Failure To Launch

So I told my cousin, JoAnna Banana, this story and she said I should put it on my blog. I reminded her that she and I are the only ones who read the blog, so there was no sense wasting time writing it out just so she could post some snide comment. But she persisted and I yielded. After all, I’ve always been told to obey my elders.

We were talking about apartment living. Traci and I live on the top story of a three story apartment building in quiet little Pacifica. JoJo lives in the heart of the city on the fifth floor of a typical high rise. She has an asshole tenant who lives below her that has late night parties and plays his music as loud as self-centered assholes usually do. She gets even by vacuuming at 7:00am followed by a rousing exercise session on her mini-trampoline. Somehow it all evens out.

Traci and I have been fortunate. We’ve lived here for years and have never been bothered by noisy neighbors. But we do have one neighbor—I call her the moaner—who has loud, raucous sex. I first noticed it months ago when there was a rhythmic knocking on our bedroom walls late in the evening. At first I thought it was an odd time to be hunting for wall studs to hang pictures. Then I heard the moaning. Well, I finally figured it out. She found her stud all right, and he was nailing her. I might be slow, but I’m not so smart either!

So Traci and I hear them every once in a while. They must go to bed shortly after the Letterman or Leno monologue and start playing around soon after. It’s always around midnight when we hear them. Unfortunately, we don’t hear the headboard pounding against the walls anymore. The moaning just drifts in through the window unannounced. Sometimes it’s spooky. We listen to Coast-2-Coast AM at night with our little bedside radio. That’s where Art Bell or George Noory talk about alien abductions, ghosts, and other bizarre tales. I sometimes jump a little when they’re talking about things like out-of-body experiences (OBEs) and I hear the moaning start. It creeps me out, but we turn down the radio and rush to the window to hear better.

After studying the situation for several months I’ve declared the woman is orgasm-free. The dude isn’t satisfying her. Now I’ve listened enough to know a faker from a screamer from a non-climaxer. This one is definitely on the launch-pad, but she is going nowhere. It’s so sad. I want to go over and help her. And the guy? Not a peep. No sounds whatsoever. So what’s going on exactly? Is she on top of him trying to spell RELIEF while he watches TV? Is he on top but not giving it his all? I really want to know. And it’s like she will moan and grunt and yip—then nothing for a minute. Then it starts over. She builds up, and you’re rooting for her to go all the way, but then she gets quiet again and she waits a few minutes before starting anew. She is working for this, but the guy is obviously getting too tired to go the distance. Maybe she should slip him some Viagra. It’s really weird that I can’t hear him at all. I’ve got to get a stethoscope or something so I can hear better.

Jo Jo asked why we don’t ask them to be quieter. “Are you kidding?” I said. “It’s the most fun we have when it comes to sex anymore.” We’re two fifty-something transsexual women who lost all our capabilities under the knife years ago. When they cut off our gonads, they turned off whatever it was that gave us our sexual appetites. And at our age, it’s too much work anyway. It’s much better and more fun to be voyeurs.

Maybe I’ll go over and congratulate her one night if she ever achieves orgasm. Better yet, I’ll leave a bottle of champagne at their door. She should know we’re rooting for her. But even if she never gets there, there’s always the vibrator.