There isn't a lot of space between my room and the kitchen, unlike how it used to be in my old house, but with the way my thoughts move at something approaching lightspeed, there was enough time to both register and wonder at the noise coming from its vague direction as I approached for the purpose of making some kind of stimulant in liquid form.
It was unmistakeable - a little thwack, followed by a female grunt somewhere between pleasure and pain.
No, I thought. Surely not. There can't be any sex happening in the kitchen.
Of course not. My parents don't make noises - I'm not even sure if they have sex at all, really. They sometimes put whale song on or one of those godawful "sounds of the forest" CDs, but I think that's mostly to act more middle-class than they actually are. I've had sex to Tim Booth - now there's a challenge. My sister, so I hear (from her) does include a bit of light BD/SM in her sex life, but she wouldn't be doing so in our kitchen, mostly because of the fact that she doesn't live here and moved out of our old house about four years ago. And I wouldn't come here just for a spank.
So I continued on my way to the kitchen, ready and waiting to confront whoever might be wielding an implement and making someone shout in agreement and reciept.
This concept lasted all of a second and a half before I realised that my dad had left the radio on and that it was actually Maria Sharapova making those noises.
I'm pretty sure that says more about me than anything else...