Hung-over from a 22-hour work day, with my feet pounding as if their every bone was broken by a road roller, this morning I was awoken—way too fucking early!—by the sounds of sex penetrating the thin walls of my bedroom from the apartment next door.
My neighbor is of Indian descent—a pretty girl, slightly nerdy, whose appeal from day one was her quirkiness and stubborn independence. Years ago, as I allowed an army of roommates invade my living space and irritate me enough to move in with my guy (and what a premature and idiotic move that was!), she insisted on living alone. Now, years—and her new BMW—later, the girl is still making enough dollars to dictate her own rules: An occasional hour of the night, her apartment emits a not-so-faint scent of weed while she holds a gathering of similarly quirky and smart working professionals of Hollywood—who are NOT actors.
Her bedroom noises seem to follow a routine: They start with a rhythmical squeaking of her bedsprings. The pounding then increases in speed, yet I hear no sounds of her man’s voice. Her moans, however, will start after about five minutes, and I must admit—she actually sounds quite enticing. She moans from her chest, in a natural pitch. The whimpers never turn into grunts (as happens with me—when I’m inspired); neither do they sound mechanical or faked. As the squeaking pauses (do I hear a position change?), the lovers don’t speak. Only in the last stretch of the 10-to-15 minute shag session, does his voice come through. A couple of his groans—and mazel tov!
This morning, I’ve managed to sleep past the squeaking, waking only to the crescendo of her moans intertwined with a couple of words he released simultaneously with his orgasm. Then, her laughter began, in response to some routine of his; and at the sound of it, every hint of my annoyance at the untimely waking hour melted away immediately. My girl neighbor sounded light and full of joy. She sounded young and deserving of being fallen in love with. She had obviously suffered enough—a woman of East Indian heritage has plenty of negotiation to do in life—yet, ended up on the other side of it, still lovely and light-footed. I, myself, felt love-struck, if not with the girl herself, but the inspiration for a life lacking darkness and depression and self-loathing—and all the other wasteful colors I’ve witnessed in the biographies of my artistic friends.
Which made me recall the young faces I encountered last night. To them, I dedicate these words:
To the girl, tipsy in her cheep, sparkly shoes, who pouted in the fashion of Marilyn Monroe pictures she collected as a young teen and last night sloppily slid and ground against some undeserving youngster’s leg on the dance floor—
To the anxious young man, painfully uncomfortable in his chubby frame, discombobulated by every tall girl in the joint; who worked up his courage by repeatedly pulling up his shirt sleeves, high-fiving his equally short friends and looking for solutions at the bottom of his rocks glass—
To the Persian kitten, clad in black, studying her petite toes peaking through the patent leather sandals, who swayed next to a man on the verge of passing out; and when he lashed out at me for asking if she was fine, I yanked her out of his clasp and walked her to a cab (but before her head separated from my bosom, she whispered: “I love you.” “Of course, you do,” I responded and caressed her jet-black hair.)—
To the beautiful model-esque male creature leaning against a pole, with his eyes, fingers and attention on his Blackberry, who was so obviously in the way of the traffic yet completely oblivious, and who ended up muttering, “Bitch!” after I’ve finally asked him to move—
To the blonde with smeared make-up and breath reeking of stomach acid, who trampled over my feet and dry-humped my hip for finding her misplaced work phone; yet reached for her wine glass as soon as I untangled myself from her long, naked arms—
To the gay kid who decided to amuse his friends by placing a glass of ice against my naked back; and when I yelped and turned around, he luckily stumbled out of the radar of my swinging arm, took on the “I just shat my pants” expression; then grinned and muttered, “Love you?”—
To the gorgeous, tall black goddess in a red dress strategically painted onto her body, with erect nipples the size of cherries confronting every lucky bystander; yet who still found her own beauty insufficient and retracted to the bathroom mirror every seven minutes—
And to all the rest of the restless souls, uncomfortable in solitude, looking for love in all the wrong places:
It shall all get easier, darling children of humanity! With time, the anxiety gets tamed by habit. The broken heart heals; and after you work out the pattern with mama and papa, hopefully you’ll give a chance to the right person finally worthy of you. Sex will remain fun and humiliating; but it will get better once you stop apologizing for the non-existent imperfections of your body: you are indeed beautiful, in health and esteem. Yes: There will be more genuine joy, in little things, which won’t be induced by substances or money! And yes: It will take work, but peace will soon settle in, I promise. Just don’t forget to ask for goodness from others—but mostly from yourself—and you shall be glorious! You. Are. Enough.