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Sex and the thin-walled room | page 1, 2
Still, the walls shook, the screaming continued and I really needed to get some sleep. But sleep would not come easily. More than the noisy lovers themselves, it was Jonathan's incredible stamina that began to unnerve me. He had this woman screaming for nearly 30 minutes straight, yet he still had gas in his tank. I flashed back on a lifetime of bed partners and could not remember a single instance when my sexual prowess caused a woman to scream for 30 minutes straight. Ten minutes maybe. Twelve or 13 minutes, if I was at the top of my game. But 30 minutes? Without a break? I decided that Jonathan and his vocal vixen were pissing me off. It was past 2 a.m., dammit! I needed to get some sleep. I had a long day ahead of me. The two of them were being totally insensitive to the hotel guests. Besides, what if there were children down the hall? I pressed both hands against my ears (wondering why soundproof walls aren't as common as hotel smoke detectors) while plotting ways to bring this lovefest to a screeching halt. I would telephone the front desk and complain. No! I would telephone Jonathan and politely ask him to gear down. No, no! I would pound my fist against the wall, shout excerpts from their racy dialogue and hope that sheer embarrassment would stifle their activity. Yessss! But before I summoned the courage to do so, Jonathan's name echoed through the universe for one crowning moment and dissolved into unintelligible gibberish. A blissful silence settled over my hotel room. And I drifted off to sleep. Then, seemingly seconds after my head hit the pillow, Jonathan and his lover dived into Round 2. For the second time, I woke to the sound of a woman screaming. The headboard started up again and Jonathan's name roared through the adjoining wall with a ferocity that made my eyes bulge. Who the hell was this guy anyway? A vacationer hauling massive equipment and an unlimited supply of Viagra? And who was this woman who seemed so pleased with his performance? Was she his wife? (Hah!) His girlfriend? A porno star who had finally met her match? After their thirst had been quenched for the second time, I heard laughter and muted conversation. A moment later their balcony door slid open on a squeaky runner. Unable to resist the urge to see their faces, I found myself peering through the curtains as the couple stepped outside. Caught in the soft Caribbean moonlight, cigarette dangling from one corner of his mouth, Mr. Jonathan, Jonathan, oh ... my ... God ... Jonathan was staring at a full moon with one arm around his cohort. She turned and disappeared into the room before I had the chance to see her face, but I got a good look at super stud. A smiling sort with a balding head and an emerging pot belly, Jonathan stood about 5-foot-6. And if hotel walls could talk, they would bear witness to my honesty -- Jonathan appeared to be about 65 years old.
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