Syntax Issue 10
Denver Syntax
{the auralist}
  the provocateur

The sound of sex has a life within me that began probably even before I was born. It has a taste. A scent.

To this day, a certain pulse courses through my body when I hear the sounds of sex. My body reacts. The light and spatial acuity in my eyes throb in unison with the blood surge from my head to my midsection. Everything around me grows and glows with halos.

That being said, it wasn’t a surprise that first time when my head began spinning at the sound of a girl moaning from the other side of my plaster wall. It was coming from next door.

I had heard many things in my apartment, but this was different. It electrified my gut.

For months now the apartment next door had been empty. Apparently not any longer.

Low but mightily the girl on the other side pushed her moans through my wall with a throaty struggle. Distinctively feminine, these moans stirred-up something altogether primal in me. As though everything was now permitted.

Slowly I pulled myself out. Touching. Stroking.

That first night, the sounds were mild, and their duration was not lengthy enough to find myself a place of engagement – for my ear or my sex. I did, however, play with the multitude of possibilities – of what she looked like, how naughty she was; if she was bent-over the couch when making those noises, or just in some pedestrian vanilla swirl – her lover and she tangled in the common courtesies of courtship.

The sounds died. But I was alive. I could only hear my breathing. My body contorted and pulsed.

The following week after, I drew-up the concrete notion that my new neighbor was, in fact, naughty. Dirty. She was the girl that I had always wanted to be in such close proximity to.

This invisible creature pushed me. Made me want to escalate. Everything. Things I never knew, I was desperate for.

I began shaving myself. At first my balls. Then, on the couch with my back to the space between us, touching – I wanted even more. So, I shaved everything above my cock. Then, touching and tugging more, I went further. I shaved below my balls. My ass. Clean.

I was becoming something else.

Stroking my newly clean self, the idea of the whole situation was the fantasy. Not just her or her sexuality. Or sexuality at all. The secret was mesmerizing. Something I shouldn’t hear. Something she didn’t know. I resolved that I didn’t want to interact with her.

But still, I wanted to escalate. A couple days later and I admitted: I want to know what she looked like. A face for the fantasy. But I would remain on the filthy outskirts of her life – peeking in her windows as she fingered herself silently at night. Overhearing a private phone conversation. Reading her mail. Learning her name. Her phone number. Anything that revealed her vulnerability to me in a way that I couldn’t otherwise achieve, in any real capacity.

But, the swelling perversion said, I didn’t want to know her name and I didn’t want her to know mine.

I wanted a secret. A voluptuous, hot and silent secret.

All week long, I rubbed my cock in full-length strokes at the thought of all tof his: from my soft, shaved balls all the way up to my throbbing head. Heightening my cravings for this entire situation: for that week I would not let myself come. I wanted to suppress my wiry arms of urge and want and need. I wanted to ball this up into a much more pungent and hot sideways sexuality. I didn’t want flashes of electricity, I wanted instead – ball lightning – the rarest and most prized of all lightning.

In this I was my own domme, creating my own restraints; torturing me, all by myself.

Buckled under the leathery pressure, strapped to the couch by my ankles for lengthy sessions of playing with my cock to the point of throbbing, unending agony without ultimate release – I was penultimately titillated by the knowledge that soon enough, I was going to erupt in a fiery volcanic jet of come, all over me. In fiery plumes I pictured myself erupting; secretly – without she, my new neighbor, ever knowing of my sticky, hot explosion of pleasure.

Then, one night, I was on the couch – and the sounds came again.

I lost my sight.

From nothing, came a breathy grunt. Low and lengthy, it pushed through my wall like a sound snake, coiling in my ear and biting every erotic nook in my head. I waited for a minute, suspicious of my estimation. Sometimes when I really want something, I see it where it is not.

But then, seconds later – it came again. A slow “harrumph”. Then, another…

I laid down on the couch, unbuttoned my pants and then I slipped a warm hand down and under. I was aching. At any moment I felt the eruption could come. With my thumb and index finger I gripped the base of my cock and the blood came shooting into my midsection with a secondary ferocity. I slipped my fingers down and under my balls, gently teasing.

