I live with two small, giggly Singaporean accountants. When I moved in, the deal was that I would sublet the second bedroom as giggly one had been sent to Washington to count upon her abacus from there. Giggly two would take the larger bedroom, and giggly one would occasionally pop by to concoct foul-smelling broths with chicken necks and 100 year old duck eggs upon her rice-boiler.
Since I moved in, it has become increasingly apparent to me that giggly one has little intention of ever moving to Washington. Indeed the suspicion has grown that giggly one and giggly two are, in fact, embroiled in a lesbian relationship, and are using me merely to excuse the fact that giggly one lives permanently in giggly two's bed. This does not bother me in the slightest. I find it soothing that we all harbor little secrets from one another, for they are completely unaware that I am a dancer in a Manhattan strip club, and think that I just have an exotic social life. We exist in a hiatus of calm, although I fear discovery and consequent homelessness every day. Increasingly my calm has been punctuated by another slight problem.
I awoke early on Saturday morning, to little giggly cries of orgasmic pleasure.
Every time I see them, these cries, accompanied by unwelcome images of complicated sexual acrobatics, flash through my mind, and I too start giggling insanely. I live in a sublet apartment of nervous mirth, and I fear the necessary repudiations from suppressed secrets, suppressed sex.

Plus I'm not getting any and it's driving me crazy.

Posted on October 19, 2005
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