I was living in a large apartment complex in a Chicago suburb last year. It was an old building, with creaky floors and high quality acoustics.
My neighbor directly above me was a cute young guy, very J. Crew. His new girlfriend was a screamer. Luckily, she only came to see him on the weekends.
One night, I was feeling a bit tipsy, eating frozen margarita mix and watching a Woody Allen flick. J. Crew and Screamer were squeaking the floor boards, putting on their dramatic show of affection. So, of course, I turned down the movie to listen. (I never said I was moral.)
They finished with a triple axle/ back flip combination, Screamer bringing it up a notch with some meowing.
Silence.
Floor boards squeaking to the bathroom.
Shower sounds.
Then, to my amusement, I heard Screamer finish for real. She wasn't nearly as dramatic about it, but there were unmistakable orgasm ooh's.
Amongst fierce giggles and tequila light-headedness, I yelled, "Tell him the truth!"
J. Crew squeaked back to the bedroom. Murmered good-nights. Total silence.