Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek between doors left slightly ajar. This week: The Therapist in a Relationship With an Older, Almost-Divorced Family Man: female, 27, Upper West Side, straight, in a yearlong relationship.
DAY ONE
7:30 a.m.: Dear Brownstone-Desecrating Yuppies Across the Street: IT’S SEVEN THIRTY IN THE FUCKING MORNING. Pull the pillow over my head and try and block it out for 45 more minutes until my cell phone goes off.
7:33 a.m.: Reminisce about last weekend, when I had a pillow over my face to roommateproof sex noises. Contemplate squeezing in some “me time” before the alarm, but pass out in dreamy/sexy haze.
1:15 p.m.: Read a dirty text from not-quite-divorced boyfriend of one year who travels and has kids, right before going into session with an 84-year-old who proceeded to bitch for 45 minutes about how vulgar the movie The Hangover was. If only she knew where my mind was.
1:30 p.m.: Still is. Feel less out of touch for not yet seeing The Hangover. Cannot get my mind off of last weekend. Newsflash, everyone: Sometimes your therapist isn’t listening.
5:09 p.m.: Success! Just scored two seats to U2’s September shows. Wish my man was here to, um, celebrate. We first met at a concert a few years back, so it’s an anniversary of sorts.
6:56 p.m.: Tell my therapist about how I was fantasizing about last weekend in all of my sessions today. I end up kind of bragging to her about the weekend, but I can’t help it. I actually lost control of my face for a solid 45 seconds while tears flew out of my face like I was an anime character while I was coming. What would Freud make of that? Definitely found the perfect way to work out my daddy issues.
10:45 p.m.: Nightly phone ritual of catching up on the day’s events and dirty reminiscing briefly transitioning into phone sex. On my end at least … He’s moving in soon. And then it can be actual sex more than every two weeks. Yippee.
DAY TWO
9:0 5a.m.: Mmmmmm. Blissfully arise to no construction noise. Briefly am frightened to discover that I am completely bottomless.
9:25 a.m.: The water pressure in my apartment sucks. Not enough oomph for any solo shower fun, that’s for sure. Downfall No. 397 about living on a high floor in New York.
12:42 p.m.: None of my clients are showing up. Ah, the joys of a newly developed private practice. Plenty of time to get pathetically lost in fantasy about Alex Rodriguez, who vaguely (vaguely) resembles my boyfriend.
12:50 p.m.: Oh, NOW a client shows up. Pfft. Thwarted.
1:11 p.m.: My client is debating whether or not she believes in bisexuality.
5:03 p.m.: Three minutes into a session with a new client — a “straight” male who is addicted to getting pegged by post-op transsexual black women. Use some visualization techniques on myself so that I’m not stuck with that lovely image all night.
8:10 p.m.: Another riveting afternoon of whiny NYU students come and gone. Nothing like it to kill the libido.
DAY THREE
8 a.m.: Alarm goes off. I’m wet from vivid dreams about my boyfriend’s tongue. Figure I’ll be a good girlfriend and save it up for him tonight. Good God, I’ve hit the jackpot with him.
8:47 a.m.: Grab some pineapple to eat with my lunch. Supposedly makes you taste better.
10:30 a.m.: Not listening to the current client. My man is probably landing at LGA.
11:55 a.m.: He’s here! Of course, my next client is already in the waiting room, but I still bring my boyfriend back to my office and close the door.
12:01 p.m.: Making out like crazy. I grab his crotch and feel him, just as ready as I am. God. Dammit.
12:15 p.m.: Send him to the apartment. Wish I had just gone for the quickie right there. We aren’t too good at rushing, though …
4:45 p.m.: My last client cancels. I blow through my evening paperwork and insurance bullshit to try to beat the rush home.
5:11 p.m.: Aaaaand the C and the E are running express to 59th. Crap. Run upstairs and hail a cab.
5:46 p.m.: In the door about 90 seconds before pinning my boyfriend on my bed. Just starting to get hot and heavy when I hear my roommate keying in. Crap.
6:23 p.m.: Watch my boyfriend dutifully make small talk. Decide that delayed gratification is hot and suggest hitting up Patsy’s for dinner, where we play footsie.
8:53 p.m.: In the door. Clothes are off. Roommate has vacated the premises. I love her — but hallelujah — no pillows over my face this weekend! Openly appreciate his tongue work.
10:15 p.m.: I think I killed him. Oh, no, he’s snoring. Whew! I sneak out and watch Bill Maher on the couch.
11:02 p.m.: Round two commences with my legs in the air.
1:03 a.m.: Pass out on his chest with my leg wrapped around him, his arm around me. His chest hair tickles.
DAY FOUR:
9:36 a.m.: He goes down on me before pretty much every time we have sex, but this time I’m really seeing stars.
