“Oh, god! Fletcher! Please!”

I shake my head and sneer into my coffee cup. “Em, where the fuck does he even find these bimbos?”

Emilia just rolls her eyes. “I dunno, babe. I feel like every dude who lives here in Bradford is just—”

“A massive pussy-gargling douchebag?”

We look at each other like I just took the words right out of her mouth then erupt into laughter.

“At least Evan doesn’t live right over you.” I watch her roll her baby blues again and roll mine right back. “Trust me, babe. Having a dick over your head all night is way worse than having one down the hall.”

“I don’t know about that.” Em shoots me a saucy smile over her latte. “Maybe having a dick over your head is exactly what you need right now.”

I hold up my hand. “I’m gonna stop you right there—because no. Nope. Absolutely not. Sex is the last thing I need right now. I’m so done with dudes, Em. They’re momentary distractions at best, and I don’t need any distractions right now.”

It’s the truth, too. If I want to get into my first-choice master’s program here in the city at NYU, I need to make this application fucking solid. I’ve been up all night at my computer for months editing this film together—not that it’s going to matter at this point.

Because every fucking night for years, 33D has been up all night making my lights flicker and the pictures on my walls shake. I don’t know how the fuck he does it—I mean, he can’t be banging these poor hoes that hard, right?

What I do know is that when he does it, I can’t fucking concentrate.

“All I’m saying is that if you were the one he was fucking, you wouldn’t be so bothered by it.” Em sips at her latte and leans back, looking smug.

I narrow my eyes at her glossy blonde waves. “That sounds like sleeping with the enemy. Besides, I think he likes blondes. Why don’t you take one for the team?”

Em nearly spits her mouthful of latte out at me. “Girl—no. 33D is your problem, not mine. And the only solution is to let him slip you his 33D, catch my drift.”

I can’t help it—the idea of banging the fuckboy who lives above me is so fucking laughable, I totally lose it. I laugh so hard I nearly spill my dark roast all over my sweater.

Then, I laugh so hard that I totally do.

“God.” I grab some napkins and start to mop up the mess I’ve made. “Does that mean your solution to your Evan problem is taking his dick, too?”

“Hell no.” Em crosses her arms over her chest. “There are dicks you deal with in bed and dicks you deal with by staying the fuck away from them. Your dick, my dear, is the former. Mine is the latter. End of story.”

“All I’m saying is…” I glance down at my phone and notice the time. “Shit. I gotta go, babe. My special effects should be finished rendering—and I’m down to the wire on this thing as is.”

I rifle around in my purse, searching for cash or card, but Em stops me before I can even get through the first layer of lipstick and tampons.

“I’ve got this. Go.”

I grin at her. “Leave the poor waitress a big tip?”

“I will,” Em promises—and then she grins back at me. “As long as you promise you’ll let 33D give you his big tip—”

I flip her off as I gather up my shit and race out the door of the coffee shop.

I’m breathless by the time I get up to my apartment, and I immediately fucking regret it. Not only is the scene not done rendering—it looks like my computer has decided to run updates while I was away, so I’ve probably lost that chunk of the project entirely.

While I wait for the piece of shit to finish updating, I do all the dishes in my sink.

I clean out my fridge, tossing out a jar of expired mayo and an ancient half-finished can of a brand of beer I don’t even drink.

I take a shower, washing the day out of my long, dark hair and shaving my legs silky smooth.

Then, since the computer is only at 87%, I shave my pussy too.

Who for? I don’t even know.

I haven’t gotten laid since I finished my undergrad—and at this point, I’m not even sure I want to anymore. When you’ve been off the dick for long enough, you start to feel like maybe it’s totally irrelevant, you know?

Like, this is my new life as a totally celibate wannabe film student. When I make it big, they’ll put me on the Suspected Asexuals page on Wikipedia with Tesla and Lovecraft and Morrissey.

Which still begs the question of why I’m sitting here on the edge of the tub with my legs spread and baby oil all over my muff.

I guess, when it comes down to it, I’m shaving my pussy for, well, me. I don’t do it because I’m supposed to, or because I’m ashamed of my own pubic hair. I do it because dammit, it feels nice!

But then, of course, the ceiling starts shaking again as soon as I touch blade to skin—33D must have brought home a new friend. I nearly fucking cut myself when she screams in orgasm, and what should have been a nice, relaxing evening quickly leaves me feeling grumpy and pissed off.

I finish up and slump into my bed totally naked, glaring at the ceiling. It doesn’t even make sense to get the broom out at this point—once 33D gets started, he can go for hours if he wants to.

My computer is at 99% and frozen, so it’s not like I could do any work anyway.

But as I lay there listening to 33D’s latest lady friend begging for his cock…

I don’t even know what comes over me, but it definitely disqualifies me from my dreams of being next to Morrissey on a Wikipedia page.

My fingers slide up and down the smooth, silken lips of my pussy. It’s still lightly oiled from my shave—and so help me god, it’s wet.

Not just from the water, either.

It’s wet wet. Sticky with honey.

When I spread my legs, I can smell myself.

I listen to 33D’s little sexcapade for a little while, not touching myself or anything—just listening in.

I think he must have at least three girls up there—and here I am, listening to them fucking like a pervert. Like a bitch in heat.

I’ve never gone from horny to pissed off so fast in my life. Getting horny listening to 33D fucking? This isn’t like me at all.

I come to the only reasonable conclusion I’ve got: living beneath this douchebag is mental warfare, and he’s finally pushed me to a breaking point.

I’ve cracked. I’ve snapped. And now I’m getting wet to the sound of his bed shaking, which is the only evidence I need to assure me that I’ve officially lost my fucking mind.

I hop out of bed, seething. As I pull on a fresh, deep blue oversized sweater and a pair of long socks, I don’t even think about grabbing the broom.

No—I’m marching up there right now and giving 33D a piece of my mind.

This shit ends tonight.