Nothing ruins the mood like hearing your upstairs neighbors having sex.
You'd think it would be sexy to hear sex sounds, but it's not, especially when the people making them once flooded your hallway with their toilet.
"Let's put on some music!" said Jeff, who was not about to give up that easily.
"Um... okay." I leaned over to our aged CD player. "We've got... Garrison Keillor... David Sedaris... ooh, Michael Beschloss reading LBJ's secret White House tapes!"
"Um, no. We are not getting it on to your sleep aids. Try again."
Under a two-inch layer of dust I found some John Coltrane. I turned it on and waited for the bass line to drown out the awkwardness.
"You know," said Jeff in his best Barry White voice, "this album is called 'A Love Supreme'." He started puttin' on the moves.
"Do you think it's too loud?" Suddenly I was worried about our downstairs neighbors. What if, in muffling the upstairs sex noises, we were bothering the people below with our smooth jazz (which, let's face it, is basically sex noise anytime it's played after 10 pm)? The last thing I needed was squealing from above and a broom handle banging on the ceiling underneath us. We would be stuck in the middle of a sex-rage sandwich!
It occurred to me, as I leaned over, desperately trying to lower the volume on our Jurassic-era "boom box" while trying simultaneously to plug my ears, that this is a problem very specific to apartment dwellers. If we lived in a ranch house way out in the boonies, we would never have to hear anyone have sex, except maybe for livestock.
Then again, it's always the remote ranch houses that get terrorized by psychos. So, six of one, half dozen of the other, really: Whether you need to invest in ear plugs or a shotgun, no matter where you live, you're always going to have to deal with some bullshit.
Like post-coital Rock Band. Which is just mean.