The Star of the Porno Downstairs

I was nervous about who might be moving in after the neighbors under me moved. They were quiet.

I listen to hardcore. But I have rules. I listen for only an hour at the level where somebody might hear it, and not before 10am or after 10pm. I also walk barefoot, and lightly.

We have to be reasonable about apartment life. You expect to hear vague rumblings of movement. Maybe you’ll hear people screwing.

People would tell me how they heard neighbors screwing. I never did, until now.

Finally, a month after the great neighbors below me moved, someone moved in. After a week I thought, Gee, he masturbates loudly.

While exercising lying on the floor, I heard his usual loud crying out. I pressed my ear to the floor. Gasp! I heard the woman!

This couple below me fuck almost every day!

And he’s loud for a dude! Usually you just hear the chick. I had a guy once who screamed like he was being murdered. The inflection of his screaming wasn’t sexual where it trails off ecstatically. It was more like a blood curdling scream.

I had to know what this new couple looked like.

But the nerve of this guy coming up to my apartment at 9:30pm on the weekend to complain about my music. It wasn’t that loud, for chrissake.

He knocks on my door. I’m naked and can’t open it.

Yes, I say through the peephole.

I’m your neighbor downstairs.

It’s the “fucking” guy! You need me to turn my music down?

Yeah.

Okay. I’m sorry. Goodnight, I says.

I tried getting a look at him through the peephole. I saw he was wiry. I had missed the opportunity to meet the star of the porno downstairs. Hey – I’ll throw on clothes and go down there – apologize about not opening the door – I’ll say I want to properly introduce myself.

So I knock on his door — and the “fucking” guy – he did what I had done and didn’t open his door.

Hi, just wanted to say I didn’t mean to be rude by not opening the door. I was getting ready to shower before, which is why I couldn’t open the door, I lie.

He tells me through the peep hole, Oh yeah, me too, now.

Uh, okay — have a good night, I says.

The “fucking” guy was probably naked and getting ready to fuck again.

I did meet him in the elevator last week and properly introduced myself. It was great! He wasn’t bad looking.

I think I might’ve finally met his girl too. Yesterday I got on the elevator with a red head. We said hello then she got off on the floor below mine and walked in the direction of the line I’m in – that had to be her!

Now, it’s white noise to me – sort of – I guess – unless I’m having a spell, you know.

I suppose I should “get a life.”

 

 

VIVA LA PAPPA CON POMODORO!

I wanted to know what the song was from the Heineken commercial. I detected that the language was Italian, and that it was probably from the 1960s.

I imagined an Italian Ann Margret type, hair all over the head, hip gyrations, mini dress, heavy mascara – that sort of a thing – oh my god I want to sing this! Anyhow, I found the singer. Rita Pavone! Damn she’s so fucking cute I can’t take it. The opposite of what I expected. ~Swoon~ I tried deciphering the translated lyrics — something to do with soup and tomatoes and a revolution or somethingorother. ~Shrug~ Hope there’s no evil underlying meaning or anything like that ’cause I love this fucking song! Yay! Eeee-yahhh papapapapahhhhhh!

Chilean bass sex tapes

The man who sold it to me told me, “It’s, mmm! – like butter.”  Oh well, yeah then, shit, give me some, I said.  I didn’t know how much I had paid for it.  I ate it and almost passed out.  How much did I pay for this?  I ran to the refrigerator to look at the wrapper around the rest of it to see what I paid for fish that almost made me come.  Okay.  Yeah, expensive but, oh well.

I’m too consumed with changing the trajectory of my life to be a foodie.  I keep it basic with food, but now I wonder if there’s other fish out there I missed.  While I don’t spare cost for good food, it can’t be too expensive.  I spent half my unemployment check on that fucking fish.  But I did buy it again.  Oh I just had to hit that up, like, two times…

New Year’s Eve With Sandee and Company

I escaped spending New Year’s Eve in the emergency room.  My neighbor had a bleeding growth on top of his balding pate.  Oh I can talk about him here – I’m 99 percent sure he won’t read this.

I love him.  He’s eighty-something.  He has a computer – he doesn’t look or seem to be the age that he is, but when you’re eighty-something, you don’t have time to troll the web for random blog sites.  When he gives me a site address he says the entire www dot-whatever-the-hell-it-happens-to-be-dot com – cute!

I’m his secretary when he goes to Ireland.  I mind his apartment, get his mail.  I call him twice a week in Ireland to read it to him.  Piece by piece.  He gives me all kinds of instructions.  I’m on the phone with him for an hour.  Another elderly neighbor from Ireland used to mind his apartment for him.  When she found out I was doing it she says, “Oh God bless you Sandee!  I’m done with it — he thought I was his fucking secretary!”

When he called and told me that his head was bleeding, I ran down there.  Turned out the bleeding happened during the evening.  He thought he should go to emergency to check it out.

“I’ll get dressed and be back in half an hour,” I said – I had just thrown some slop on to run down there.

I felt guilty fluffing my lashes with mascara while he waited downstairs with his bleeding growth, but one half hour later exactly, I was ready.

I get there — he’s still in his robe, holding a tray of food.

“Come in.  Have a seat Sandee,” he says.

What?!  I almost choked wolfing down my food, and suffered guilt for putting on mascara, and you ain’t even ready — I put off my morning jog for you!

“Why don’t you just call me when you’re ready,” I said, and went up to change for a jog.”

I got back.  No message.  Haha!  He did call — two hours later!  Some emergency.  I headed back to his apartment thinking, Maybe he changed his mind.  Yay.

While he was dressed this time, he says all leisurely again, “Come in.  Have a seat Sandee.”  He sat in the reclining chair.  I stood over his head to see the wound.  It appeared fine.

