Upstairs, downstairs.

Recently, I shared how I moved to a new pad, exchanging my digs from the more bohemian, club zone part of the city for something more upscale, refined, and within flirting distance of a most excellent park. As much as I was so overdue for the change of living space, the voyeuristic naughtyboy in me was still chagrined to be going away from the Women Upstairs.

Sometimes, in the quiet, through the air vents or from an open window, I might have caught the sound of one them masturbating, lost in their own bliss. Was it the lesbian blonde costume designer or the straight brunette mall rat? The brunette, whose bedroom was directly above my own, certainly received a nice hard fucking from time to time, usually after a latenight boozefest which didn't always let me sleep.

I wasn't a peeper. I didn't set out to listen for them. But when it happened, when my space was quiet enough at the right time, I wouldn't restrain my smile and stop for a moment to enjoy the music. And it's not like I didn't know they listened in on me from time to time as well.

So I didn't know what to expect when I moved to my new digs, where the cardinals and black squirrels enjoy the treats I leave out for them on my high deck, where my cats look at me pleadingly as I keep them from playing with live prey. On moving day, I sensed that I was a small disappointment for at least some of the existing residents when, while hauling a fifty-pound box of books upstairs and past a closed door, I could overhear a woman's crestfallen sigh that "it's a guy" who was coming in. It didn't take long before I understood why.

I am the only man in a house full of lesbians.

It was Lacey who was disappointed at the time. Aw. Lacey is a strikingly attractive Nordic blue-eyed and shorthaired blonde, a tall and broadshouldered valkyrie from Australia. She has the looks and healthy vibe of a crosscountry skiier or mountain climber, and many are the dykes whom I know would melt into a puddle of goo were they to see someone like her stroll in a leatherbar wearing Lee-covered chaps and leather vest. Her lover is an airline attendant who visits from time to time (I have yet to actually see her), and their bedroom is just below my parlour.

Lacey had sighed to her roommate and former partner, Serene. To my shock, not long after I started unpacking, Serene and I discovered that we've known of one another for years through mutual friends in other circles in our lives. Serene knew of me through associates in a spiritual community of people, plus she's been acquainted with my ex-wife. I similarly knew of her by name and she had actually someone I've been interested in meeting in person. In a strange way, our first meeting at the threshold of the house was almost like a reunion of old friends who had never met before, and this was and remains very cool.

Serene is an auburn shorthaired earth mother with a ribald laugh and a quick wit. Her black, dreadlocked partner matches her in BBW bodytype and artistic temperment, and the pair of them share an easygoing vibe. The first time she was in my place, we talked about the general energy and landlord politics of the house, but she was quick to add how I shouldn't worry about it should I hear them fucking downstairs, their bedroom being just below mine. I suspect that we'll become good friends.

And, yes, it's happened at least once thus far when, lying in bed, I could easily define Serene's voice as she cried out in ecstacy below me. I'm also certain that Kara and I inspired her at least once, as another time I could hear her again within an hour or so after I had Kara panting for more while her face was inches above the hardwood floor as I took her from behind.

And then there's Sam who resides beneath Serene and Lacey's place. Sam is still an enigma to me, but I have to admit that my eyes are smitten. Her lesbian credentials are only suspected by Serene and Lacey, and so far she seems private enough to heighten the gossipy suspicion. Me, I've only seen her twice and in passing.

Sam seems to be the consumate young urban and successfully professional woman. A shorthaired dark brunette, she has the fancy car and the furnishings from Pottery Barn. She lives alone, at least when her apparently demanding work schedule allows her to be home (how I relate). She's spending the winter away, presumably somewhere warm and out of the country. We spoke briefly the two times we've met, and at once I was floored with her intelligent, articulate tongue.

So these are the Women Downstairs. And I am looking forward to the summer, when I intend to fire up the barbecue on my deck, make a few pitchers of something inebriating, and see what saucy fun can be had.