Noon: Another round later, we head for our favorite postcoital food spot — my favorite Upper West Side diner.
12:32 p.m.: Love when he holds my hand from across the table. Try to shut off the therapist voice in my brain that is asking why I feel the need to show off to the girls at the next table.
4:50 p.m.: Watching the Yankee postgame. Straddle him on the couch in full view of my neighbors.
5:03 p.m.: Boyfriend carries me into my bedroom and throws me down. Hell. Yes.
7:44 p.m.: Love passing afternoons this way. Laying in bed talking, having sex, making out, laughing. Apparently it was a beautiful day out … whoops. Fully intend on heading to a neighborhood Italian joint but somehow end up making out and pinned underneath him for a quickie that leads to a nap/sex coma.
9:07 p.m.: Okay. We’re really going out now.
10:30 p.m.: Back home to watch embarrassing home movies of mine like I promised him we would. Thankfully he passes out after a few minutes and I am spared.
10:51 p.m.: Drag him by the wrists into my bedroom and go down on him until he’s almost there. I’m selfish and want him to fuck me again.
2:03 a.m.: Start to drift off with him spooning me. The only man I trust to have that close to my ass.
DAY FIVE
7:30 a.m.: Boyfriend starts in again.
9:18 a.m.: Not sure when I fell asleep; momentarily terrified that I passed out mid-hand job. He said the nap felt good.
10:32 a.m.: Drifting in and out of sleep and kisses until we finally get down to business. Both on our knees and I’m loving it. Doggy-style is Jesus’ gift for the ladies, I swear.
12:13 p.m.: We officially are the obnoxious couple sitting next to each other instead of across. Stop short of feeding each other omelettes.
1:09 p.m.: Back to soon-to-be-our place to relax before he has to rush out to get his flight. Cuddle on the couch while meanly making fun of the retired Yankees rocking Old Timers’ Day.
2:30 p.m.: Plenty of long kisses at the door before he grabs the elevator to head off for a week of travel for work. I miss him and he’s barely out of the building. Pa-thetic. He needs to get unmarried so he can marry me. Stat.
2:33 p.m.: Ponder the plight of how fucking long it takes for divorces to become legal in this state of ours. We began under vaguely un-kosher circumstances, giving in to a lengthy flirtation. I can’t help but look forward to real legitimacy. I think of how all my client couples would feel if they knew.
5:14 p.m.: Haven’t moved off the couch all day. Think about masturbating but then realize I’m really sore. Think back to college and consider grabbing a bag of frozen vegetables out of the fridge for my poor, poor girly parts.
12:16 a.m.: Time for the nightly phone call. Codependence? Probably.
DAY SIX
9:05 a.m.: I hate waking up alone. I have literally mounted my body pillow in my sleep. Refuse to analyze either of those realizations.
12:45 p.m.: Lunch with my parents at Morimoto. Make the faux pas of mentioning that whatever phantom bug has been biting the shit out of my leg at night has been leaving my boyfriend alone. HORRORS, directly referencing the boyfriend staying over. Oh, Catholics.
3:24 p.m.: My 3 p.m. is a no-show. Realize that normally my mind would be wandering, but am still sore from the weekend. I’m still pretty depleted.
7:51 p.m.: Couple at the next table in the salad joint who are sucking each other’s tongues. Am jealous, but allow my therapist brain to think instead about what they’re compensating for.
10:30 p.m.: Still sore, but very pent-up. I can never go from three times a day to zilch. Can’t help myself.
11:14 p.m.: Phone, sharing my inability to resist touching myself after he leaves. Can’t understand how his almost-ex never slept with him.
11:48 p.m.: Phone sex isn’t supposed to be so hot.
DAY SEVEN
8:11 a.m.: Straddling my body pillow. Still wet from last night. Luckily I’m someone who never needs lube. Ever.
8:18 a.m.: Masturbating three times in twelve hours when one has just gotten laid would be a bit excessive, no? Try to recall how the DSM would categorize.
2:36 p.m.: In a couple’s session, listening to bottom gay complain that top gay objectifies him via doggy-style. Wish it was in the client’s best interest to share my own enlightened perspective on the position’s liberation. Smile, nod, and encourage more sharing.
5:19 p.m.: Wish I could pounce when I get home. I have a lot of pent-up work rage today.
9:12 p.m.: So tired. Probably even too tired to have sex, for once.
11:11 p.m.: Somehow make it to our nightly phone call. Wistfully wishing his job and his kids wouldn’t take him away from me so much. Vow to get a vibrator soon, so I can push through the lazy nights with some more enjoyment while he’s away.
TOTALS: Five acts of masturbation, two during phone sex; two make-out sessions; three workplace fantasies; eight acts of intercourse; two acts of overanalyzing an obnoxiously in-love couple at a restaurant; two acts of being that obnoxiously in-love couple at a restaurant.
