“Ladies and gents, lovers and haters, sinners and saints,” I croon into the microphone, “it’s that time of the week again. Thursday, just twenty-four hours away from Friday night when you can drop those corporate facades and bullshit uniforms and come out to play. You’ve got Mr. XO here and tonight’s theme is Love Thy Neighbor, and yes, I do mean in the biblical sense.” I grin into the microphone, knowing exactly what my voice sounds like in various laptop and smartphone speakers around the country. Actually, around the world at this point, or so I’ve been told by Eros.

“Before we begin, I must give full disclosure. You’ll be happy to learn that I was wonderfully inspired by my own neighbor this weekend. Not at my humble abode, mind you, but my home away from home. So, shout out to a particular girl-next-door at one of my favorite hotels, which shall remain nameless. Let’s just say, I enjoyed being naked with you,” I tease, letting the audience interpret that any way they wish.

I see my producer Donna raise her eyebrows at me from the booth. She’s the ultimate sounding board for my ideas, being both a member of the opposite sex, to fill in the blanks for my inferior male brain, but also a player for the opposite team when it comes to sexual orientation, thus avoiding any precarious situations of jealousy. Donna’s the closest thing I have to a friend, mostly because she knows everything about me, from what happened back at Princeton to my habit of avoiding clothes when at all possible. She obviously draws the line at me showing up to the studio naked. Usually, I discuss things with her before the show begins so she’s not completely thrown off, but occasionally I like to surprise her.

“So, let’s get started with a question. What is it about proximity that makes someone so appealing? Is it the convenient accessibility? Or, on the other hand, the slightly forbidden, subtly incestuous nature of it? Perhaps it simply boils down to the knowledge that the only thing separating you is a wall or a picket fence. What say you, dear listener? Let me hear your tales of neighborly love. Your dorm room romps. Your afternoon delights with the milkman. Your elusive boys or girls next door. Your cups-o-sugar borrowed,” I lower my voice a provocative octave or two, “so to speak.”

It’s a hot topic, bringing in plenty of callers with tales that range from the cringeworthy to the amusing to the outright hilarious.

And then there are the ones like this next one.

“I mean,” the caller on the other end sniffs. “Maybe I should have just said yes. After all, what’s the big deal? It’s just sex, right?”

“Hey, hey, let me stop you right there,” I interject, getting serious. “Don’t ever, ever feel like you have to ‘just say yes,’ do you hear me?”

Most nights are pure fun, often bordering on hilarity. But there’s usually one that brings us down to earth, inserting a little gravity into the conversation. As much as I love a good laugh, commiserating as callers regale us with their failed attempts at love and sex, calls like this make me feel like I’m doing something with my life—dare I say it, actually giving something back.

“I guess,” she says. I can actually imagine her shrugging, already dismissing everything I’m about to tell her. All it will take is that little ounce of pressure or harassment to push her right back to square one. I feel my anger rise, already hating the asshole.

“Here’s the thing, Jane,” All callers are either Jane or John, as in Doe. “Sex shouldn’t be a power play, unless of course that’s what both parties are into. And to me, it sounds like you weren’t into it, you were just bullied, plain and simple.”

That manages to get a snot-filled snort out of her before she adds, “yeah but his dorm room is just down the hall from mine. I have to see his stupid face every time I go to class. He either smirks and makes disgusting jokes with his buddies or calls me a frigid bitch or slut.”

“Definitely a bully,” I confirm. “So Jane, I’m going to let you in on a little secret. That’s a sure sign that he’s just insecure. He feeds off of watching you feel like shit, seeing you deflate every time he says something. Basically, any time you actually react to him, it’s an ego boost.

“So here’s what you do. Next time you see him, imagine him as a peacock, huge, colorful feathers coming out of his ass and a brain the size of a walnut.” She coughs out a sharp laugh. “Do you know what a peacock sounds like, Jane?”

“No?” she replies, uncertainly.

“Google it. That will remind you even more of the bullet you dodged. When you look at a male peacock, you can see it was created solely to get a reaction out of the opposite sex. Take a gander—so to speak—at the female of the species, the peahen, and you can tell, they don’t have the same need for attention. No big, blustery, colorful feathers. They just go about their day, blending in with the trees and the brush and the dirt, not caring one lick about a man, unless they finally deign to give him the time of day, lucky bastard. So you know what the worst thing you can do for a male peacock is, Jane?”

“Ignore him?”

“Bingo. Next time he so much as looks at you, I want you to treat him like the inferior mate that he is. It won’t be easy at first, but again: feathers out of the ass and walnut brain. Let everyone know that he is a subpar specimen. That should get you through.”

She gives a reluctant giggle, but I feel her coming around.

“Jane, I’m going to end by giving you these parting words of wisdom. If you have to ask, ‘what’s the big deal?’—ignoring all the obvious implications about size and overcompensation—I can already tell you it’s going to be bad sex. And life is too short for bad sex. It ain’t worth it. Trust me on that one.”

The call ends on a lighter note when that gets a genuine laugh from her. Donna gives me a wink and a thumbs up from behind the booth.

