The Horny Hedgie

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Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek at what your friends and neighbors are doing behind doors left slightly ajar. Today, the Royal the Horny Hedgie: female, 26, hedge-fund analyst, Soho, cohabiting with boyfriend.

DAY ONE
6:15 a.m.: Boyfriend rolls over and kisses my shoulder. I don’t react. Spoons me and pushes himself into my back. I shrug him off. He kisses me on the cheek and gets up. He’s so nice. I smile.
7 a.m.: Brushing hair, brushing teeth, lathering on lotion. Boyfriend moves in behind me and grabs my breasts; I welcome the support as I’ve yet to put a bra on. He says something about how I make him hot. I roll my eyes and motion him out the door.
7:30 a.m.: As we leave apartment, we kiss. He moves his hands down my neck and shoulders bringing them in and resting them on my breasts. He smells unreal, and for a minute I consider a quickie, but it’s a fleeting thought. Don’t want to endure wrath from tight-ass coworkers for being late.
3:30 p.m.: Bored. Scroll through AmateurEros.net. Love the real pics of girls. Imagine three-way with boyfriend and the girl with large nipples. Way too much of a sissy to bring it up, annoyed with self for not being more open.
7 p.m.: At home, changing for gym but decide to linger around in a thong. Making conversation with boyfriend, pretending not to notice he’s turned on. Start kissing in the kitchen, and he’s tracing my breasts with his fingers. Strip each other down. Straddle him as he sits on the edge of the bed. I come first within minutes; he’s not far behind.

DAY TWO
6:45 a.m.: Boyfriend standing in bathroom in only T-shirt while I'm brushing my teeth. He should be wearing boxers. A combination of exhaustion and sudden repulsion overtakes me. Thoughts of sex leave my brain simultaneously. He fondles himself while waiting for his turn at the sink.
7:55 a.m.: Kiss on Fifth Avenue as we part ways for work. He looks so handsome dressed up. Wished I hadn’t been so judgmental this morning about the T-shirt-and-no-boxers thing. Vow to give him a good spanking tonight.
11 a.m.: Amazingly hot banker calls. His voice makes my hands sweat. Imagine myself as his Maggie Gyllenhaal in Secretary. Convince myself he must cheat on his wife.
8 p.m.: Meet boyfriend back at apartment. Flop on bed next to him; begin heavy petting — then grumble about needing to be fed. Grab drinks and dinner at tiny Mediterranean place. Tipsy walk home with arms linked around each other. He grabs my ass periodically as we climb four flights. Undress. Fondle plus baby oil equals happy ending for him.

DAY THREE
6 a.m.: In sleepy, aroused haze. Wrap arm around boyfriend and he rolls over to kiss. Rolls back and falls asleep.
6:30 p.m.: Ride train to Hamptons with friend, and arrive at a share house where cute post-college meaty boys are drinking Bud Light. Shake hands, feign interest. Make bets with friend on which UES cookie-cutter girl will bend over late tonight for the juiced-up kid with the Superman tattoo.
11:30 a.m.: Meet tall skateresque kids from Boulder. Dance and make small talk, but, happily, I’m not actively searching for a bed buddy. Cute mop-top boy reminds me of lacrosse-player ex-boyfriend and the lame sex we had. Dance and barhop until 3 a.m. Crash in bed with friend.

DAY FOUR
8 a.m.: Wake up insanely horny. Must be the alcohol. Maneuver hands underneath me and come within minutes. Bliss!
2 p.m.: Boyfriend arrives. Lie on beach, kiss, and discuss tactics for finagling a quickie. Show boyfriend room we are sharing. It has five beds. Libido suddenly drops with the smell of musty carpet and stale beer.
10:30 p.m.: Annoyed with juvenile binge drinking, we move our party to the roof deck: drink, smoke, and drink some more. Spread out on the chaise longue. Boyfriend and I attempt to maneuver through layers of clothes, but wind chill makes it feel 40 degrees. Give up. Go to bar. Drink. Pass out by 12:30 a.m.

DAY FIVE
9 a.m.: Start rubbing boyfriends crotch, make out, and grope in shared bedroom. Dizzy and hungry, we reluctantly give up trying to get it on in this house and head out for food.
1:30 p.m.: On beach, watching zero-percent-body-fat boys throw football. Debonair miniature Sean Connery, complete with toned, lean body plays catch with other, older not-so-toned men. Think he's probably a stallion in bed, kicking it with some young thing. Enjoy the mental imagine.
9:30 p.m.: Back home. Lie on bed while boyfriend strips. Kisses neck, stomach, and inner thighs. Spends plenty of time pleasuring. He gets on top, and within seconds I come. He takes much longer, and I think he might be trying some Sting tantra thing, because his breathing sounds different. Bravo.

DAY SIX
6:50 a.m.: BlackBerry is already blinking with messages from overachiever bankers who clearly don’t have anything better to do than work at this ungodly hour. Pretty certain 99 percent of the employees aren’t getting their daily dose of sex.
3 p.m.: Listen to employee discuss “tits” of some girl he dated last night. Puuuleeeese. Watch other banker pick his nose. Sexual appetite diminishing each day with this job.
7 p.m.: Yell and get all dramatic over furniture-delivery delay. Hormones are beginning to rage. Maybe getting my period?
9:30 p.m.: Already in bed. Clinging to bad mood. Boyfriend rubs back and neck. To sleep.

DAY SEVEN
6:05 a.m.: Alarm. Boyfriend gets up and strips. His penis looks like a tusk protruding from his body. Groan and roll over. He laughs and heads to bathroom.
6:30 a.m.: Jump in shower with him. Stay for long kiss, but water is coming out at a slow drizzle. Curse landlord and leave shower. Wait my turn. After shower, boyfriend rubs lotion on my char sunburned back. He starts rubbing my breasts and stomach. Tell him to stay focused on my peeling.
1:45 p.m.: Enter elevator with two bespoke-suited men. One has British accent. Brits, my Achilles' heal. Uncircumcised boys have such an advantage.
8:30 p.m.: Furniture still not delivered. Eat dinner on blanketed floor. Garlicky Indian food leaves me with dragon breath despite brushing twice.
9 p.m.: Get into bed, kiss boyfriend, he laughs and coughs, mockingly plays dead as if my breath knocked him out. Temporary halitosis leaves me feeling very unsexy. I roll over, boyfriend spoons and rubs back. We go to sleep.

Total: Three acts of intercourse. Three unsuccessful intercourse attempts. Two fantasies. One porn viewing. One act of masturbation in a shared bedroom.