Sinfully Sweet: Tabitha and Leon

By J. A Melville

Tabitha

By day I was a successful blogger.  Although to look at me, you'd never guess.

My best friend Manny called me hot. A hot mess that is.

By night, listening in on my neighbour made me envious.

Who was this stud on the other side of my bedroom wall?

I was boring in comparison. The only man sharing my bed was my black cat.

I needed to even the score. Show him I could have a good time too.

I just needed to enlist the help of Manny for my master plan.

 

Leon

By day, baking cakes was my passion. Creating things of beauty to eat.

By night, there was no shortage of women willing to help me unwind.

Seems I wasn't the only one, when I heard my neighbour through the wall.

I wanted to meet the sexy siren who lived next door.

Wow, did she turn out to be nothing like  I expected.

Swap sexy siren for tiny, crazy fireball with big hair.

She kept me on my toes. She had me wanting more.

Could we make this work? You know what they say about the best laid plans…

 

This book contains Australian English. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. A Melville
• Release date: Oct 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393863380

Book preview

Chapter One

TABITHA

It was the weekend. I loved the weekends, but then who didn’t? Anyone who had to work on theirs I suppose, but this was about me, not them. I loved the fact I had downtime. Time to loll about in bed. Time to stare at my ceiling and contemplate life. I did a lot of that. Staring at my ceiling that is.

I can’t be the only one who does it. I don’t mean just staring at the ceiling, I mean contemplating life. I have some of my best ideas in bed, but I also do some of my craziest thinking there. Like spiders. Yeah, I said it. Spiders. Or more precisely their webs. That always leads to more questions. Why? Why do I have so many spider’s webs on my ceiling? And where are those crafty little web builders?

The webs appear but where the hell are the spiders? Ninjas. They must be Ninjas. They come. They build. They fuck off. Or maybe like the arachnid version of Santa? They come through the night and instead of leaving gifts, they leave webs. Then they move onto the next house and repeat the process over again.

There’s one problem with that theory though. I haven’t quite figured out what the advantage is to them building and leaving again. What the spiders see as their homes, I see as work. Seriously, there is only so long I can pretend that it’s lacework and not spider’s webs hanging from my ceiling

Sighing, I reached over to the packet beside me and pulled another Tim Tam from it. I shouldn’t be eating in bed. I shouldn’t be eating chocolate biscuits. Not just because of the crumbs, but because of my electric blanket. Not that there was any hidden danger connected to chocolate and electric blankets. Well, not that I knew of anyway. This was more of a scientific reason. Apply heat to chocolate and the result was a sticky mess, and not the good kind either.

I’d lost count of how many times I’d freaked out, thinking I had some sort of strange rash, only to discover it was chocolate biscuit crumbs that had melted and adhered to my skin.  

All that aside, the main reason I shouldn’t be eating Tim Tams is that chocolate, any form of chocolate, gave me a migraine if I over indulged. Overindulging was anything over six Tim Tams. The injustice.

I loved chocolate. What sick and twisted Universe decided to make it give me a migraine? Was there someone I could complain to? A complaints department? If there wasn’t one. There should be. It was unfair. Grossly unfair.

It led to me doing stupid things. Walking that fine line. Pushing my limits and cursing my reckless nature all the next day when I staggered about, clutching at my head and wondering what damn fool turned up the brightness on the sun.

Today, I felt like taking a walk on the wild side. I’d been taking a lot of walks on the wild side lately. Grant had dumped me three weeks ago. Told me he needed a woman who took better care of herself and was sexier than me. Pfft. Sexy. What did he know? I could be sexy. I just wasn’t interested in being sexy for him. Men. They wanted women to have the perfect faces. Perfect hair. Perfect bodies and still act like 1950’s housewives, doing everything for their man.

They couldn’t have a job because looking after their man was their job. They didn’t need to have a brain, because seriously, how hard was it to cook and clean and tell them they were masters of their Universe? My response to all that? No...fucking...way.

I’d settle for my controlled chaos and having days where I was probably hygienically challenged. And, I’d settle for the only man in my life worth having. Although, right at this moment, he was eyeing me off in that judgemental way of  his. He was damn good at it too. It pissed me off because he could make me feel guilty with just one measured look from his yellow eyes.