The rest of the calls push us back into purely entertainment territory, laughing, cringing and getting completely turned on. Maybe even learning a thing or two.

“…I’d see her every day in the hall and man, I’d just have to run to my apartment to jerk one out. Then, I caught her one day in the laundry room. At first I had no idea what the hell she was doing. She was moaning and moving along to the dryer. I thought maybe her shirt was caught in it or something so I asked if she was okay. She turns to me, totally red-faced and that’s when I figured it out. The stupid thing is, that’s the first time I ever said more than two words to her and…well, talk about world’s most awkward icebreaker. We dated for three months before she moved back to Michigan. Best sex I’ve ever had, to this day. Man, I miss her.”

“…don’t know if this counts, since I was just the delivery girl. But I swear it was like a reverse porno. Guy shows up to the door, wet and dripping. I guess I’m the first hiree that actually managed to beat the thirty-minutes or less deal. Anyway, yadda, yadda, yadda, at least the tip was awesome.”

“…The best part was, my idiot ex-husband had hired him to keep the pool clean so we could actually sell the house as part of the divorce. If you think revenge sex is great, try it in the same bed that your cheating bastard of an ex fucked his new tart in. Especially when that particular rebound is a member of the college water polo team. Talk about stamina! The best part is we made a killing on the sale of the house.”

“…which was weird because Gran never missed church. Anyway, the rest of us said ‘whatever’ and went to church anyway. So we get into this fender-bender and while my dad is dealing with the insurance stuff, we’re close enough to home to just walk back and get my mom’s car to take to church. I won’t go into detail but let’s just say, it involved Mr.—well, a certain widow of a certain age who lived down the street, my grandmother, and Nutella, which I can’t look at to this day without gagging.”

“…I mean, it was great until her parents found out,” the caller says ruefully.

“Ah, the death knell of high school sweethearts the world over,” I sympathize.

“Yeah, their flight was canceled until the next day so they came back home, and there we were going at it like rabbits in the hot tub. The worst part is, it was fucking February so my balls completely shriveled when I jumped out to make my escape.”

I can’t prevent the laugh that escapes my lips. I’m picturing some scrawny, naked teenager being chased around the backyard by a brawny, outraged dad while it’s only thirty degrees outside.

“It’s not funny,” the caller protests in a petulant sort of voice, then chuckles. “Okay, it’s funny now, but it wasn’t at the time. We were both basically grounded the rest of the year. No prom. No senior class trip. The worst part was, I only lived three houses down the street from them, so it was awkward, to say the least.”

Awkward indeed.

“I think perhaps next week’s topic should be the proper way to hold a secret rendezvous. Or maybe how to choose a partner that won’t keep you from going to prom,” I say in a completely earnest tone, as though not going to prom is the worst punishment in the world. I’m sure to many a teenaged brain, that is very much the case.

“Yeah, save some poor sap from my fate,” he says, half-jokingly.

“Thanks for your call,” I say, hanging up and continuing on. “I think there’s an important lesson to be learned there, listeners. Number one, know your partner. Don’t do the do unless you know it’s someone who won’t get you into trouble. Look out for those tan lines on the third finger, check those ID’s, do a bit of Google searching. At the very least, check the status of her parents’ flight before you hop into their hot tub naked with her,” I add with a laugh.

“In the same vein, if you’re going to do something risqué, face the fact that it may come back to bite you in the ass. Or freeze you in the balls, as may be the case,” I say, now laughing. “That isn’t to say that you shouldn’t be daring. Go ahead and bring out the handcuffs, buy that butt plug, tell her about that fantasy you have of her and her best friend. Actually, no, don’t do that,” I say jokingly.

“Perhaps that’s the thing about neighbors,” I say thoughtfully, getting serious as I wind down the hour. “We think we know them, but, as tonight has shown, perhaps not as well as we think we do. In closing, I’ll just leave you with this little adage as a necessary precaution…know thy neighbor. Until next week, that’s Mr. XO signing off. Hugs and Kisses.”

The hugs and kisses sign-off started off as mostly a tongue in cheek thing, based on my radio name, also initially tongue-in-cheek. When I realized people were actually listening, I tried to drop it, only to be met with an online petition to bring it back.

I take the headset off and lean back in my chair. Tonight’s podcast hit home in more ways than one. Obviously, Prynne was forefront on my mind since she was the impetus for tonight’s theme.

But there was another name that kept invading my thoughts. Meghan Rosedale, my own cautionary tale. My punishment was a little more severe than not going to prom, and the effects more lasting than a frozen dick. She wasn’t exactly the girl next door, more like the girl in the next dorm. All the same, I didn’t know her as well as I thought I did. Lesson firmly learned.

My thoughts come back to Prynne Dawson, still pretty much a stranger to me. Saturday, I’m taking her out for her birthday, which should be fun. I like talking to her, watching her cheeks color as I introduce some double entendre. I still think there’s something daring underneath the surface. No way she didn’t know, at least subconsciously, what she was doing when she picked the Sexton, of all places, to have her little writer’s retreat.

Prynne Dawson, the girl next door. “Let’s get to know one another,” I say, smiling to myself.

Saturday night should be fun.