My friends and I are in an on-again/off-again writing club where the rules are simple. Every two weeks you have to submit three short stories that it took you 20 minutes or less to write. These are the results.

They’re fucking in the apartment below me.  Since I can’t hear their moans or screams, I can only hear the rhythmic thumping and sliding of the bed.  They sound like an enormous copy machine.

In a Hyatt in Newport Beach I heard a couple fucking in the next room.  Our rooms were by a door and everything came through the gaps.  After a brief flurry of sucking sounds and gasping she said, “What do you want me to do?”  “Whatever you want do.”  He tried to sound sexy and sincere at the same time.  “I’m serious,” she said.  “So am I,” he said.  So she sucked his cock.  I know this because the sucking sounds intensified, you oculd only hear his moaning, and there was a new noise, a pop that sounded like someone pulling a fist out of their mouth.  When they finally had sex, it didn’t even last as long as the commercial break on my muted college basketball game.  It was like eavesdropping on sitcom sex.

I was asked to leave my first apartment in new york because of fucking too loud.  My girlfriend Jae was Korean and a screamer.  She was the most beautiful woman I’ve ever had sex with in my life.  She was also manic depressive, never held a single job while we were together, and was arrested for bank fraud two years after we broke up.  She almost got deported.  On our second date she pissed her pants sitting on the bar stool next me.  She just never got up.  She just sat there and pissed herself, kept talking, kept moving my hands off her legs.  But I felt it.  She passed out an hour later and I had to fireman carry her home.

When I met her she was freelance bartending a party and drunk, coked up and on two hits of e for the first time in my life, I hit on her.  When she asked me where I lived, instead of saying the neighborhood or borough, I gave her my actual address.  Yet she still agreed to date me.

The day I broke up with her we met at a diner and she brought me a pack of cigarettes and a fifth of jack daniels.  She had an idea we were in bad shape, and this was her pathetic attempt to counteroffer.  It was a tiny diorama of sadness that only made me angrier.  I left her crying in the booth, and neither the liquor, the tobacco, nor the fact that she could suck a bullet out of a pistol was enough to dissuade me.  But on the way out I paid for her omelet.