Don’t you dare judge me. I muttered at Morris, my huge, slightly overweight black cat. Need I remind you whose bed this is you’re lying on?

His response was to yawn before curling himself into a ball and going back to sleep. Wise idea. I muttered, reaching for another Tim Tam and taking note that I was up to my seventh one now.

If I had a migraine tomorrow, I was blaming Grant. Not that I was eating Tim Tams to fill the void in my life now he was gone. Pfft. I was glad he was gone. No, I was blaming him because, after all, I had to blame someone.

I was done with men for now. Hell, it’s not like I needed one. I didn’t need them for sex. I had an entire arsenal at my disposal in my bedside drawer. It was like the Holy Grail of vibrators in there. One of every colour and size. Each one guaranteed to bring hours of entertainment and orgasms.

Why would I want to put myself through dealing with another man and all the crap associated with a relationship? Men were too clingy and needy. They needed their dicks and their egos stroked and seriously, who has the time for that shit, all the fucking time?

Thinking about my drawer sparked that warm and fuzzy feeling in my knickers. Why not? This was as good a time as any for an orgasm. I was alone. Well, except for Morris and he’d already made it abundantly clear what he thought about me eating chocolate biscuits in bed, I’m sure he’d have no problem passing judgement on me for masturbating in his presence.

Digging around in the drawer, I selected what I refer to as my patriotic vibrator. It’s simple. No bells and whistles on this one, but it did have a nice little curve to the top end guaranteed to flush out even the most bashful of g-spots.

The reason I called it my patriotic vibrator was its colour. It was in the colours of the Australian flag. Hell, it was the Australian flag. Ok, not literally, but you get the idea.

Dropping Aussie on the bed, yes, I name my vibrators, I reached under the sheets to slip off my knickers. Delving between my legs, I felt the wetness against my fingers.

Reaching for Aussie, I switched him on and set him to my favourite setting, the pulse. Before moving him down and pressing him against my clit.

I always masturbated to the same pattern. Call me dull if you wish, but I knew my body and what it needed. I could drag this shit out and make a day of it, but even I couldn’t justify spending the whole day in bed.

Once I had a nice buzz going, pardon the pun, I shifted Aussie to my entrance and pushed him inside. Ooh...yeah. I sighed, savouring the feel of him rubbing back and forth over my g-spot.

I settled into a pattern of pushing him deep. Deep  enough that I felt that dull pain before pulling him out again. Followed by a rub over my clit, then in again. Rinse and repeat.

My orgasm hit, almost taking me by surprise. My back arched, my mouth opened, and I screamed. Aussie Aussie Aussie, Oi Oi Oi. A stupid thing I tended to do, when Aussie was my vibrator of choice for my orgasm.

As the pleasure speared through me, lighting up what felt like every nerve ending in my body, I heard a dull sound against the wall above my head. It wasn’t just the one thump though. There was another, and another, until I realised something was hitting my bedroom wall rhythmically.

With the effects of my orgasm fading to little more than a warm glow that left me weak and boneless, I finally realised the noise I could hear was a sex noise. Someone was fucking on the other side of my bedroom wall.

The first thing to register was: so, they found someone to rent the apartment? The second thing was, copycats. I get my sexy on, even if it’s with myself and now suddenly, everyone’s doing it.

With my orgasm all but a distant memory, I scrambled into a sitting position on my bed, much to Morris’ disgust when I disturbed his slumber. Scooting up the mattress, I pressed an ear to my wall. Ok, I was eavesdropping, so sue me.

Still, if people were going to fuck so loudly against my wall that I could hear it, then I was going to listen. The fact there were sex noises coming from the apartment next to mine meant that not only did I have a new neighbour, there was a new occupant in the apartment block. So, call it my civic duty, but someone had to determine whether they were suitable or not. Suitable to live in this apartment block that is.

I told  myself that over and over again in my head, to shove aside that pesky little trace of guilt that lingered over my behaviour. If I flattened my body against the wall anymore, I’d become part of it, in my quest to hear every tiny sex noise that might filter its way to my ear.  

