In his autobiography, Malcolm X talked about all the kinky sexual proclivities he helped wealthy white men satisfy during his short career as a pimp. He told the story of an old man who got his rocks off by listening to an attractive black couple have sex in his bedroom and simply imagining what was happening.
Audio voyeurism. I can understand the thrill of it. My eyesight isn't too good so I don't get too much pleasure out of taped or photographed "erotica" or peeking into windows with blinds left conveniently open. I have the imagination of a writer and I have found that solo sex is much more satisfying to me anyway. Lucky for me, I have always been able to find apartments with thin walls and highly-sexed neighbors between them.
In the first apartment I ever had all to myself, I used to listen to the couple I nicknamed "Daddy" and "Dirty Little Girl Who Likes It From Behind". They were both tall Nordic-looking models with a penchant for dirty talk, hence their nicknames. I masturbated to their sexual adventures for a whole year before they broke up.
Martin and Emma were a pair of light-skinned "buppie" accountants who lived upstairs from me two years ago. They fucked like clockwork, doing it at precisely nine o'clock pm on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Fridays. Every week. Every month. Every year for the entire six years I lived in the building. Their careers had conditioned them to accept never-changing routine; Martin and Emma never seemed to get bored. In fact, they loudly voiced their enthusiasm for each other every time they went to bed. I wore out two vibrators trying to keep up with those two.
Danielle and Craig are the couple that lives next door to me now; they moved in approximately three months after I did. Danielle is a dead-ringer for Debra Messing. Craig's Euro-Asian face is an exotic mix of East and West. If I had to guess, I would say that they are about twenty-three years old, although many people who look and act that young are considerably older.
Danielle and Craig don't fight very often -- maybe once every other month -- but when they do, it gets very intense very quickly. This is what happens today. They start having a loud dish-smashing row--a fight punctuated by periodic door slamming and cursing followed by ominous silences. The fight goes on for a little under four hours before the front door of the apartment slams and the sound of Daniel's heavy steps reverberate up the rickety staircase of our sixth floor walk-up.
The fight next door means one thing: make-up sex. About three hours later Daniel comes back, slightly drunk. My nipples tingle and I start to get wet when I hear him fumbling for his keys. In my mind's eye, I can see his hand brushing against the semi-erect lump in his jeans as he digs the keys out of his pocket.
I hear the creak of the front door as it opens and the click of the lock as it shuts behind him then unsteady footsteps, the scrape of a chair as it slides against the floor, and a low murmuring of voices.
I run to my bedroom and press my ear to the wall that separates my apartment from theirs.
Then an interior door opens and shuts. The floor plans in our respective apartments are identical so I know they are in the bedroom now. I shut my eyes and "see" Danielle standing on tip-toe, leg brushing the edge of the bed, leaning into Craig, her back arched, her slightly rounded lower belly pressing into Craig's washboard. Craig has a large work-roughened hand pressed into the small of her back; Danielle balances her weight by resting her hands on his broad shoulders.
They kiss lustfully. Craig slides his free hand under the well-worn green cable-knit sweater that Danielle wears around the house on her day off from work. He massages her exposed lower back before slipping his fingers into the gap between her spine and her bra clasp and undoes it.
Danielle breaks the kiss. She pulls the sweater over her head, shaking her shoulder-length red curls out so that they fall into her bottle-green eyes. She shrugs the bra off and it falls on top of her sweater.
I imagine the jangle of her belt buckle as she wiggles her jeans off. She steps out of them and reaches up to Craig. Craig is fully aroused now, his erection straining the front of his khaki pants. Danielle unzips them and reaches into the snug boxer briefs that I have seen her folding in the laundry room.
She slides a delicate hand up and down the shaft, gently pressing a thumb into the oozing tip. Craig shuts his eyes and throws his head back, moaning softly.
Danielle drops to her knees. She pulls Craig's pants down along with his underwear. His dick, no longer restrained, springs forward, the uncut tip pulling away from the foreskin and pointing straight up to the ceiling.
Awed by the ugly-beauty of his shaft, Danielle traces its veins with a manicured finger before wrapping her fingers around the base and sliding it into her mouth. Danielle moves her head up and down, taking his member all the way in, the tip tickling her tonsils.