“You’re not in pain?”

“No, it’s just the damn thing bleeding last night is all,” he says in his slight Irish brogue.  He wasn’t bruised and wasn’t in pain.  I suggested he wait till the day after New Year’s Day, when his doctor would be in.

“If an emergency happens in between, call me.  But you don’t want to be going to emergency unless it’s really an emergency – we could be there hours.”

“Hours?  Really?”  He’d never been to emergency it turned out.

I had an angle then, while he still teetered on the idea of going.

“Yeah, trust me,” I said.  I told him horror stories of the emergency room that we might see sitting in there so long and got him to change his mind.  Brilliant!  I’d seen some pretty horrible things in emergency, heard awful things.

He thought he’d be seen right away.  Aha.  Au contraire mon frère, I told him.  When I was done with my horror stories, my buddy was turned off by the idea of going, and while I successfully angled for this to happen, I’m still taking brownie points.  Dammit. But sure, I’d do it all again.  He’s my buddy.

An Excerpt from “Doody Lady”

 

Using some kind of a special cake-cutting method where she carved out a circle in the center of the cake, Doody Lady then sliced neat little squared-off pieces from this perfectly round cake.  Damn she was talented!  I always wondered how people did that.  In awe I watched her cut the entire cake this way.  She commanded that space, standing, expert, with her long pony tail swinging ever so slightly above the crack of her ass.  Jason staggered over with a drink in his hand to help give out the neat pieces of cake that Doody Lady had placed on small, thin paper plates at the end of the bar counter by the kitchen.  After licking his fingers of stray icing, he handed me a piece, an end piece with more frosting on it than cake.

“Mmm, mmm, mmm!  You don’t know boy!  I love’s me some frosting,” I told him.

“Bon appétit,” he said, and I stubbed out my cigarette and anticipated the cake.

I had given Doody Lady that name anyway and wasn’t I twisted?  Don’t we all move our bowels?  I grabbed the cake and relished it, suppressing my urge to get up and hump at the air in a feigned fucking of the cake, or to moan and to close my eyes rapturously behind each forkful of thick, white frosting.  I took the rest of my cake to sit with Dmitri and George in the booth.  I pat the seat for George to sit on the same side with Dmitri and me so that I was between them.  We ate our cake without speaking.  We closed our eyes and nodded at each other between forkfuls.  We moaned between mouthfuls, breathed in deeply and exhaled, then licked our forks clean of frosting.

THANKS FOR READING — NOW APROPOS OF NOTHING I’M SHARING THE SONG I LISTENED TO WHILE POSTING (I SAID I’D BE POSTING MORE VIDEOS) — THIS SONG HAS ONE OF THE BEST LINES EVER — “I DON’T WANT TO HURT YOU, I JUST WANT TO KILL YOU!”

I Don’t Need Titties Because I’m That Good

 

I like it when people tell you that you don’t have any titties.  I forgive them.  My sister, who’s 18 years younger than I am, was only 10 when she pointed at my chest and said ‘you don’t have NO tit-tays!’  And my mom, she’s extremely complimentary regarding everything about me, so it didn’t really count when she said, while I was getting dressed:  “Oh my, you didn’t get any at all.”  At the café where I work, as I approached the register with my grilled Panini, my friend, the worker in the cafe teased, “where your titties at girl?”  So I told her with a bravado-tinged inflection, “I don’t need titties because I’m that good.”  Sometimes when I see a sexy flat-chested woman (Hey, buddy, they do exist!) I’m thinking, wow, you know it’s kind of cool to not have any because all the energy is focused you know, down there.  Well, this is what I tell myself.

I do have something there.  I’m not flat as a board – they just might not be that noticeable if you’re standing far away from me and your vision isn’t good.  Maybe then I could be mistaken for a man.  Back when, I used to get really thin for a period of time – I’d smoke lots of cigarettes, run, walk and ride my bike everywhere – you can do that in your twenties without keeling over.  My figure might have been described as boyish.  A woman quite a few yards away in the locker room at the gym yelled out “There’s a man in here!” as she pointed in my direction.  I have a sense of humor so I didn’t cry over it.  As a kid, the boys called me “Chester.”  But damn if I wasn’t confused when the neighborhood early-developed girl with the big ones said, “Wait, they call me “Chester.”  These little dudes needed to get their shit straight – how in the hell do you recycle an epithet like that?!

When I was eleven I was with my little friends who talked about just getting theirs after winter.  It was springtime.  My one friend — this is so sweet — she says to me, nodding, “Don’t worry, you’ll get yours too, probably after next winter…”  Well, I’m waiting.  Though I hear that there is time because sometimes in menopause they grow.  But then it would be too fucking late!

I had at one time, long ago in my youth, thought about breast implants.  I figured God didn’t program me for big titties because it would be too much for people to take, why, with me being such a nymph already – I jest!  But seriously folks, I learned not to give a damn, which is the attitude most older people have to take about shortcomings, because we’ve reluctantly accepted that we don’t have a @#*! choice anyway!  Dad told me not to get breast implants.  He said that I needed to surround myself with different types of people and to expand my mind and to be more creative about the way that I perceived myself – I really only just added that last part – because it seemed to be in the gist of what he was saying anyway.

The titty-less thing happened when I put a curse on myself.  When I was 11, I told my cousin Nay Nay that when I turned13 like she was then, mine would be bigger than hers.  Somebody shoulda tol’ me — could this not be more hilarious?!  My cousin didn’t let me live that one down for a while!  I guess my cousin could say that karma’s a bitch, but I’ve got another word to the wise for the prepubescent girls of America – okay now look this up – it’s hubris!