The banging on the wall began to increase and I realised I could hear the high gasping sighs of a woman. With every bang, she got louder. So loud, it was as if she was trying to drown out the constant banging. I did note that she was keeping good time with the headboard. Turning the whole sex thing into an orchestrated piece of rhythmic sound. The woman was clearly blessed with musical talent.

Listening to her build-up to a crescendo that almost made the wall vibrate, which was some achievement for a brick wall, I wondered momentarily what sort of man could play a woman’s body like that. He’d played her like the finest instrument. Extracting the kind of orgasm from her that women like me longed to experience.

I’d never had a man like that. I’d never had an orgasm like that either. Hell, the man was a saint. They should build a monument to him. A plaque at least. Put his name in the history books. Let women from around the world read his name and sob for orgasms lost to men too inferior to compare to my new neighbour.

Maybe I could find a way to contact the Queen and she could give him a knighthood?  Sir Giver of Mind-Blowing Orgasms. It didn’t exactly roll off the tongue, but it was accurate at least.

Pressing my ear more firmly against the wall, I listened like the nosy neighbour I was, as she slowly began to quieten, but through it all that ever-present banging never stopped. Sure, it slowed down, but it didn’t stop, and when I heard her begin to build up to more screaming and gasping, it was my turn to gasp.

I don’t think I stopped, all through her build up and subsequent orgasm. That being orgasm number two. If anything, I noticed my breathing was a bit ragged as if I’d just done a few laps of the block.  Anyone who knew me, knew that I didn’t run. If I was running then you’d better run like hell, because that meant it was something bad.

I felt hot. Sweat breaking out over my body. My nipples were rock hard peaks and if I was any wetter between my legs, I’d be in danger of it running down them and dripping onto the floor. Who knew that listening to people having sex was way hotter than watching porn? Maybe it was the mystery element? Hearing the passion. Hearing the physical act taking place but not knowing if they were sexy or not. Young or old.

It was like a book in some ways. The reader conjured up their own image of the characters, and that’s what I was doing now. Imagining for myself, what the people having hot sex next door, would look like.

Leaning even closer, my breath coming so hard now, I was worried for a moment that they might hear me, I listened as the rhythmic pounding got even faster. So fast and hard, I started to worry they might end up in my bedroom. The wall clearly had shit sound proofing. So, did that mean it might also be shit construction? With all the banging against it, what if it collapsed and they ended up in my room? That would be awkward given I was pressed up against it listening in. I’m not sure I’d survive that level of embarrassment if I was caught in the act of eavesdropping.

The woman’s cries had settled to gasping kind of moans that given how rhythmic they were, made me suspect that they were being forced from her with every thrust.

Oh god.  I whispered. Every inner muscle of my pussy clenching at the thought.

Oh god. I heard a masculine voice groan the exact same words I’d just whispered, and I froze, scared that I’d been overheard.

Holding my breath, I waited. Heart pounding. Shaking. Desperately in need of air but prepared to pass out at this stage rather than risk being heard.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I’m coming. I’m coming. The words were so clear, my orgasming neighbour might as well have been in my room. His voice had a husky timbre to it, that again, made me wonder what he looked like.

Right before a resurgence of panic set in. If I could hear them so clearly, perhaps they’d heard me doing my Aussie Aussie Aussie thing and  if they had, then I just wanted to curl up and die quietly. Hell, Morris could eat me, and I’d be forever known as the woman who died in her apartment and was eaten by her cat.

Better than being known as the woman who screamed out bizarre shit while orgasming, and who spent her time with her ear pressed up against bedroom walls like some sort of bloody pervert.

At that moment a loud, guttural groan reached my ears and the banging on the wall seemed to lose its rhythm, before finally stopping altogether. They were done and so was I. Although I was more turned on now than I’d been before I’d used Aussie.

Eyeing off the Australian flag covered vibrator lying on the bed, I flopped down and grabbed him, ready for my own round two.

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LEON

Stepping out of the bathroom and into my bedroom wearing nothing but a towel around my waist, I collapsed onto the freshly made bed. I’d changed the sheets after Stacy left, but then I always did.

Out of sight, out of mind was my attitude. Fresh sheets were like a purging of the soul. It was my ritual when I brought women back. Fuck them. Enjoy them. Leave them satisfied, then send them home. Change the bed. Rinse and repeat.

