Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek at what your friends and neighbors are doing behind doors left slightly ajar. Today, the Newly Single Ghostwriter Attempting to Not Sleep With His Bandmates: 30, male, Prospect Heights, gay, single.
DAY ONE
9:02 a.m.: November 5. Good news: The country didn’t get screwed last night. Bad news: neither did I. I idly play with myself while looking at the Senate returns. Fucking Bachmann. Total boner kill. Neighbor’s Internet gives out before I can look for Obama–look-alike porn.
2:28 p.m.: Ikea. I just moved to Prospect Heights after breaking up with my boyfriend a few months ago. Ikea’s always full of hot homos, but it’s the worst cruising, because they’re all with their partners, buying furniture that won’t last as long as their relationship. Still, there’s a few I wouldn’t kick off my ergonomic, Swedish-designed futon.
10:57 p.m.: Maybe it’s a little puritanical of me, but I like jerkin’ it at the end of a long day. A reward for all that nailing and banging and screwing I’ve been doing on my stupid Ikea kitchen set.
11:05 p.m.: Still horny. Text a fuckbud to try to convince him to take the day off from work and help me christen my new apartment. No answer. Damn full-time jobs.
DAY TWO
11:16 a.m.: Fuckbud invites me to a sex party this weekend. Too bad I’ve already got plans. Wonder if cloning myself would result in having more sex with other people, or never leaving home and just having sex with myself? And would that be incest or masturbation?
2:30 p.m.: Cruise Manhunt, Craigslist, and Adam4Adam in a desultory manner. I’m not really horny. It’s kinda like picking up takeout menus from neighborhood restaurants. I just want to know what’s available.
5:45 p.m.: Supposed to get dinner with the ex-boyfriend, but he never calls. Hang out with the not-boyfriend instead, until he leaves to go to his real boyfriend’s place. Then the wannabe boyfriend comes over. No sex from any of them.
11 p.m.: Masturbation time again, even though I didn’t really earn it this go-around.
DAY THREE
11:30 a.m.: Read that Babeland is giving away free sex toys to anyone who voted. My civic duty has never felt this good. I’m not that into sex toys, but I’ve heard it’s bad luck to look a gift dildo in the mouth.
3:15 p.m.: Enjoy walking around my apartment naked, both because no one is around to see me and because someone might be around to see me. Get embarrassed and put on a towel.
8:15 p.m.: Realize I have no pots or pans in which to make dinner. Ask an old fling/new neighbor to drop by and bring me a pot. Bonus: He brings me a blow job as well. It brings a whole new meaning to the phrase “delivery service.”
DAY FOUR
8:15 a.m.: See a hot guy exiting the apartment next to mine. Decide now is the time to get more involved in my building.
11:30 a.m.: Loiter outside my building. No sign of the hot neighbor.
7:45 p.m.: Become convinced that hot neighbor was actually just visiting someone in the building. Post “missed connection.” Realize that the astronomically small chance that he’ll see it and respond makes this as ludicrous as buying a lottery ticket. But I do that too.
DAY FIVE
8:30 a.m.: Get ready for band rehearsal. I will not sleep with any more of my bandmates. If the band got any more interfucked, we’d become one of those wackjob cults in Texas.
11:30 a.m.: Arrive at band rehearsal. Feel my resolve weakening. Repeat softly under my breath: I will not sleep with any more of my bandmates.
2:30 p.m.: Go home with said bandmates, but maintain resolve. Sleeping with people you have to see on a daily basis no matter what is a risky, risky proposition.
8 p.m.: Sleep with bandmates. God, it’s good. But I won’t do it again.
DAY SIX
9 a.m.: Walk of shame. Realize I smell like sex. Revel in it. Wonder if people on the subway can smell it over the general stink of the C train?
2:15 p.m.: Take a break from work to make profiles on Internet dating sites. Not that any of them have ever worked for me. But it makes it possible (if even only slightly) to meet someone without ever leaving my apartment, which is exciting since I work from home.
4 p.m.: Still obsessing over photos to put up on profile. How sexy is too sexy? Where is the line between sexy and desperate slut? Why do I find myself asking that question a lot?
DAY SEVEN
10 a.m.: Can’t concentrate. Masturbate instead. I always think that this will help me think better, but I just end up sticky and needing a shower.
2 p.m.: Decide to go shopping for missing necessities: spices, cooking oil, trash bags, lube, condoms. Stop by Babeland, but I’m too late to get my free “Maverick.”
5 p.m.: Trade compromising cell-phone photos with a playmate in California. Wonder: Why is a badly lit and poorly composed photo of someone naked in their office bathroom so much hotter than professional porn?
TOTALS: Three acts of masturbation; one act of fellatio; one resolution to not sleep with bandmates; one ensuing act of intercourse with bandmates; one act of failed cruising at Ikea; three acts of Internet date-posting.