At times I have been shy with myself, in private – I have stroked myself as though somebody sacred were watching. But this time I pulled my pants below my ass, spreading my legs. I bucked my hips upward in this silent exhibitionism.

Reaching up from the couch I placed my hand flat on the wall from where the sounds were coming. I closed my eyes and began stroking at myself harder now. I was drawing the whole picture: of her contorted body; her breasts heaving while her nipples hardened; her hot slit filling with juices as his cock slid in and out, slippery up to her clit and down to her ass. I pictured reaching-out just a little more – with my hand, through the wall and cupping her cunt, that delicate place where she was finding such tremendous pleasure. I wanted to reach out, through that space between us, to hear her sex in full stereo.

It was then I remembered a mechanism that would lengthen my reach – a glass.

With my pants down at my knees and my cock leading the way, I ran to the kitchen where I took a pint glass from the cupboard. Back in the living room and I leaned into the wall, with the glass between my ear and the girl in silent delight.

With my newfound amplification I could hear rustling. Then I made-out the sound of smacking; light slaps. Then the breathing picked-up its pace. Looking down I could see that my cock was without attention as it was laid-out before me, throbbing and dangling.

The breathing in that next room increased. It morphed into the most exquisitely-feminine throaty grunts. Words were forming, but none passed over her swollen tongue. And the slapping did not involve hands, rather it was body on body. Thighs on thighs. It was asses and cock and balls on a slippery cunt.

This slapping was grinding. It was sex on sex. It was wet and hard on aching, dynamic, primal lust.

Then the pace of her breathing increased. Then god was presented into the equation from her lips. Then Jesus. Then that incomprehensible letting-go: Where all the frozen air accumulated from the Everest ascent is released in one long shudder.

She was coming. It was a tortured sounding ecstasy. It sounded as though she was trying to find the brakes, skidding down the rough face of this great peak of climax.

Then there was a pause.

I repositioned myself on my glass arm, trying to reach even further into her room.

Then I heard more breathing, panting and the rustling of two bodies once-contorted from such an immense pounding. Little did I know that the pounding was going to accelerate into a near-fatal car crash.

Then the slapping sound came again. But this time it was no slow acceleration. Her lover went 0 to 60 mph in under a second. And this is the first time I heard my neighbor yelp with an uncompromising verve. Unable to speak, it was her breath that was her exclamation, her call – the wind that pushed her lover into his grand ascent.

It was now where I was, alas, released by my self-imposed pangs of bondage. I reached down and with ferocious intent began stroking my cock. In concert with the devilish pounding that my neighbor was receiving, I sprinted toward my peak. With my thighs already quivering from my awkward stance up against the wall, I pumped and stroked. All of the heat in my body releasing itself out of my face.

Sweating, I squeezed tighter on my cock. My eyes closed, I let my ears and my hand work.

Then, unannounced, I heard a thunderous male grunt from the other side of the wall. And in two seconds, the breathing slowed, the sounds dissipated and the two lovers unlocked their bodies. One walked to the bathroom.

I fell back into the couch. With my pants down at my knees I began murdering my pulsating and purple cock. And in just a few short strokes, a violent and hot jet of come launched from my cock, hitting me in the neck and spewing all over my chest and stomach; filling-up my belly button.

Nearly unable to move, I dropped my exhausted hand from my cock, soaking wet and spinning with a climax weeks in the making.

I was blind. I could only hear my heart thumping. Throbbing.

I was terrified.


One afternoon she was coming and going from her door. Invisible behind my door, I heard men greeting her. Saluting her upon their exit. There were three, all total. Coming and going.

I leaned heavily into the wall with my ear. But I couldn’t hear anything save for the ceiling fan on her apartment’s side.

They were fast moments, when they were standing in her front foyer – at the opened front door. It took me all three times to deduce through the language what I was excitedly hearing: my new neighbor is a call girl.

The blood rocketed through my body, propelled by everything dirty and seamy and forlorn about the human condition. Every dark want, need and lascivious desire swelled inside me. I felt omnipresent: in the most guttural of alleys, the trashiest waste containers. I was submersed in the murkiest dins of secret sexuality and whoring and every pejorative word that I could think of.