Sighing, I stretched out, my mind filling with images of Stacy. She had been a wild one in the sack and I swear she’d drained my balls dry. If I tried to come now, I’d get nothing but a small puff of air from the end of my dick.

Damn woman gave amazing head. She’d nearly sucked me dry the first time I’d come. These vacuum manufacturers could learn a lot from a woman like Stacy. No vacuum could suck as hard as she’d sucked my dick. I swear when I’d come, I’d seen Jesus and I wasn’t even religious.

I’d had to give myself the pep talk to end all pep talks, so I could rise to the occasion again quickly, and fuck us both into oblivion.  I’d done a stellar job too because she’d damn near screamed the place down. I just hope none of my neighbours had heard.

I’d only recently moved into the apartment and given some of the residents I’d seen so far seemed to be on the wrong side of 60, I didn’t want to get them offside, and earn a reputation for being that kind of neighbour. It didn’t matter that my time here was temporary.

I was renting the apartment for a few months off my best mate Brad. He’d bought it as an investment property and made a killing, renting it out. Given it was for sale now, and not being rented at the moment, he’d suggested I stay here, and at mate’s rates, I couldn’t refuse. It was right in the city and only a few blocks from where the next Sinfully Sweet was due to open in a little over a week.

When I’d opened my first café at 22, I never expected it to take off the way it did. My parents hadn’t been thrilled with my career choice. Dad still worked part time now as a Professor at Melbourne University, teaching mathematics and my mother owned her own hair salon. Despite good grades and going to Uni to please my parents where I got my Degree in Business, I still let them down when I decided to open my own café.

It wasn’t just the coffee people came for though, it was the desserts. My talents for creating out of the ordinary desserts came as a surprise, even to me. Sure, I’d always loved cooking and had done quite a lot of it when I’d still lived at home, but it was experimenting with various combinations that led to the love of creating desserts. Anything sweet really. Cakes. Slices. As long as it was sweet and decadent, people went crazy over it. Even naughty desserts. I had quite a decent side business catering parties with desserts that had a naughty twist to them.

Who knew that people would go crazy over naughty desserts? Ones that were loaded with sexual inuendo. Phallic symbols in all their cream filled glory.  

I wasn’t the only business that made naughty cakes or desserts, but there was clearly a big enough market to keep myself and the competition making a profit. For me, that profit had ballooned rapidly, and I’d started expanding my business. Sydney, Melbourne, Adelaide and now Hobart in Tasmania.

Rolling onto my side, I felt my body begin to succumb to the heaviness of fatigue. I’d had little sleep last night. I’d been up until the early hours of the morning at the local club I’d found nearby, and once Stacy and I met, and the mating ritual began, it had been almost daybreak when we’d left the club and come back here. 

We’d played and fucked, then played and fucked some more. Like animals, we couldn’t stop, and it was finally exhaustion that brought our playtime to an end. I needed sleep and I needed to do that alone. Women didn’t play any real part in my life other than for some light relief. A chance for release.

So, I’d given Stacy another orgasm and sent her on her merry way, leaving me to change the sheets so her perfume was gone from my bed. Click and reset. That’s how I saw it. The changing of the sheets was like the ending of a chapter. A moment in life. In time. It signalled the end because there was always an end. No woman had ever held my interest for longer than a night. No woman made me want to be around her for anything other than sex.

Rolling over, I unwrapped the towel at my waist, throwing it to the floor. I needed to sleep. I hated the way my brain and my body did this to me. I was exhausted but my mind always struggled to shut down. Sex was supposed to help me unwind and for the most part, it did.

Forcing my eyes shut, I willed myself to sleep. I was fucking exhausted. This shouldn’t be so damn hard. I needed to clear my mind. Of everything. Not think about a damn thing. Not my business. Nothing. I needed to sleep. Just...fucking...sleep.

I’d just about managed to do it too when a noise through the wall above my head, made my eyes snap open again. I listened. Wondering what I’d heard. It had sounded like an animal in pain. A dog? Cat? No. That couldn’t be right. Were animals even allowed here?

Yet another sound came through the wall and my fatigue lifted. Just like that. Gone. Damn. What the hell was it that had snapped me awake again?

