The Sound and the Fucking

The Sound and the Fucking

The glorious, early 2000's musical, Avenue Q, delighted us with some wickedly insightful songs, such as "everyone's a little bit racist" and "you can be loud as the hell you want when you're making love". However, in light of recent events (and some events long past) we at Peach and Eggplant must, sadly, disagree with Avenue Q's Gary, and must advocate for at least some upper and lower limits on sexy time vocalization.  

So, how loud is too loud? How quiet is too quiet? We explore below. 

Item 1. When the Cops Come Calling

Many years ago when I myself was but a baby peach dating the first man to ever tell me he loved me, we were often accommodated in his college housing. This luxurious off campus apartment included a roommate who was often shut up with his girlfriend in the other room. On occasion, we found ourselves shut up in First Love Eggplant's room at the same time Roommate Eggplant was in there with his lady, and would hear the dulcet tones of some good gettin-down wafting through the papery walls with which all college housing is equipped. We would take it upon ourselves to then compete with Roommate Eggplant to create louder and more enthusiastic get-down sounds from our side of the A.P.T. 

Which is a thing I hope you have had occasion to do, dear reader, as it feels dirty and wicked and is an inordinate amount of fun. 

However there were other occasions when First Love Eggplant and I would be in there when Roommate Eggplant and his peach were out. Obviously.

One time in particular was memorable: First Love Eggplant was tryna earn him some Red Lobster or something and/or I was really feelin what he was puttin it down, because the sounds coming out of me, and working their way into the neighboring apartments were of such a volume that the neighbors were, we later learned, unsure if maybe boyfriend was murdering me. If you've read the heading on this section you will not be surprised to hear that we discovered this was the case when a police dude showed up at the door to tell us so.

Ok, so having the cops called on you because you are too noisy a fuck is both kindof awesome and truly terrible. I mean, the look on Police Dude's face, talking to a sweaty, boxer clad First Love Eggplant when I sheepishly appear behind him, wrapped in a sheet was pretty goddamn priceless. 

But also, having the cops come to your house unexpectedly to tell you, pretty much, anything, is not a super fun experience. It is actually something I found I preferred to avoid having a repeat of. And so I swiftly discovered a way to moderate my volume. 

Item 2. The Sound of Silence

As part of my adventures in volume control I have had occasion to participate in some sneaky, quiet, nearly silent sex which involved a lot of heavy breathing, swallowed moans and holding of breath, and which can be QUITE enjoyable under the right circumstances. But the effort involved in this is not negligible. So, I cannot recommend (and certainly could never personally achieve) this volume of fucking on the regular. 

Which brings us to the question: if cops coming to the house is our marker for too loud, how should we mark how quiet is too quiet? 

It's silence. Silence is too quiet. 

I wasn't expecting actual silent sex to be possible, in fact, until I hooked up with this one boy who emitted literally no sounds, like not even any heavy breathing, during either the original boot knocking or the subsequent blow job portions of our encounter. I found this fairly distressing - like, how can I tell if you're into this or not, friend, I mean, I know your dick is hard and everything but otherwise, I'm all, how is this going for you up there man? 

You gotta make some sounds for me so I can tell what type of experience you're having. Just like I expect my partners to pick up on my vocal cues. Because not everyone can form actual words in flagrante, which means you might not hear, "that's not really working for me, knock it off" or "yahs, that's the spot, hit it, GET IT!" but like, you should be able to read my nonverbals and such to logic that shit out. 

Ultimately, whether you use words or sounds to give it, feedback is key. And as long as its loud enough for me to hear you, you're loud enough. But Silence is death. 

Item 3. The Screamer

All of which brings me back to the recent experience that prompted this post, and caused me to revoke my prior approval of the Avenue Q postulate: 

Let's call him the screamer. 

Homie was a dude I met on the Internet (of course) who was recently divorced, so he wanted to do very adult dates - as in dinners instead of drinks. I am a firm believer in a drinks only first date for internet people, in case they are really terrible, or not at all as described and you want to escape after, say 45 minutes. 

Anyways, on date 2 I agree to dinner, and he seems...nice. He's had quite a bit of tragic events befall him, but even so he was kinda dull;  but mostly he seemed awkward. I understand me an awkward nerd, and I was thinking, eh, probably this is not going anywhere but I could maybe spot him a third date to see if he settles down.

Meanwhile, over after dinner drinks Homie is campaigning RILL hard to come home with me, which I was not super feeling, but I decide that if I'm gonna keep trying to go out with him then I might as well evaluate our horizontal compatibility, cause a high score there could def help pad his score from the swimsuit competition. 

So the whole time we are sexin it, dude is maintaining a steady mutter in my ear, which I am not at all anti, because (as noted above) I like a little feedback. Things are generally proceeding in a way I would describe as "decent". 

However. 

As dude is rounding the far turn, the noises he is emitting become what can only be described as SCREAMS. It is SO LOUD. And right in my ear. In fact, it is so loud, and so all of a sudden, that it scares me, at first. But then, as it continues, it is so effing absurd that a grown man would be carrying on this way, that, I can't help it, I start to laugh. 

I mean, its a quiet laugh, and it did occur to me that oh shit, this is gonna throw him off and we will be here forever but he clearly wasn't paying enough attention to me to notice and/or he did not care because, after what felt like, oh, a good 30 seconds of hollering, he finally achieves liftoff. 

As we are laying there - him panting a bit, me wondering whether I need to send apology flowers to my neighbors, who no doubt overheard this nonsense, even through my very adult and non college thickness walls - I attempt to address the situation, in a totally non-judgey, jovial way. 

I say, with a smile and a giggle "hehe, you're so LOUD" 

and he replies "yeah, hehe. Get used to it."

Which is why that was the last time Screamer Eggplant and I ever spent time together. Because "get used to it" implies that he knows he's insanity loud, does not care, is always that loud and does not intend to change. And, I mean for real y'all, I'm not tryna have the cops called on me for sex sounds while I'm in my effing 30s. Particularly when they're not even MY NOISES. 

If that is how loud as the fuck you want to be, then you should probably learn how to bite your damn lip or something. But you certainly can't be doing it the fuck with me. 

Hell to the nah. 

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