An Open Letter

Dear Neighbor Across the Airshaft,

I don’t know if you’re aware of this fact but we live in New York City. This has multiple ramifications for apartment dwellers like you and I, but the one you should be aware of is that apartments here are constructed out of papier-mâché and thus I can hear everything that goes on in your apartment. I’m sure I’ve been guilty of aurally intruding upon you; when I’m pumping some cleaning jams or watching television with Marlee Matlin. However, these volume-related indiscretions are relatively minor compared to what you put me through at least once a day.

Sunday morning, I was just sitting in my living room enjoying some leftover Chinese food and reading a book. Sounds peaceful, right? It was, until I start hearing what sounds remarkably like what I imagine a teddy bear being murdered must sound like. A high-pitched, repeated squealing noise. Can you imagine what that noise was, Neighbor Across the Airshaft? That’s right. It was you faking your orgasm during sexy fun times. You are having sex though right? Because no one makes noises like that when they are alone. However, I’ve never heard any of your male companions making a sound.

Don’t get me wrong, neighbs, I’m not opposed to you having sexual relations. But let me reiterate the fact that we live in a cardboard box. Even if you were really achieving orgasm EVERY time you and your boyfriend/the mailman/your super/that guy from Craiglist go at it (which I highly doubt), can’t you like stick your face in a pillow or something? Or turn on some music? Something. Anything. Because it sounds like you are in my living room. And it’s not just that we share a wall. I saw people on the street staring at your apartment. That’s three stories down. They were about to report a heinous teddy bear murder in progress.

Let’s brainstorm more constructive ways for you to express your pleasure. First, you could otherwise occupy your mouth by biting down on something. For example, I’m sure there is a pillow at your disposal. If not a pillow, your manfriend’s arm. If all else fails, bring some apples to bed. You can simultaneously smother your fits of passion and get some of your daily dietary fiber. Next, you could learn morse code to transmit your feelings to the manfriend. Here’s a helper: Dash, dash. Dot, dot, dot, dot. Dash, dot, dash, dash. Dot. Dot, dash. Dot, dot, dot, dot. Just slap that rhythm out every 30 seconds or so. Lastly, you could just incorporate a ballgag into your lovemaking. I’d say that’s a win for everyone.

So in conclusion, I’m glad you are getting banged out on the regular. I’m not so glad to be privy to the sound of your passion. Don’t make me fight fire with fire.

Yours truly,

Chris