The Dick Next DoorBy: Simone Sowood
I hate my neighbor, and I’ve never even seen him.
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Do you know what happens when you're kept up all night by your rude, noisy, dick of a neighbor?
Crazy stuff, that's what.
Like, for example, you smash the hell out of your ceiling.
Imagine my surprise when I finally do come face to face with him, and his rugged looks and tattoo covered muscles melt my panties.
I want to give him a piece of my mind, but the more I talk to him, the more I might end up giving him my body instead.
But I don’t think I can ever forgive him for all the sleepless nights.
I hope you enjoy this super short romance!
From deep within me, a groan forms and erupts out of my throat with ferocity. My back arches and my hands fly to my face, sending the pillows scattering across the bed.
I’d piled the pillows high on my head, trying to drown out the noise.
It didn’t work. Even with my brand new earplugs in.
No matter what I do, this fucking asshole’s drumming wakes me up every night.
I hate him.
Life was great last month, until asshole moved in. I live in a cute house that’s been divided into two apartments. Mine is on the ground floor. I get the backyard. The basement has a shared laundry room, but I’ve never seen him down there.
My dick neighbor lives on top of me.
Of course I renewed my lease a few weeks before he moved in. I love my place. Loved my place. I’ve lived here for three years, and it feels like home. It’s probably worse because it is a home and not just another apartment. My home has been invaded and completely changed by a dick.
I’ve never seen him, ever. I don’t know what he does all day, or how I’ve never seen him coming or going — because believe me, I’m always on high alert for a sighting. There’s nothing I’d like better than to meet him in person so I can tell him how horrible he is to live underneath.
The soundproofing in this old house in pathetic.
In the evenings, I get to hear him thumping around like he’s jogging on the spot.
One time I heard his front door close. Naturally I ran straight up the stairs and banged on his door. When he didn’t open, I started screaming and kicking the door. Nothing. I gave up. Just like all the other times I gave up.
In the nights, I get to hear him drumming.
One night, he even drummed for three hours straight. I was crying after the first hour. By the third, I’d rolled up in a ball in the bathtub and buried myself in the cushions from the couch.
Yes I’ve tried knocking on his door. Repeatedly. I don’t think he cares. I’ve put notes under the door, I don’t think he reads them. Or more likely, he doesn’t care.
Bang, bang, boom, bang.
The green numbers on my clock shout three fifteen at me. Is there a worse time to be awake?
Rummaging around under my pillow, I find my phone and wake it up. The brightness from the screen is blinding. With my eyes squeezed shut, I turn down the brightness on the screen as low as it will go. It still blazes like the sun.
With one eye squeezed shut, I slowly manage to get the other eye open enough to read the screen.
I google “world’s best earplugs.”
I already own all of them. The world is in desperate need of new earplug technology.
I google “best over the counter sleeping pills.”
I took two before bed tonight.
I google “maximum safe amount of sleeping pills to take.”
Random people on the internet assure me I won’t die if I take another one. It’s not like I have much of a choice. I have two important meetings in the morning.
Boom, crash, crash, bang.
Resigned, I fling my comforter back and get out of bed. I pad off in the direction of the kitchen to get more sleeping pills.
If I didn’t suffer from such bad hangovers, I’d take a Marilyn Monroe cocktail of rum and pills every night. Maybe I’ll start. What’s worse, the sleepless nights or the hangovers?
Bang, boom, crash. Boom, boom, bang.
Why does he think he’s Tommy Lee? Can he not here what I hear?
Crash, bang, bang. Crash, crash, crash.
Good lord, not the non-stop symbols again. I can’t decide if they’re better or worse than the drums. Why can’t he play the flute?