By Caleb Pershan
When Jessie moved into the apartment above mine in a light-blue two-story Victorian near the Panhandle, I didn’t know she was married. I didn’t know it when we kissed or when we woke up together or when we went to get coffee. Not until a month into our neighbors-with-benefits relationship, while sitting on our shared stoop, did she tell me about her husband and their recent split. I can’t remember my reaction. In my juvenility, it’s likely I said “cool” or “rad.”
Jessie was older and generally wiser than I was. Her age was attractive to me, and mine to her. I found symbolism and suggestion in our mirror-identical rooms, one floor removed.
To me, an East Coast transplant in his early 20s, Jessie, a Bay Area native in her 30s, was beautiful, confident and worldly. Though we never dated — never ate dinner or saw a movie together — we shared more than a street address. Literalizing the commandment to love thy neighbor, we cared for each other.
Stranger than hooking up with a married woman was hooking up with someone whom I saw so much. Coming home from work, I would fuss with my hair before arriving at our stoop, just in case I ran into her outside smoking. I would peek out my door to see if she was there drinking tea in the mornings, and if she was, I’d consider shaving or changing my shirt before leaving the house. When she brought back other partners, as she sometimes did, I willed deafness.
Though we never dated — never ate dinner or saw a movie together — we shared more than a street address. Literalizing the commandment to love thy neighbor, we cared for each other.
Living under the same roof as a lover is usually a labor-intensive situation, but for some, it’s a matter of happenstance. San Francisco is intimate; it’s small; and it’s incestuous. I knew my experience was more representative than anomalous, so I reached out to others for perspective. A woman named Sarah responded to a query I posted, and we dove right in over the phone.
Sarah didn’t meet Brandon on Tinder or OkCupid. She met him in their shared hallway. I’ll let her tell it:
“We were having a holiday party, and Brandon was going home to his house, so he hung out on our porch. Later that night, he left his number on our fridge.
San Francisco is intimate; it’s small; and it’s incestuous.
Then months passed, and I didn’t really think about him. My roommates and I were at a bar one night and were like, ‘Hey, that’s our neighbor Brandon.’ I was like, ‘He’s so hot. Are you kidding? How did I miss that?’
At first, I just had a crush, so we started talking and met up twice. He said something like ‘We’re probably gonna hook up, but I think you’re cool, and we’re neighbors, and I don’t want a girlfriend or a relationship, so I don’t know if you’re cool with that.’
I said, ‘I don’t know — we’ll find out.’
So we hooked up, always at his place. My room connected with my roommate’s and was not that soundproof, and his house was more private. I probably stayed that first night. We’d always meet up late, and I’d usually leave really, really late. Going home was my way of putting up a wall to not care about him too much.
This went on for at least six months. At one point, we were like, ‘Maybe we should meet up before 9:00 p.m.; maybe we should get dinner,’ but it never worked out. The neighbor relationship came first. I was always a little mindful of making sure I never thought about it as a relationship too much.
Then we both started actually dating people. At one point his girlfriend moved in, which was fine. He’s super-friendly and nice, and because we were always so honest, it never felt weird.”
This went on for at least six months. At one point, we were like, ‘Maybe we should meet up before 9:00 p.m.; maybe we should get dinner,’ but it never worked out.
Gabbing with Sarah, I started to see themes and goals for neighbors with benefits. I asked her for advice, straight up. “Get a little drunk before you go for it,” she counseled. “And be really honest at the very beginning.” And she added, “Don’t get attached.”
Then, of course, I proceeded to blab about this whole story at the office, and a coworker had more to share. First, she knew of others who’d hooked up with neighbors. And second, she was one of them.
Tonya lived in the same building as Andy — and yes, they did what you think they did. Again, I’ll let someone else do the gossiping:
“I had just moved, and so had Andy. He had an entire flat of guys, and I had an entire flat of girls. The first time we met, I was doing laundry and came back to see that someone had moved it. Andy came down, and I was fucking pissed, ’cause it’s so rude, but he was really cute and felt really bad that he’d manhandled all my underwear.
I was having a housewarming party that night, and since he seemed cool after all, I invited him and his guy roommates. And then, of course, we hooked up.
Andy and I were basically together, but not together, for the next year and a half. We talked about our relationship a lot more than any other relationship that I’ve been in. We were both sort of actively dating, but we always came back to each other. We would definitely clear it if we were gonna have sex with someone else.
In the end, we weren’t right for each other, but he was exactly what I needed at the time. I ended up moving in June, and we didn’t really talk for a long time. But this past week, I texted Andy, and I went over to his new place, and we spent the night together. It was exactly the same and really good. There’s so much intimacy there.
Andy and I were basically together, but not together, for the next year and a half. We talked about our relationship a lot more than any other relationship that I’ve been in.
Hooking up with your neighbors: it’s such a funny, weird San Francisco thing to do when you’re all living on top of each other. It’s painful; it’s great; it’s convenient; it’s sort of messed up.”
I was surprised to hear that Tonya had rekindled something with Andy. When I left the Panhandle for a new apartment after just under a year, I hooked up with Jessie one last time, but we tacitly agreed to end our arrangement. After all, our assignations, our late-night laughs — they all lived in that apartment.
In fact, I’ve been sort of afraid to see her since. Secretly, I wonder if she’ll recognize herself in this piece (if she reads it, though we aren’t Facebook friends, and her name has been changed). Maybe we’ll reconnect?
Hooking up with your neighbors: it’s such a funny, weird San Francisco thing to do when you’re all living on top of each other.
But maybe not, and that’s fine too, since boundaries and space helped make all these relationships the healthy, thoughtful ones they were. After all, good fences make good neighbor hookups.
