Please. Please. Please, stop, I thought.
Giggle-sniffle.
And with one last giggle and groan, silence fell 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 ball.
Giggler, I think I hate you most of all…
Chapter Four
THE NEXT FEW NIGHTS were blissfully 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 fill me in.
“Darling, wait until you see our dear Simon. What a specimen that boy is!” Euan exclaimed. Antonio had caught me in the hall 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. Tell me about this guy. I admit, after the show he put on last week, I’m a little intrigued about the man behind the wall 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 filled in a few more blanks.
Simon was a freelance photographer who traveled all 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—all 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 them.
Between what Euan and Antonio told me, the car, the job, and the international house of orgasms from the other side of the wall, I was beginning to piece together a profile of this man, who I still had yet to see. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t more and more intrigued by the day.
Late one afternoon, after dropping off some tile samples at the Nicholsons, I decided to walk home. The fog had burned off, revealing the city, and it was a nice evening for a stroll. As I rounded the corner to my apartment, I noticed the Range Rover was absent from its usual place behind the building. Which meant it was out and about.
Simon was back in San Francisco.
Although I braced myself for another round of wall banging, the next few days were uneventful. I worked, I walked, I Clived. I went out with my girls, I made a great zucchini bread in my now well-broken-in KitchenAid, and I spent time researching my vacation.
Each year, I took a week and vacationed somewhere totally alone. Somewhere exciting, and I never went to the same place twice. One year I spent a week hiking in Yosemite. One year I went zip-lining through a rain forest canopy at an ecolodge in Costa Rica. Another year I spent a week scuba diving off the coast of Belize. And this year…I wasn’t sure where I was going to go. Going to Europe was becoming prohibitively expensive in this economy, so that was out. I was considering Peru, as I’d always wanted to see Machu Picchu. I had plenty of time, but often half the fun was deciding where I wanted to spend my vacation.
I also spent an inordinate amount of time at my peephole. Yes, it’s true. Whenever I heard a door close, I actually ran to my door. Clive looked on with a smirk. He knew exactly what I was up to. Why he was judging me, however, I will never know, as his ears perked up every time he heard noises coming up the stairs. He was still pining for his Purina.
I still hadn’t actually seen Simon. One day I got to the peephole in time to see him going into his apartment, but all I caught was a black T-shirt and a mess of dark hair. And even that could’ve been dark blond—hard to tell in the muted hallway light. I needed brighter lighting for better sleuthing.
Another time I saw the Range Rover pulling away from the curb as I came around the corner on my way home from work. It was going to pass right by! Just as I was about to get the first peek at him, actually see the man behind the myth, I tripped and went ass over applecart on the sidewalk. Luckily Euan spotted me and helped me, my bruised ego, and my bruised bum off the concrete and inside for some Bactine with a whiskey chaser.
But all remained quiet at night. I knew Simon was home, and I could hear him occasionally: a chair leg moving across the floor, a quiet laugh or two. But no harem, and therefore no wallbanging.
However, we did sleep together most nights. He played Duke Ellington and Glenn Miller on his side of the wall, and I lay in bed on my side, listening shamelessly. My grandpa used to play his old records at nighttime, and the pop and crackle of a needle on vinyl was comforting as I fell asleep, Clive curled up at my side. I’ll say this for Simon: he had good taste in music.
But this calm and quiet was too good to last, and all hell broke loose again a few nights later.
First, I was treated to another round of Spanx. She had once again been a very bad girl and certainly deserved the resounding spanking she received—a spanking that lasted almost half an hour and ended with calls of, “That’s it! Right there. God, yes, right there!” before the actual walls began to shake. I’d lain awake that night, rolling my eyes and growing more and more frustrated.
The next morning, from my post at the peephole, I saw Spanx leaving and got my first really good look at her. Pink-faced and glowing, she was a soft, round little bit of a girl with curvy hips and thighs, and packing some serious junk in the trunk. She was short—really short—and a little plump. She had to stand on tiptoes as she kissed Simon goodbye, and I missed seeing him because I watched her walk away. I marveled at his taste in women. She was the total opposite of what I’d seen of Purina, who looked like a model.