Yes, I can hear you having sex.
By: Kelsey Ann Thomas
Tags: Funny, Humor, Hosting, Sex, Awkward

Yes, I can hear you having sex.

What hosting on Airbnb taught me about selective hearing.

Photo by @marchuri on Unsplash

“Hospitality: making your guests feel like they’re at home, even if you wish they were.” – Justine Vogt

Taking the last generous swig of my beer, I look up to my boyfriend and playfully ask “Should we grab another?”. He sets his empty down as well “Ah… I dunno, you think they’re done?”. We’re sitting at a small pub two streets away from our East Nashville home where we host a full guest suite on Airbnb. This isn’t the first time we’ve snuck out to allow guests some privacy, and after two years of hosting, very few things surprise us.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve loved hosting our space and interacting with interesting travelers from all over the world. In fact, there are days where I feel like I was made for this. I happily give local food recommendations, add special touches for birthdays, and if given the opportunity I could probably make a bed with a blindfold and one arm tied behind my back in 2 minutes or less.

That being said, hosting a vacation rental is not always like the cold side of a pillow on a hot Havana night. This is especially true when the space is located within your home and some form of awkward interaction is inevitable before breakfast. The fact that I had never stayed in a shared rental space before hosting likely contributed to these instances. There are unspoken rules, nuances in etiquette, and sometimes, by the end of a stay, even a shared hope that maybe we won’t ever have a reason to see each other again.

On the spectrum of cringe-worthy moments in our hosting history, only a small handful even relate to the hanky panky. The winner remaining, of course, the time I gave a passionate monologue about Nashville hot chicken to a guest from Bordeaux, France for 5 minutes before he exclaimed “Oh! You are talking about a food?!”.

Now, before I spill the tea, I want to make it exceptionally clear that I’m not a prude by any measure. I’m also a firm believer that everything is better on vacation.

In addition, I respect the privacy of all of my guests so if these stories sound like someone you know, take a page from my book and respectfully pretend to be oblivious now and write about it extensively on the internet later.

The first time I knew someone was about to do the bedroom rodeo in my house was only a few months into hosting. Now, to give you some context our home is a traditional four-square style bungalow that was built in 1923. A second story addition was made just before we moved in that included a master bedroom, bathroom, and second living room. Our guest suite and bathroom are located on the first floor towards the back of the house and off of the kitchen. The suite only allows space for two guests, which is perfect considering we live in the middle of active bachelorette party territory. Everything downstairs is considered shared space, with the exception of a creepy basement.

Our guests for the week, a young couple from up north, came tumbling through the front door from a long afternoon out. The open layout of the first floor doesn’t allow for adequate hiding places, so I closed a cabinet and stood up from behind the kitchen island with a friendly hello. “LOOK!!” the girl rushed over to me and showed me her hand. “He PROPOSED today! Just now!!”. Reflecting on it now, my response of “Say whaaaat” probably wasn’t the most genuine expression I could have used.

Later that night and just up the stairs from their suite, my conversation with my boyfriend went something like this:

“It’s so sweet! But, why would you get engaged and go back to a shared Airbnb?”

“Well, you know people are going to get it on in there; it’s inevitable.”

“Yeah, but I don’t think I’d want to celebrate my new engagement in a stranger’s house…”

“Maybe they’re saving themselves. You know, some folks have values like that.”

The faint sound of knocking an hour or so after we turned out the lights proved that theory to be untrue. We stared at the ceiling for the next minute or so without speaking and dutifully accepted our new reality.

Months later, we were more accustomed to ignoring certain noises and had even become better about not covering our mouths and giggling until we shuffled out of earshot. I even learned the golden rule of hospitality which is, of course, never to pick up a towel left on the floor with your bare hands.

That being said, it still came as a surprise when we were booked for a couples’ honeymoon. The inquiry was polite and direct “ We’ll be coming straight there the evening of our wedding.” The Chex mix and Publix brand water I usually left in the guest suite just didn’t cut it. Instead, I left some champagne, a bouquet of roses, and suggested dinner on the other side of town to my boyfriend. Witnessing divine consummation on behalf of the gods isn’t up there on my bucket list and definitely isn’t built into my nightly rate.

By the middle of our second year as hosts, we felt on top of the world. We had met every possible obstacle and powered through with smiles, extra pillows, and the occasional refund. We acquired the esteemed status of Super-hosts and I absolutely let it get to my head on a daily basis. Hearing strange noises at night didn’t phase us in the slightest. We’d turn up the volume on our movie or crank the bathroom fan up the highest setting, blissfully unaffected.

Everything changed the fateful day that we witnessed the most profound orchestration of human rapture ever to take place on this green earth.

In terms of booking and messaging, this couple’s stay seemed just like any of the others. Our communication was brief and very polite. I gave a quick tour of our home, handed over a set of keys, and let them know a vague idea of our plans for the afternoon and following day.

Not even ten minutes later, at 3 in the afternoon, and not even 20 feet away from where I stood in the kitchen, it began. To claim that what I heard was ordinary would be a disservice to the performance. In my surprised stupor, I dropped the fork I was drying off and as I hurriedly picked it up, I realized that instead of quieting the noises only became more emboldened.

I immediately decided that our front garden was overgrown and needed to be weeded at precisely this very moment or the whole house would likely be consumed. An hour later, my boyfriend pulled in the driveway and kissed me hello. “Oh, are our guests already here?” he innocently inquired, completely oblivious to the carnage that I couldn’t put into words.

He disappeared inside and came back out nearly immediately. “Um, I think our guests are testing the suspension in there”.

We laughed it off, went for some drinks, dinner, and returned two or three hours later. Our eyes widened when we stepped in the front door and realized the noises and exclamations were still projecting throughout the house. I turned to my boyfriend “Oh my god, is this like a prank?”.

We tiptoed into the kitchen, grabbed anything we thought we would need for the night, and decided to wait it out upstairs. The noises continued for hours. I learned phrases I’ve never seen organized with such passionate amplification in my life. At two in the morning, it was finally quiet.

We spent another hour staring at the ceiling and reflecting on our life’s choices before finally falling asleep.

After another round of opera rehearsals in the guest shower early the following morning, I decided there was no plausible way I would be able to keep a straight face when telling these guests adieu. I took my work to a coffee shop close by and waited for their checkout message. When it arrived, I couldn’t help but giggle out loud.

Guest: Thank you for everything, the space was perfect and we thoroughly enjoyed our stay!

I bet.

Now, this may be enough for anyone to want to throw in the towel (with gloves on, of course) but after taking a two-week break from hosting and reflecting on all of the wonderful things we experienced, we decided that one night of listening to the pants-off dance-off wasn’t going to be enough to make us quit.

If anything, it sure gave us a heck of a dinner story.

Now, for a laugh, here is a list of the top euphemisms for “doing it” some of which are used here.