We decided on the Liberty Inn, a bizarrely discreet, nondescript building on a traffic island at 14th Street and Tenth Avenue. It looked staph-free and the price was affordable ($55 for two hours, $65 for three), but annoyingly they don’t take reservations, so we had to wait outside for a room to open up—alongside a college-age couple and several other hetero pairs in their late twenties and thirties. I speculated about each duo’s circumstances—were the Indian man and woman dodging family members and friends? Was the mixed-race couple doing the same? Judging from the hotel clerk’s bemused glances in our direction, I guessed that same-sex couples here are few and far between.

Finally, we got our room—barely enough space for the double bed and sink-and-toilet-only bathroom (a shower and whirlpool “suite” would have required a much longer wait). We both shrugged and dropped trou, leaping onto the sturdy bed. Hallway sounds leaked in through the door and the thin walls (cleaning ladies slamming doors, sordid giggles and even a dramatic verbal scuffle), but we made our own noises by sixty-nining with meaning. Soon enough, our orgasms upstaged the hotel’s racket, and the bed gave a slight squeak of approval.

We’ve returned since then, to the same room coincidentally, bringing along an iPod sound dock for a more romantic ambience. We hope the neighbors enjoy it, too.

*Writer’s name has been changed to protect them from their mother.