Moving slowly as if the slight rustle of my sheets would be audible to next door,  I carefully got off the bed and pressed an ear to the wall. Jesus. Was I really doing this? Listening at the wall that divided my bedroom from my neighbour’s bedroom like some sort of deviant?

It was a moan. A feminine sounding moan. Not an animal after all. Was she in pain? Hurt? Should I go there and check on her? Hell, I didn’t know her. I hadn’t met the neighbours on either side of me yet.

It went quiet for a few moments and I turned away from the wall. Ready to try and sleep again, but at that moment, a woman’s voice screamed at the top of her lungs. It scared the crap out of me. So much so, I leapt sideways, forgetting about my shoes that had been kicked off earlier while I’d been hellbent on seducing Stacy. I tripped on one. Nearly rolling my ankle, before stumbling headfirst into the dividing wall, and crashing to the floor.  

Aussie Aussie Aussie. Oi Oi Oi. The clarity and volume through the wall that divided my apartment from the next one, took me by surprise. It was like the Whispering Wall. I’d been there and the sound carried with amazing clarity. Had they used the same principle to build these apartments?

Jesus, did this place have any kind of soundproofing? If I could hear my neighbour so clearly, had she heard Stacy and me?  Ok, the fact I was lying on the floor in a tangle of arms and legs, my neck bent at an awkward angle, due to my head being jammed against the wall, probably made it easier to hear what was going on, because any closer to the wall and I’d be through it.

Panicking that I’d damaged the wall, I scrambled up, ignoring the pain in my head and quickly scanned the gyprock for dents or holes. There were none, fortunately, but then, the wall might be something more substantial being a dividing wall. It sure as fuck hurt to head butt it, and as if I needed a reminder of my cranial encounter with it, my head began throbbing in earnest.

Crawling back onto my bed I tried to sleep again, but I could still hear some noises, like moans and groans coming through the wall. When they finally ended with the same bizarre, Aussie Aussie Aussie. Oi Oi Oi, I finally realised what it was I was hearing.

My neighbour was getting it on. I wasn’t quite sure what the screaming of the iconic ‘Aussie’ thing was all about though. I couldn’t hear any voices. Certainly not a man’s voice, so maybe my neighbour was a lesbian? Two women together, getting it on? Damn. I’d like to see that.

As if to prove he was totally on board with that, my dick began to harden and I slapped a hand over it, ordering it to behave. He’d had his time. He’d played and played hard. I needed sleep right now. Not a fucking hard on.

Rolling over, I punched my pillow a couple of times to try and get comfortable and finally, blissfully I drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Two

TABITHA

Stretching to ease the ache between my shoulder blades, I rose from my desk and groaned as my muscles protested at the movement. I’d been working all day on my blog.

I hadn’t been able to sleep so I’d started around six this morning and it was now an hour shy of midnight. I was done. Done with staring at my laptop screen. I needed a shower and I needed food.

I loved my job. Seriously, who wouldn’t love a job that had no set hours? No need to get dressed. Do hair or makeup. I could work my job in my pyjamas if I wanted to, and best of all, I didn’t have to leave my apartment.

Blogging was my job. It had started as a joke. My aimless prattling about life. My life. Food. Restaurants. I’d become a kind of accidental food critic, counsellor and a bit a this, bit a that. It took up a lot of my time, but the positives far outweighed any negatives.

I never would have guessed when I started that people would love to read about my life. Me. I saw myself as an average kind of Jane, but it seems it’s not so much about the life I lead but in the telling of it. Make it funny. Make it real. Don’t hold back and make it so others can relate, and I inadvertently found  my niche. The thing that made my blog popular and successful.   

I made good money. That had been the most surprising thing of all to me. I got paid for my endless prattling. I was probably never going to be one of the mega rich, but I was comfortable, and I’d been able to buy this apartment.

It wasn’t big, but I didn’t need a big apartment. It was just me and Morris. It was one bedroom, one bathroom, which also doubled as a laundry, with the rest being open plan living room, dining and kitchen.  

The best part being that it was mine. Well, some of it was. The bank still owned the rest. Hopefully not for much longer as I was making higher mortgage repayments than necessary due to the blog’s success. If the blog kept being successful, my hope was to be mortgage free in just a few more years.  

