head.

I could hear Simon moaning, and I knew he was getting close. But his sounds were quickly drowned out by this evening’s friend.

“Oh —” giggle “— that’s —” giggle “— it —” giggle “— don’t —” giggle “— stop —” giggle “— don’t —” giggle “— stop —” giggle “— oh —”

giggle-snort “— God —” giggle-giggle snort-snort “— don’t —” giggle “— stop!” giggle.

Please. Please. Please, stop, I thought.

Giggle-sniffle.

And with one last giggle and groan, silence fel across the land. Sophia and Mimi looked at each other, and Sophia said, “Oh.”

“My,” added Mimi.

“God,” they said together.

“And that’s why I can’t sleep,” I sighed.

While the three of us recovered from the Giggler, Clive returned to play in the corner with a cotton bal .

Giggler, I think I hate you most of all…





Chapter Four


THE NEXT FEW NIGHTS were blissful y quiet. No thumping, no spanking, no meowing, and no giggling. Admittedly Clive was a little forlorn from time to

time, but everything else around the apartment was great. I met some of my neighbors, including Euan and Antonio who lived downstairs. I hadn’t

heard or seen Simon since that last night with the Giggler, and while I was grateful for the nights of perfect sleep, I was curious about where he’d

disappeared to. Euan and Antonio were only too glad to fil me in.

“Darling, wait until you see our dear Simon. What a specimen that boy is!” Euan exclaimed. Antonio had caught me in the hal on my way home

and had a cocktail in my hand within seconds.

“Oh my, yes. He is exquisite! If only I were a few years younger,” Antonio crooned, fanning himself as Euan looked over his Bloody Mary at him.

“If you were a few years younger you’d what? Please. You’d never have been in Simon’s league. He is filet, while—face it, love—you and I are

tube steaks.”

“You would know,” Antonio cackled, sucking pointedly on his celery stalk.

“Gentleman, please. Tel me about this guy. I admit, after the show he put on last week, I’m a little intrigued about the man behind the wal

banging.”

I’d broken down and told them about Simon’s late-night antics after realizing that unless I dished the dirt, they would not reciprocate. They clung

to every word like fat kids at a buffet. I told them about the ladies he made the sweet love to, and they fil ed in a few more blanks.

Simon was a freelance photographer who traveled al over the world. They guessed he was currently on assignment, which explained my

quality sleep. Simon worked on projects for The Discovery Channel, The Cousteau Society, National Geographic—al the bigwigs. He’d won

awards for his work and even spent some time covering the war in Iraq a few years ago. He always left his car behind when he was traveling: an

old, beat-up, black Range Rover Discovery, like the kind you’d find in the African bush. The kind people drove before the yuppies got a hold of