Fuck. Shit. Whore. Cunt.

In this I knew, I had to do something about the swelling rage. The coming storm.

I had to do something about these things I didn’t know. About me. About what was inside me.


A couple of days later and footsteps were coming and going from her place again. This time I played the skeptic. She just had a lot of friends. She was selling weed. Nothing else could be possible. Again, I began dizzy with the deviousness. I have always been magnetized by the outsiders, the deviants, the perverts, the damaged ones. These are the people I’ve always wanted to be close to. As if I could learn something virtuous about what I should be seeing in the people more than the world.

At the door, I listened. A small, wet smack. She would kiss them on the cheek and go back into her apartment without locking the door. I leaned in. Maybe she cried during this time. I leaned into the wall, into that space between our two lives. All afternoon, one by one, the men came, then left.

Then, after the last one, I heard her door shut. Then, two minutes later, feminine feet across her threshold. She was leaving the apartment.

With every arrested and asthmatic molecule in my body polarized toward her event horizon, I opened my door and, blind to reason, acted like I wasn’t following her to the elevator. Casually, I just nodded at her. Then, when the elevator arrived, we stepped in together. I depressed the button and we were sent downward. As soon as the noise picked-up, I began:

I don’t want to alarm you. But I think I know what you’re doing in your apartment. You’re in 316, right?

She looked at me and smiled, coyly. Without fear. Without pretense.

I said, I like what you’re doing. I just want to say that you should be a little more careful. You’ll get evicted. Quick. Our landlords are Christian.

She laughed. My name is Mia, she said. Or really, Ami. I use Mia with my clients.

Her voice. Her voice.

I’m going back up to my place. I’ll be there all afternoon. I don’t have any more clients. You should stop by.

From some place I had only teased, the drugs of sexuality came writhing up, through me. I could barely breathe.

My paralyzed cocaine mouth said something like: I might. I’m going back to work.

I’ll see you later.


When I returned home after work that day, my flooded banks of eroticism made me do it without any more thought: I knocked on her door before I entered mine. I wasn’t standing on the ground.

Three seconds later and Mia answered.

She let me in and, at first, I didn’t hear any words – I just fixated on the couch. That carnal couch. Where all this began. That place of exquisite fucking. Or, maybe something else.

Mia invited me into the living room and helped me to a seat – on the couch. But with revelation’s blue eyes and striking blonde hair – Mia was something more than just sex on a stick. As I would learn within minutes, she was kind, but just as lost and confused about the meaning of her life as I was. Yet she was incredibly present. She was paying attention.

The kindness in her gestures, the warmth in her hands, exploded in a dynamic energy and symphony of light that wrenched my heart but didn’t break it.

Immediately I was corrected: She wasn’t broken.

Mia was wearing low-slung jeans. Her panties were visible over the waistline when she moved. It was haphazard, not a desperate attempt to otherwise articulate her sexuality. No, Mia wore her sex all over her. She never wore over-the-counter perfume probably because of this: her sex flowed from every pore in her.

Typically I pride myself on being coy with my admiration. I never let a girl know when I’m looking. If I don’t feel seduced into it: I typically pretend I’m not paying attention. With Mia however, she promoted it – from second one.

She caught me glancing into her pants. She batted her eyelids at me, quickly tracing up and down my torso with her kind, piercing look.

She said, do you want to see something? A dog bit me in the leg when I was in Cuba, a month ago.

And then, she dropped her pants. Without hesitation.

Immediately the blood surged to my midsection as though I was no longer in control. Leaning over and prodding at her wound, she looked up at me, then down – her eyes fixating on the most-obvious bulge in my pants. My eyes were fixated on her midsection and her panties – the way they cut the top of her thigh and tucked under to her rounded, sliced slit. Sure, I examined her bruised cut on her thigh along with her, but through her dangling arms I peered in at her gorgeous mound.

She looked up and into my eyes, then back down. Teasing me she was.