Dragging myself to my feet, I stumbled into the kitchen to get a drink and stare at the dismal contents of my fridge. I needed to go shopping. I had cat food though, so Morris wasn’t going to have to resort to eating me in my sleep.

I’d just grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge when I heard voices outside in the hallway. As they drew closer, I could tell it was a man’s voice, low and deep, followed by the high pitch giggle of a woman who sounded like she’d had a few drinks.

When the door next to mine opened and then closed again, the voices becoming muted, I realised my sexed-up neighbour was home with tonight’s selection, from the menu of women, guaranteed to put out.

He was something else. Mr Stud as I referred to him since I didn’t know his name, needed to install a revolving door on his apartment. That thing got more of a workout than the local corner store.

Not to mention his bedroom which shared a wall with mine. If he had any gyprock left on it from the number of times his headboard hit the wall, then the builder of these apartments deserved a medal for sturdy and durable construction.

I don’t think he’d had the same girl in there twice. Although the routine was always the same. Some giggling followed by unidentifiable noises coming through the wall. The odd groan or squeal. The now symbolic and rhythmic banging against the wall. The screams from the women, and eventually a groan from him.

I had to give it to Mr Stud. He always finished last. No matter how many women were paraded through his bed, it was always their screams of pleasure I heard first. Night after night for the last two weeks. Two whole damn weeks of back to back sex since that first night I’d heard him and realised I had a new neighbour.

It was driving me crazy. He was driving me crazy. I wanted to see what this man looked like. This producer of orgasms. Mr Stamina himself. The man who would put the energizer bunny to shame. If sex could be an Olympic sport, then my neighbour was a gold medal winner every single night.

I had to see him. But I couldn’t go to his door. I couldn’t loiter in my doorway either and pretend I just happened to be there. There were only a few apartments on this level. Three this side and three the other side of the wide corridor. I didn’t have any relationship with my neighbours beyond a nod, smile or a hello. I couldn’t think of one legitimate reason I could justify loitering in my doorway in the hope of catching a glimpse of Mr Stud himself.

I was going to have to try and set up a trap. A way to accidentally on purpose run into him, but how? I never had anyone over. I hadn’t had sex with anyone since Grant and I split up. I needed to look like I was having sex. Let my neighbour think he was living next to a goddess. A sexy, sexual, sensual goddess who got to have sex just like him. A goddess that might just get his attention enough for him to want to meet me.

But I had no boyfriend and I wasn’t going out on the prowl like a bitch on heat looking to get laid. I also couldn’t take a damn ad out in the paper for a boyfriend, so what to do?

Then it struck me. Manny. Maybe I could talk  him into finding me someone willing to pretend to be my boyfriend for one night. Or long enough at least to make Mr Stud think he was living alongside Ms Stud.

My eyes shot to the clock on the microwave. Almost midnight. Late. Too late to ring most people unless it was an emergency, but not too late for Manny. I swear he was part vampire. He lived for the night-time. He wasn’t so big on daytime and sunlight. Hence, he was white enough to pass as a vampire.

A really white, really gay vampire because when it came to being gay, Manny was about as gay as they came. He was feminine in a lot of ways. Funny as hell. Dramatic. Over the top dramatic. Drama seemed to follow him or maybe Manny was just a magnet for it.

He was flamboyant with a wardrobe that was so bright I contemplated wearing sunglasses around him. Still, when it came to fashion for anyone else, he was the one I went to. He was brilliant at helping me choose clothing best suited to my colouring and body shape. He was great at doing my hair and makeup if I had a date. He was simply a great friend.

We’d met when I moved into the apartment. He owned a huge studio apartment above the corner shop that I frequented for my coffee and yummy Caramel slice. I had a sweet tooth, so finding the Coffee and Cake café had been like discovering the Holy Grail for me.

It was on one of my numerous trips there for a Macchiato and Caramel slice, that I’d run into Manny. Literally. It had been a messy collision of hot espresso and foamed milk mixed in with Caramel slice. We’d gone down in a sticky hot mess and come out of it, best friends.

