A writer

A writer lived across the street. He had no curtains in his fifth-floor apartment – the writer lived openly. Almost every night, in one of his windows, precisely where his bed stood, a girl appeared – putting on or taking off her clothes. There was a new girl every few days. Some of them, having put on their clothes, left – they didn't stay overnight; the others stayed and didn't leave. In those cases, the alarm-clock rang in the writer's apartment in the morning – the girls had to get up early to get to work (those were the kinds of girls the writer had). The writer wandered around naked, stumbling – half asleep – into furniture. He swore, cursing the girls and their work, feeling happy when they left, and falling asleep he promised never to get involved with them again. By nighttime, though, having had enough sleep, he again called some girl, invited her to come over and hear what new thing he had written. The writer, as you have obviously already understood, had a soft spot for sex. And this fact was plenty clear to the fifth floor residents in the house across the street.