Can't You See They Are Faking It?

Every man I've ever trusted has been a disappointment, so when I sign a lease with a geology grad student who says "goodnight" like a man in a cardigan, I figure at worst he'll be boring.

Then the moaning starts.

Every night. Different women. Through my bedroom wall. And every single one of them sounds like she's auditioning for an award.

They're faking. They have to be faking. Nobody sounds like that during real sex — especially not with a guy who gets excited about spectroscopy and wears T-shirts with rock puns on them.

So I tell him. And he tells me they're not. And he says if I don't believe him, I'm welcome to find out for myself.

I should have said no. I should have put in my earbuds and gone back to my book and let Thomas Whitfield and his delusions live in peace on the other side of my wall.

Instead, I said prove it.

That was my first mistake. My second mistake was thinking I could keep my composure. My third mistake was the cameras.

And my fourth mistake — the big one, the one I'm still paying for — was telling the camera I would never, ever beg.

Except this is smut...