Meet The F*ckers

Maybe if I write a rilly funny post about my condo, people all over the world will laugh and that will draw waves of lovely cosmic energy upon which The Perfect Tenant will surf, landing at my door with a toss of his/her sunbleached tresses. Here goes.

When you buy a condo, the people who sell it to you throw the word "concrete" around a lot. You might think that means the building is a little beehive of concrete cells and you, if you buy into this active lifestyle community, can have your own little cell protected from yet connected to all the other bees in the hive.

And you nod and smile and the secret thought slips into your head that maybe, just maybe, this will be the building where you actually make friends with your neighbours. And maybe the glorious Concrete means you won't hear your neighbours fight or sneeze or (as was the case in one particular apartment building) poop. And that might facilitate the gradual blossoming of a friendship a little better than constantly hearing the private inner workings of their lives and bodies.

But that doesn't happen. Partly because no one makes friends with the people in their building. And partly because the people that own the condos are very different than the tenants that inevitably and gradually fill up all the little cells of the beehive.

Being right close to the technical/vocational school, these tenants are younger than the mid-thirties professionals who ponied up fifty grand for a down payment. And being younger, they are louder. Probably because they haven't lived in apartments for, oh say, thirteen years like I have and therefore are not trained to, oh say, shut the hell up. But I'm not here to unleash and Old Lady rant about the Young People of Today.

I'm here to tell you about The F*ckers.

I met The F*ckers one winter evening as I was making dinner and they were making something else. As I chopped, they humped, the music of their lovemaking drifting easily through the drywall of our shared bedroom wall.

I smiled, said something wistful-yet-patronizing like, "Crazy kids," and placidly went back to my cooking.

But this, dear friends, was only the beginning.

Because "concrete construction" might mean the floors of the beehive are concrete, but the walls certainly aren't. And because another thing about younger tenants is that they happen to have the sex drives of teenage rabbits on Ecstasy.

The F*ckers f*cked. A lot.

And I, being just on the other side of the paper-thin drywall, was privy to it all. I tapped my foot to the sound of the bed banging rhythmically and happily, becoming moved to tears by Mrs. F*cker's operatic orgasms.

I noticed as the 6 pm couplings progressed to later at night. During sleepovers, I was treated to carnal alarm clocks at three and four in the morning. And on weekends, if I heard giggling, I knew he was using the patented and powerful Tickle Her And Then Take Her Pants Off foreplay technique.

One epic day they did it at dinnertime, again at ten or eleven and then went for the hat trick, waking me from a dead sleep at three a.m.

Oh yes, The F*ckers f*cked.

I will admit to some jealousy.

I tried to remember my own early twenties, hoping that at some point I got as busy as these kids, and my whole life hasn't been a barren sexless wasteland. But, all I can remember of the Early Twenties is sleeping with sharp objects at the ready to fend off my constantly horny snowboarder boyfriend.

Quite different than what my friend Dayna describes as The Early Thirty Hornies. Quite different indeed. Dayna described an unexpected period of arousal once a woman hits the Big-3-0, probably some hardwired baby-making impulse deep in the DNA. But, being in my twenties at the time (and still fending people off with sticks), I thought her theory was BS.

How wrong I was.

So there I was deep in the Early Thirty Hornies, frustrated as all hell, listening to the Early-Twenties F*ckers go at it twice and three times a day. And my only consolation was that their "sessions" are rather "short." Because, being young, Mr. F*cker hadn't yet figured out that two minutes is not going to cut it in the long run and he'd be hearing a lot less of Mrs. F*cker's operatic orgasms (if they were indeed orgasms) as the years went on unless he acquired a bit more stamina.

One night, the bed started its usual bass drum against the wall. It accelerated faster than usual and then abruptly stopped well before Mrs. F*cker's usual aria had begun. There was a brief moment of shocked silence and then Mrs. F*cker cried out indignantly, "You f*cker!"

Stamina Mr. F*cker. Stamina.