Manny was 22, so two years younger than me. He loved to joke that he was the young and beautiful one out of the pair of us. He probably was too. He was beautiful in an exotic kind of way. Probably due to the fact he had some Chinese blood running through his veins. Plus, it was rare for him to leave home without eyeliner which drew attention to his chocolate brown, almond shaped eyes.

His hair was nearly black. His complexion disgustingly smooth and blemish free. Not fair that a man had skin like his. He also had a slender build and was what I described as pretty. Combine all that with his colourful wardrobe, and he was memorable. You didn’t forget it when you met Manny.  He truly was, unforgettable.

He was also extremely successful as a hairstylist and makeup artist and ran the business from his studio apartment.  Career choices that were more ticks for me in the list of benefits to having a friend like Manny.

I sucked at doing hair and makeup and survived on the basics, until I had to go somewhere important or had a date, then I called on Manny’s skills to transform me from an ungainly waddling duck to a beautiful, regal swan. Or something like that anyway.

Manny ran on something that no drugs or caffeine could provide. An energy that came from within. A natural unstoppable ability to keep going like the energizer bunny on speed. I’m not sure he slept. He probably had a port in his stomach or back and plugged himself in to charge up.

That’s why I knew that ringing him after midnight wasn’t going to wake him or earn me a lecture for calling so late. Although, convincing him to come over might be the hard part. Unless I used alcohol to entice him with of course. He could never say no to a glass or bottle of wine.

Wandering back to my desk I grabbed my phone and pulled up Manny’s number from my list of contacts. As it rang, I headed into the bathroom to see how bad I looked, flinching when I saw the train wreck that was me in the mirror.

A shower was in order. My hair was such a tangled mess I could probably be harbouring a fugitive or two in there, and my clothes were old and stained. I had a problem with food. It often failed to reach my mouth and would end up all over me. I was a mess. I was never going to be one of those classy, regal kind of women.

I should have been born with balls. I don’t mean I should be a woman with balls. I mean I should have been born a man. I’d probably make a much better man than woman. I think that was one of the many reasons why I sucked at relationships. I was more the man than the man was.

Turning away from the mirror, I dialled Manny’s number and listened as it rang. He picked up on the fourth ring. No surprise of course because like I said, Manny was at least part vampire.

Do  you know what time it is? His greeting making me smile.

Shut the fuck up Man-O-Mine. I shot back, using the nickname I often called him by. Get your ass over here. I need you to try and convince my neighbour I’m not a loser.

Manny chuckled. "Too late for that baby girl.

Shut up. Just get over here. I’ll explain what I want you to do when you get here. Let yourself in. I’m going to have a shower. Been working all day.

Translated that means you stink, right?

Shut up. I said, before hanging up.

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Twenty minutes later I was feeling far more human despite the hour. Walking out into my living room, I found Manny in the process of pouring two glasses of wine. The man knew me so well.

You...are a life saver. I said, taking the glass he held out to me, while leaning in to kiss his cheek.

I know. What would you do without me?

I rolled my eyes. I love you, but don’t over sell yourself. I mocked.

Manny clicked his tongue at me. So, what’s this national emergency? And what can I do to avert it?

It’s my neighbour. I began.

You have a neighbour now? Manny interrupted.

Yes. I do. A very sexual neighbour.

Manny frowned. Sexual neighbour? You’ve met him?

No. I sighed. No, but I’ve heard him. Him and his lady friends.

Heard him? He asked, before his eyes widened. Oh. Damn girl. Are we talking a few gentle moans or screaming the apartment block down?

The man is a stud. All I hear is the woman sighing and moaning. Then it builds up to screaming. I’m talking screaming her lungs out. She’ll get to that point three times or more. He must be giving her multiple orgasms. Only after she’s screamed herself damn near hoarse do I hear him groan and the banging on the wall stops. It’s driving me nuts. I’ve got a stud living next to me and I’m the loser neighbour who never gets laid. I need to change that. Let him hear me getting it on. You know, to balance things out a little.

Manny stared at me for a moment saying nothing. Finally, he smiled. Which became a chuckle. And ended up a full-blown belly laugh. He laughed so hard, he was buckled over and I hoped he didn’t end up urinating on my carpet.

What’s so damn funny? I snapped.

"You think your neighbour will see you as a loser, because your headboard isn’t banging against his wall, as much as his is against