One of the neighborhood stray cats has taken up residence under our front steps, in the sunken area just in front of the basement apartment's entrance. We named her Schiz based on the mercurial nature of her affections (although bipolar would probably have been a more accurate psychological diagnosis), and Susan set out to make her life as nice as possible for an urban outdoor feline. Once a fearful street cat, Schiz has grown to recognize and seek affection from a small group of familiar faces. I doubt she will ever be an indoor cat, simply because she's too much of a free spirit to embrace the confined life. The downstairs tenant let her inside once and the cat immediately reverted to trapped-and-freaking sentiments. Schiz has been neutered, given all her shots, and she's fed regularly by several adoring neighbors. Susan and Sarah bought a plastic covered litter box and converted it into a little house, lined with blankets, that now sites under our steps. After some initial suspicion, Schiz embraced it as her dwelling and often passes nights in cold weather there. I've found it's quite toasty inside.

While Susan's away for a few days, it's my duty to make sure Schiz stays happy. Late last night went out and sat on the bottom step to pet the cat for a while. After a few minutes, I I heard a woman's voice, just a short vocalization, followed by a couple shirt gasps. I immediately suspected, with a blend of embarrassment and interest, that I was inadvertently hearing some of my neighbors having sex.

(When I lived in Senegal I had a hut with a thatch roof that was the home for thousands of crickets. Most of the time they were completely invisible; a few would skip around the hut at night, and I would ignore them. In rainy season, scorpions would appear, and I was concerned I would fail to recognize a scorpion because of my casual familiarity with the many insects around me. The first time I saw a scorpion, it was a small one on the floor on the other side of the hut. I moved a couple inches, and powerful genetic alarms went off in my mind. It moved wrong -- this tiny scrap of life, just a small collection of nerve impulses on my visual field, was instantly recognizable to me as an enemy.)

That's what it's like to hear someone having sex -- a shock of intimate knowledge. I didn't dwell on who it might be; there were several possibilities. I think it may be a more titillating voyeuristic experience to hear someone during sex than to see them. It's amazing to me that there isn't a whole genre of website devoted to posting sound files of people vocalizing during orgasm, in the same way that exhibitionists have spawned a plethora of sites to post and share pictures of themselves and their loved ones. Perhaps it's just my own fetish.

I continued listening. More muffled sounds and gasps erupted. When I first moved to DC, I had an apartment in which I would from time time hear the late-night romping of neighbor. Perhaps it molted into an annoyance from time to time, but I thought it lent an otherwise soulless apartment an element of character. I never really knew which faces I passed in the hallway corresponded to the noisy and happy sounds I heard thumping through the walls.

Where I sat on the bottom step, the grubby remains of plants and thin birch tree in the overgrown garden partially concealed me from the sidewalk. A shadow drew closer, and as she passed the fence I realized it was a woman who was crying uncontrollably, sobbing in great orgasmic gasps. This was the sound I'd heard. I considered stepping up to ask if she was all right, but hesitated a moment. I wasn't sure how she would react to a man suddenly appearing out of the darkness at her elbow. Before I could make up my mind, she headed across the street toward the police station. I was left feeling both disturbed and intrigued at the similarities between the noises made by someone losing control to pleasure or sorrow.