Hey man, I know we never really speak—but I’m about to have loud sex. Like really loud. We’re talking a troop of howler monkeys absolutely going to town on each other in front of a megaphone loud.

Like a horde of demons unleashed from hell loud. Like the Blue Man Group wailing on each other’s asses to create a human bongo loud.

This is the most I will ever say to you.

Sure, you may get a mumbled introduction to my partners as we hastily scramble our way up the stairs—but all the other details of my life will remain a mystery.

You don’t learn much from our brief glances in the hallway.

Do I play tennis? Maybe. Sing? Perhaps. Do I fuck real noisy? Absolutely.

That is more than most people will ever know each other. Me, deep in the throes of passion with an indeterminate amount of people. You, listening through the walls, I imagine, like an eager Dutch child waiting for Sinterklaas on Christmas Eve.

It’s beautiful. Don’t you think? Two strangers, joined by Craigslist, becoming as close as two humans with nothing in common can be.

Not that you’ll get an accurate picture of what we’re doing. No. To you, it’ll sound as if I’m smacking around a pair of wet bowling balls and groaning with the ferocity of a mountain gorilla.

Just as it should be.

We’ve never discussed what I do for work. But it’s a smart hypothesis that I don’t work mornings. Seeing as I’m shagging well into the witching hour.

The witching hour is what I call it when it sounds like I’m boning the soul out of twenty-five horny witches.

Sure, there may be some gentle moments of silence. Yet just as the eye of a hurricane provides a temporary respite from the raging wind, the worst is yet to come.

The house walls will shake.

Books will tumble from their shelves.

The floors will buckle under the immense weight of my pleasure.

The auditory sensation of a naked, thrusting freight train will crash down upon you. You’ll beg God to return you to your old life—and receive no answer.

Then, as quickly as it began, the sexy storm will end.

A smattering of footsteps will waltz carefully as field mice from the house.

You’ll peek out your door, hoping for a glimpse of what has transpired. However, it will be only me—red, sweaty, and expressionless.

I’ll say, “What’s up?”

You’ll answer, “Not much.”

Then you’ll retreat to your room without a hint of who caused the ten-megaton nuclear fuckfest that just rained down from the heavens.

“Did it even happen?” You wonder. Is a sex sesh with the combined energy of five-hundred tuna slapping together in a net even possible? Or was it some magical dream of lust, passion, and butt boinking?

Some mysteries are best left unsolved.

Also, I drank all your milk.