The Horny Mommy

By

Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek at what your friends and neighbors are doing behind doors left slightly ajar. Today, the Horny Mommy: female, 37, database designer, Bedford Stuyvesant, parent, in a relationship.

DAY ONE
9:06 a.m.: See guy on subway platform with gorgeous curly hair. I wonder if our potential kids would come out with that lovely mane.
9:07 a.m.: He turns around. Never mind.
12:07 p.m.: Finally get last night's Today sponge out. Gravity is good.
1 p.m.: See a twentysomething girl’s perky breasts bouncing as she walks. I need a boob job. Gravity is not so good.
3:25 p.m.: Co-worker hopes that she’ll get a man within the next five years(!). I thank my lucky stars I’ve found someone.
5:11 p.m.: See fab body-builder type. Desperately wish I had already gotten the boob job.

DAY TWO
4:24 a.m.: My boyfriend gets out of bed to go to the bathroom. He comes back and canoodles long enough to get me hot. Then he goes back to sleep.
1:15 p.m.: While walking and chatting on my cell, a guy stops and says I’m beautiful. I only see him peripherally. Then I turn to check — and he’s at least 400 pounds!
5:22 p.m.: Walking home, cute guy at eleven o’clock. He looks. Should I look? Why is it you become a magnet for cute guys after you’ve already hooked up?
10 p.m.: Kids in bed, sleep.

DAY THREE
6:58 a.m.: See a help-wanted ad for a phone-sex operator. I pick up the phone and dial the number. Thankfully, no supervisor was available to take my call.
8:07 a.m.: While taking my oldest son to school, for the very first time I hear a young girl ask her best friend if she thinks my son is cute. If only I could have heard what the hell her answer was. It sounded like gibberish to my ears. Damn fast girls.
11 p.m.: Kids in bed. My bed.

DAY FOUR
6:50 a.m.: See my third dominatrix ad this week. $80 an hour. Damn. This time they specify an age: 18 to 30.
12:17 p.m.: My boyfriend calls to say he is coming to take me to lunch. Wonderful fantasies dance through my head about a lunchtime quickie.
1 p.m.: No quickie.
7 p.m.: Whirlwind evening of school orientation, a work briefing, and meeting.
11:30 p.m.: Too tired to even think of canoodling.

DAY FIVE
6:18 a.m.: Wake up to find my boyfriend in his birthday suit. With an excited shiver, I cover his chest with butterfly kisses. He hugs me, twists away, and continues sleeping. Sigh.
1:15 p.m.: It’s after lunch, and not one guy has looked my way today. Not one. I can’t stand getting old. I’m beginning to see what my older friends are talking about.
11:15 p.m.: The phone rings. It’s my boyfriend telling me he’ll be home in an hour. Work went late. Can I wait up for him? Forget that. I’m going to bed.

DAY SIX
9:04 a.m.: Boyfriend and I hurriedly kiss good morning. No time for canoodling, even though it’s the weekend. Have to get the kids ready to go to their father’s for the weekend.
3:30 p.m.: I’m out shopping and eye a gorgeous backless long shirt. Or is it a minidress? I’m still feeling a bit old and unattractive. I finger the dress, take a business card, and leave the boutique debating if I should buy it for myself.
11:59 p.m.: My boyfriend finally gets in, tired from work. We spend some quality time in the quiet house catching up on our week and laughing about the escapades of our respective exes. We go to bed wrapped in each other’s arms.

DAY SEVEN
9:40 a.m.: The phone drags me from a good dream. My boyfriend barely moves. It’s an old friend who was interested in me. I notice my boyfriend’s awake. I shrug and keep talking.
1 p.m.: Make my boyfriend a great brunch. Food is the way to a man’s libido.
2:08 p.m.: He’s filled up. Even though we both have things to do, we start in the kitchen leaving a trail of clothes to the bedroom. Did I mention I love sex?
4:23 p.m.: Still feeling the afterglow, I go grocery shopping. The produce guy calls me “Cutie”; a dude walking down the street stares at my face; a young dude sees me from behind and begins singing, “Baby, baby, baby…”; a bus driver smiles warmly at me and tells me to have a great day. Everything in my world is right again.

Total: One act of intercourse. Two boyfriend-induced middle-of-the-night arousals. One missed quickie opportunity.