Can You Keep It Down, Please?

Hello, my name is NotSoSexintheCity, I’m 27 years old, and I’ve just been told off for having loud sex. I am both mortified and somehow proud, but for the purposes of this blog post let’s stick with mortified.

“Can you keep it down, please?” Jock’s female roommate said… to his face. Face to face. Not in a text message, nor a phone call: face to motherfucking face, right in the middle of the kitchen. Brave girl. I’d have died of embarrassment. I am dying of embarrassment already. Gosh, sometimes I wish it were actually possible to die of embarrassment. It certainly would’ve been easier than what came next.

“Were we vocally loud?” I asked him. “Or thumping and humping and bed squeak loud?”

Jock laughed. “I don’t know!”

“You didn’t ask?”

“No, of course I didn’t ask.”

What damn help is that? How does that help us? Men are useless. USELESS! How are we meant to keep it down if we don’t know which bit to keep down? I don’t think that I’m a particularly shouty or screamy person during sex, but… well, you know, I participate. And I wouldn’t say that Jock was a particularly shouty or screamy person, either… but he participates too. Are we participating too loud? Too grunty? Too groany? Were we too loud, or were the walls too thin? Did the bed squeak, or did we squeak?

How, exactly, were we meant to solve this problem?

“The walls are paper-thin here, to be fair,” Jock said eventually.

Awesome. You couldn’t have told me that before we started getting down n’ dirty in there, no?

In our defence, if there is even a defence for this scenario, Jock and I thought that we had the house to ourselves before we indulged in a particularly energetic afternoon quickie. He’d shouted out, “hey” and all the rest of it. It wasn’t our fault that his female roommate didn’t reply… was it?

I’m actually a bit scared to have sex there now. What if we don’t notice the female roommate again? What if we’re too loud again? I mean, if the walls are paper-thin… how are we meant to have sex there? I’m not one much of a voyeur. To my knowledge, Jock isn’t, either.

“We have to go back to mine,” I told Jock, later that afternoon.

“Why? Is there something wrong?” he asked.

“No, but we can’t have sex here.”

He laughed. “You want me to drive 43 miles back to yours, just so we can have sex?”

“Yep.” I nodded.

He thought it was hilarious and refused to drive the 43 miles back to my house, so I refused to have sex with him in that house again. Maybe next time he’ll ask what the noise was, so we know to avoid it. Probably not, though. You know what these damn men are like.