It was then and there that I wanted to say it – if I was ever going to say it at all: I heard you getting pounded by a cock and it was one of the hottest things I have ever heard. I heard it through my walls and that’s where this all began. I wanted to tell her that I used her as my sexual handcuffs, and for over a week and a half, I did something I had not done my entire adult life: not cum.

That was what I wanted to say: I didn’t cum until I heard you 10 days later, getting fucked brilliantly. I wanted to tell her that was, indeed, my Big Bang all over the place.

There was so much that I wanted to say, but that would have only embarrassed the situation into cowering and folding up like a virgin flower. Some nerve inside me ticked, making me want to talk. And talk. But the listening was more intoxicating.

Elegantly Mia waved me in. With her stories. Her past. Her slippery sense of self. And before our first afternoon was complete: it wasn’t sexuality. What I smelled on her, heard on her, saw in her – it was something else. That wasn’t the banality to be assigned for there was a magic in her. She knew things that I didn’t. And she kneaded at those empty places of mine, because she knew that I needed it too.

She already knew. Without telling me, she had me dissected.

You were listening to me through the walls. You heard me with my clients.

I was terrified and not hiding it.

Very interesting.

But not surprising.

She was leading me somewhere.






Sitting in Mia’s closet with incoherent pleasure smeared all over the palm of my hand like sweat, I slowly began stroking myself. I was leaning back against the wall, my pants unzipped so that I had access to everything between my legs.

Warming myself up and gaining my rhythm, she peeked her head into the closet.

He’s coming up, now. You sure you’re going to be okay in here?

Just… be quiet. This will be hot.

Looking down from my eyes, she saw that my cock was out, erect and that I was stroking it. She bit her lip sweetly and then left. Her steps lightly trailing out of the sun-soaked room.

Inhale. My confession swirled around inside me: This is where this new thing – this audio voyeurism – that terrified and excited me because of where I felt it could take me, had taken me. I had arrived in this place, inside my next door neighbor’s closet.

One of her clients was knocking at the door now.


There was only a sheet draped over the door frame to her closet. From my dark hole, I could make-out shapes beyond, in the room. Fortunately the day was bright. It was pouring-in from the windows. I could see warm colors beyond the flowery veil. In the light I made-out the shapes of her feminine bed, and, of her feminine figure.

As soon as her client came into the bedroom, she began her slow seductive strip. I could see her sinewy, wavy underwater movements. I imagined her eyes bouncing toward the closet every now and then, knowing that I was stroking my cock just behind the veil.

Apart from the pitter-patter of her slow-dancing feet, I could hear their breath. His was low and long. Hers, short and playful; teasing. Together the symphony was an overture on the dance of something close to sexuality.

Surrounded by her feminine clothes: shirts, skirts, short shorts and yes, panties – lacey things – my unintelligible bliss was ascending. Higher and higher. With my mouth dry, I inhaled everything sexy and naughty and used and soiled and cum-stained and fouled with another’s man’s sex.

I could hear him moaning. Her teasing. Cooing. Sheets, like his belt, coming undone. Small smacks of lips.

I heard her crawl up and onto the bed. The rustling of sheets like the melody’s bridge. With her little black panties, I was afforded a distinct line to find my sight – her hot equator. Beyond that I could make-out the curve in her ass – an arc which was more like the curvature of a planet more than a human’s backside. Gorgeous her ass was – it illuminated the notion that we may all very well carry more with us than just obvious sexuality. Looking at something so perfect emphasized the notion that we carry the eroticism of all cosmic flow: The Big Bang.


Mmm, I like the look of that, Mia cooed at her client. Did you bring that big gorgeous cock just for me?

Her ass wriggled in concert with her sweet words.

He was lying before her. And as if she had already done this, she angled herself in my line, looking down at his now-naked midsection.

Flip over, she said to him, teasingly.

Slowly stroking myself and trying to breathe silently, I saw her raise-up, allowing the client to turn onto his stomach. And for the first time I saw an abstract version of her tits, flower covered as they were through the sheet.

Trying to remain silent, the whole event was like a hand on my throat, elegantly restraining my breath and making my head light with each successive hushed exhalation.

Perhaps it was the asphyxiation but the word finally came to me: eroticism.

Not sexuality.


