An Open Letter to the Couple in My Building Who Have Sex Real Loud

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Dear sexually active neighbors,

Last night at around 3am, the two of you tried out some new, acrobatic position and the resulting vibrations, moans, tumbles, and final expressions of ecstasy shook me violently from a pleasant sleep. Again. This time, though, I must speak up! 
 
I've never met you, but your various sexual escapades have rung in my ears loud and clear for many months. And as someone who knows you all too intimately, I thought I might take the opportunity to fill you in on how your relationship sounds from my side of the wall. You know, in the spirit of neighborly advice.

(I hope you don't mind that for the sake of convenience I'll call you by the names I've reserved for you in my head: Hilary and Brent.)

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Your kitchen table is so close to my head that I've heard all your conversations over breakfast. Although your voices sound like the teacher on the Peanuts cartoon, I can still tell that Hilary is frustrated by Brent's lack of home-improvement skills. 

For instance, the bedbugs. I've heard the word "bedbugs" repeatedly, and I am disturbed since we share a wall. Hilary, it is obvious that you are looking to have Brent take charge of the infestation. It's evident that you want a man, like your father, who would spend long hours working at the auto-repair shop and still have the energy to fix that leaky faucet back home.

Hilary, your dad was a real stand-up guy, but can you really expect the same from Brent? After all, he is a city boy. Brent, you clearly moved from LA to NYC after graduating from Long Beach State with a sociology degree. I can tell you are still hoping that your bone structure will bring you work as an actor, just like your coddling mother said it would. Keep dreaming, man.

"Call an exterminator," Brent always says, unwilling to take charge. That's classic Brent. I mean, it even irritates me that he won't at least put some sugar packets under that wobbly kitchen table. But Brent does have some good qualities. That physique for instance... 

Anyway, back to the loud sex...

Lately, Hilary seems to really be “agreeing” if you know what I mean. But these are not the unquenched expressions of emotions that I've heard on nights gone by. I hate to break this to you, Brent, but Hilary is faking.

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That said, I don't want to belittle Brent's talents. I remember a certain night that ended exceptionally well. You guys know the one I'm talking about (wink, wink).

You were both at ease while discussing the music of Britney Spears circa 1998, as "...Baby One More Time" played on a loop in the background. Brent was expressing his distaste for Britney and Hilary was wholeheartedly defending the pop princess. Meanwhile, I was in bed cursing you because I had to work in the morning.
 
I look back at this particular day with all the knowledge I have since acquired and see it as a high point in your two-year relationship. I imagine Hilary's blonde hair swinging as she danced in her flannel shirtdress, Brent jokingly arguing back with his boyish grin and sun-kissed dirty-blonde locks.

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Most likely, the scene was a reminder of the night you first met, both new to the city, both finding shelter from the snow at Union Pool, both staying with friends while you looked for an apartment, "probably in Williamsburg." Your reality check came weeks later when you moved to Flatbush. Hilary was so full of life that night. Her blue eyes thrilled by the folk band and the "cool vibe," and her lips tasted of one-too-many vodka cranberries.

A year later, both struggling in the harsh world of the actor/restaurant worker, you decided to take your relationship to the next level. After a few Brooklyn Lagers on the floor of Brent's studio, you both shouted, "Yes! Let's move in together!" You were promptly told to, "SHUT UP!" by Brent's roommate, who was sleeping only a few feet away...

But back to the loud sex...

When Britney sang her last notes, coy arguments turned to audible cooing. This led to the best sex to date -- a marathon session with simultaneous orgasms that could not be hushed no matter how hard I forced my down pillow against my ears.

Brent, Hilary, though the walls may shake, I can’t help but think that something isn’t right here. It might be time to once again turn on the Britney Spears.

Oh yeah, and keep the love-making down, please! Thanks, guys.

Your too affectionate neighbor,

Kara

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Kara King is a writer at Thrillist who's all up in your business. Follow her nosy tweets at @karatillie.