I have a tendency to be vocal during the sex act. Alright, sometimes I scream like a cat that's just had its leg amputated by a Mack truck.
One evening my old roomate was on the phone with a mutual friend in the living room of our apartment. Apparently, I was clearly audible on the other end of the line. In fact, I think I may have dislodged some plaster from the ceiling that night...
Said roomate's revenge was to develop a system by which she could identify the lover by the pitch, volume and timbre of the happy noises I made.
When I showed my groggy face the following afternoon and shuffled gingerly into the kitchen, I would be greeted by the following:
"Hey, (insert name of the lucky guy here) must be particularly well-endowed. I mean, the last one was a "yeah, yeah, yeah" but with this one it's a keening sound, like a bottle-nose dolphin or a whale or something. You know it must be good when you lose the ability to form even monosyllabic words during the shag."
So the entire neighborhood knows that I was having it off. Squeamishness or self-consciousness and ecstasy don't mix.
I guess that's why the running commentary didn't bother me so much.