Thirty minutes later and Mia’s client left. Quietly she made her way back, into her room. To the closet. She pinned the flowery fabric up on the doorframe.

Did you have fun, naughty boy? She asked me as she looked down at my still-throbbing cock. Her eyes were consummate sexual energy, filling me full of everything lascivious.

She said, I want to watch you stroke your cock. Come out here, on the bed.

And so into the yellow room I went, my pants barely on. I crawled onto the bed, kicking-off my shoes. I rolled onto my back and reached down for my cock as Mia made her way to my side.

Here was the great unknown: here I had flown by the Oort Cloud and I was exiting my solar system. Anything, absolutely anything could happen now. This could be something more colossal than my universal beginning. Explosion.

Mia gently pulled my pants down further below my knees while I continued to stroke myself with still-incoherent pleasure as lubricant.

That’s a good boy, stroke that cock, she purred. I want to see what we did to you.

Sitting next to me, she coached me into a climax.

She said, I want you to know that this was the hottest session I’ve had in a long time. It’s very rare that a session turns me on. But after you leave today, I’m going to fuck myself on the couch and cum hard. I’m going to play with this idea for some time to come. There was something entirely delicious about all this.

I’m glad we did this, she said. I’m glad you were brave enough to bring it up.

That’s a good boy.

Now, cum for me.

I could hear my lung pulsing. Panting.

I could hear my heart. Throbbing.

My inner world was alive.

And it was talking. Breathing. Working.

In all of this I didn’t want Mia to mount me or even touch me. No, this was altogether more gentle than that. In the pillowy light she urged me by purring and looking as sweetly at me as I have ever seen a girl. Pure and filled with light.


What Mia did was not: have sex with her clients. It was different than that. She stripped for them and then gave them massages. Some came for baths and erotic conversation. Others came simply because they suffered from a side-effect of the human condition: they were as lonely as any human could ever be.

These men didn’t want sex. These men wanted a chance.

It was philosophical.

It was aesthetical.

It was a time for them to contemplate.


Mia and I spent many afternoons together in her sunny apartment, smoking cigarettes and telling each other about our convoluted histories. Sure she teased me with her eroticism – because she knew that I liked it, and maybe even more – I needed it. In return, with all my inaudible confirmations and physical melodies, I sang to her in a way that she was missing, and even more – needing.

And for the next several months I listened to Mia through the wall, reaching beyond her beautiful agony and into that place where sexuality is something larger than fucking and words like naughty and cum and slut.

Mia used her sexuality as a tool: to pay her bills and sustain her walk through this life. But Mia also used her sexuality for other things that I never understood – but deeply wanted to.

I never sat back in her closet and I never knew what she was pushing me towards. But I was being moved. Slowly brought to a bigger understanding. An answer to a question that I knew not the sound of.

Sometimes, that’s enough. Just find the question.

Be silent. She said things with her eyes. There were hints. Clues. Flirtations.

Love the questions, her stories said.

Don’t search for the answers. Live them. Now.

I came to find tremendous joy in the time that I spent with Mia. But I was never sure if I wanted her, or how I wanted her. We never pressed our naked sex together. We did, however, hug every time one or the other came or went. We touched hands, when passing glasses of water to the other.

We looked at each other kindly. And smiled. We looked one another in the eyes, sometimes sheepishly as though we both had a secret.

Mia filled me in a way that I was in desirous rapture for.

Mostly we spent time in her apartment. Only twice did she come into my living quarters. Once, however, we did get outside.

One afternoon we walked to the coffee shop, arm-in-arm. I told her that I thought I may have a crush on her and she said, I know - I think I may believe the same about you. We ordered coffee and sat on a park bench and smoked cigarettes and laughed through our shared grief in the failing sunlight of a summer day.

Then, as quickly and secretively as Mia had moved-in – she moved-away. I never heard from her again. To this day, I miss those afternoons with her and above all else, I wonder about her welfare and which sunny rooms she inhabits.

I have always felt that, given more time, I could have fallen in love with Mia.

And at the end of things, in some cosmic way I have always been trying to catch up to the light that filled Mia and shone from her every naked pore.