In my hotel room
Sounds from next door, someone's getting laid
God's name's proclaimed
The end is on its way
"So tell me," my housemate said, in his far-too-loud-for-decent-conversation voice, "did you hear Rodge and Shell shagging?"
I reflected on what to say. My first thought was to tell him to not mind this and enquire as to how he'd managed to drag himself out of his self-induced stupor and shrug off the human sloth attitude in order to come down to the kitchen. I also thought to ask him about why I hadn't heard him having sex with his own girlfriend. One of her friends, drunk, had wandered into my room once to find me reading a fantasy book. She didn't then have sex with me, of course. Nobody ever did.
Rodge lived in the big room between myself and Mister Human Sloth. He spent most of the time working on his PhD, playing Worms2 against the rest of us and winning, eating inordinate amounts of cheese on toast and banging his girlfriend Shell. He wasn't particularly discreet about it; they usually started having sex at a time in the morning where the French girl who lived downstairs was at the university building across the road and Mister Human Sloth was asleep or playing Counter Strike with headphones blocking out everything except people shooting at him.
Shell appeared to be quite vocal during sex and the sounds emanated from Rodge's bedroom (and, in one case, the bathroom), resonating around our house and possibly the rest of the neighbourhood. I didn't actually mind them doing so - I wasn't having any sex but I wasn't going to begrudge them having as much as they could, and I used to take their yelps and moans as a cue to put on some porn myself and join in, in my own special, slightly ashamed way.
But the reason my sleepy housemate had asked this question was evident. Of course I'd heard Rodge and Shell shagging. Everyone had. You didn't have much of a choice. But, as far as I'd heard, they'd broken up a week ago.
"As far as I heard, they broke up a week ago," I replied.
"Yeah, I know. Mind you, it was her birthday the other day, maybe they had sex for that."
"Sex for your birthday?"
"Well, would you prefer anything else?"
I considered the one and a half years I'd spent not having sex. "No," I conceded, truthfully.
And so it continued for the rest of the year. I never really asked what the deal was, although our French girl did. She got a non-committal, jocular answer, from what I could tell.
I returned to the same house for the first half of my final year to find that I was the only one left. Rodge had gone. The French girl was in France. The human sloth had gone back home and, oddly, became a policeman, last I heard.
And so I was alone. And it was me making the noises this time...