Craig seizes a handful of red curls in his left hand and smoothes those very same red curls away from Danielle's face with the right. Their eyes lock. This is Craig's favorite thing to do -- gaze into Danielle's eyes while she sucks away, her tongue swirling around the tip, her long knobby fingers twirling his dark pubic hair.
I see Danielle sliding the fingers of her other hand into her black lacy panties as she sucks. Her fingers part the folds of her pussy and tease the opening, getting wet during their exploration. Then they glide up to her swollen throbbing clit.
Danielle moans, dick in mouth, when she pinches her clitoris. She begins to suck even more eagerly.
Craig's breathing quickens. He pulls out of her mouth.
Danielle continues to stroke herself between her thighs, her eyes level with Craig's crotch, as Craig gently strokes her freckled face.
"You're beautiful," I hear him say.
Danielle, her head thrown back, face flushed and sweaty, does not respond. She is now twisting her brownish-pink nipples. She is close to finishing herself off.
Craig, realizing this, tickles the back of her neck; one of Danielle's hidden erogenous zones. Danielle shudders with pleasure and bites back a moan.
She starts to come, instinctively pressing her thighs together. Her hips buck; her breasts jiggle. The pink moistened folds of her pussy clench and unclench.
"Oh! Oh! OHHHHHHHH! FUCK!!! AHHHH!!!" She cries out, gasping for breath. For the next few minutes I listen to her whimpers, sighs, and curses--the erotic soundtrack to my own furious stroking.
Then I hear the low rumble of a man's voice, the creak of bedsprings under the weight of two bodies, then the rustle of bed linens. Craig buries his face between Danielle's thighs. More sighs emit from Danielle. Craig flicks his tongue, enjoying every salty drop of Danielle's pleasure.
Then the rhythmic slapping of the headboard against the wall, Craig grunts with each thrust. I picture him lying on top, his butterscotch buttocks undulating between Danielle's much paler thighs.
Or are they doing it doggy-style, the cleft in Danielle's ass parallel with the ceiling, C-cups jiggling, her hips rocking backwards to meet Craig's every thrust? Or are Danielle's long creamy legs thrown over Craig's shoulders, heels pressing into his shoulder blades, buttocks lifted several inches from the bed? Is she in his lap, facing him and bouncing up and down on his dick while Craig licks her nipples? Or maybe she's on top, squatting down onto his shaft, enveloping it, legs spread, flaunting pubic hair the same color and texture as the hair on her head.
My panties are soaked and my nipples have stiffened into hard little points underneath my t-shirt. I am now massaging my clit by pressing the heel of my hand against my vulva and moving it in a circular pattern. A throbbing ache, much like a menstrual cramp but infinitely more pleasant, settles in my lower belly. I'm panting. My sweaty t-shirt sticks to my back.
I come. Although I am alone, I bite my lip to keep from crying out. The muscles in my cunt gently quiver then cave in on themselves, squeezing and pulling more insistently. My heart slams against my ribcage. My hips jerk; the muscles in the back of my legs relax. My womb explodes in a series of molten hot convulsions.
Then Craig comes, screaming loudly. "OH, FUCK YEAH, BABY!!! YES!!! YES!!!" A few more gasps and cries before he starts screaming again, "I LOVE YOU!!! I LOVE YOU!!!"
Then I hear Danielle shushing him; she always gets embarrassed by his loud proclamations. They sink into a sweaty heap on their bed. I do the same on mine. Then we all sink into a blissfully sound post-orgasmic sleep.
I awake at three am. I get up, peel off my clothes, and shower. I fall asleep again at quarter to five and get back up at seven.
I cross paths with Danielle in the elevator on her way to work a little after eight. She is dressed in the business casual way that exclaims "administrative assistant". She politely sticks her arm in the door to prevent it from closing in my face.
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it," she says smiling.
I would like to say that she winked at me or otherwise indicated that she knew that I had listened in on the steamy sex session that she had shared with Craig. But no. She dropped her eyes to the folded New York Times in her hand and immediately forgot the petite bespectacled black woman besides her.
No matter. It isn't necessary for me to be friends with or even acknowledged by Danielle and Craig to enjoy their erotic escapades. All I have to do is keep my ears peeled.
Originally Published March 2007: Getting Lucky