During my first year of grad school, I had trouble finding a quiet place to rent that fit my budget. At one point, I crossed paths with a man who was newly divorced, had a large house in an upscale neighborhood, and he wanted to rent a room out, very cheap, to a live-in housekeeper. Friends and family were initially concerned for me, a younger woman moving in with an older, single man, but I wasn’t worried, he seemed like an ordinary guy and his profession, home, and neighborhood all suggested it was a safe place to rent. A month later, he met a woman on-line and they went on a date. On their second date, he invited her to stay the night. As I had plenty of studies to keep me busy, and it was a very large house, I didn’t think anything of it – what goes on behind closed doors was none of my business.
About two the next morning, I woke to the distant – but loud – sounds of giggling, spanking, and assorted moans and howls of ecstasy. My bedroom door was shut, and the landlord’s bedroom was on the other side of the house, but from the volume of their enthusiastic love-making, I could tell he’d left his door open. Figuring the appropriate thing to do was be patient, I did nothing. After twenty minutes of continuous noise, I decided to study a while and hope that things would quiet down. After an hour, although impressed by their stamina, I was too embarrassed to confront the pair and I retired to the loft above the garage where it was slightly quieter, if not totally insulated from the din, and got a few more hours’ sleep on the sofa up there. When I left for class the next morning, I didn’t encounter anyone in the kitchen (I guess they needed to sleep in, which, given their exertions the night before, made sense).
As the day wore on, I felt more and more uncomfortable about what had happened. They knew I was in the house… why not keep it down, or at least shut the door? I spoke to few friends about it, and their reactions varied from astonishment to horror and they convinced me to find a new place to live. When I considered explaining to my landlord exactly why I was leaving, I felt so awkward that I said ‘forget it, just load up the car while he’s at work, leave a note, and never go back’ – which is what I did. Maybe there was a polite way to confront him about the issue, but even if I’d found the right words to say, I would still have wanted to move out.
I stayed in the only motel I could afford while I looked for a new place to rent. The motel had roaches, but at least they were quiet. 0824-10
When I was college aged, I encountered the same dilemma of unintentionally hearing my hosts engaged in some rather enthusiastic lovemaking. I honestly don’t think the love-screechers have any clue how loud they are.