Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek at what your friends and neighbors are doing behind doors left slightly ajar. Today, the Unfulfilled Circus Performer: female, 40, in a relationship, Brooklyn.
10:30 a.m.: We’re both walking around mostly naked. I say, “I haven’t put anything in my sex journal yet.” He answers, “What?! I’ve had like ten thoughts about sex already.” Why haven’t we been doing it all day?
10:50 a.m.: If he thinks about sex so much, how come we aren’t doing it every day? Our sex life has gone from 60 to 0 in two years. We used to have such great sex — kinky, wild, fun, and affectionate — and now I’m lucky if I get one missionary-style session a week. He used to be the one buying zip ties and pinning me against cold tiles in public bathrooms. Thinking about it makes me feel angry and rejected.
2:45 p.m.: Leaving rehearsal I tell the hot Australian that I have a blister. He takes my hand in his to look at it. For a moment I think he’s going to kiss my boo-boo. He doesn’t.
2:20 a.m.: I lie on top of my hot younger boyfriend while he’s reading in bed. I kiss his neck and bare back. Then I lie next to him and stroke the soft skin on his butt cheeks. It turns me on, but we’re both sleepy and nothing happens.
1 p.m.: While taking a bath, I start feeling sulky that my busy boyfriend never wants to have sex. I decide to masturbate under the running water. I come hard and silently.
2:20 p.m.: My boyfriend suddenly notices the haircut I got two days ago and likes it so much he throws me on the bed and tries to rip off my pants. I cut him off and admit that I just wanked in the tub. After all my whining about his low libido, I can’t believe I’m turning him down.
1:40 a.m.: We stay up too late watching online interviews with Buck Angel, but we can’t find any of his porn free, and we don’t pay for any.
1:30 p.m.: My wonderful boyfriend does our laundry. While hanging clothes up to dry, he puts on one of my shirts. It’s a T-shirt, but he looks silly. I wonder whether cross-dressing turns him on.
9:20 p.m.: Walking home after dinner with an obese friend, we ponder his sex life and try to recall the dubious statistic about how much length penises lose per pounds gained.
1:15 a.m.: As we curl up to go to sleep, I cup my boyfriend’s left butt cheek with my hand. His butt feels soft and sweet. He falls asleep.
3:20 p.m.: My sleeping boyfriend starts kissing me frantically and passionately. He kisses me all over and fucks me without fully waking up. After he comes, he goes back to sleep, and I lie awake half basking, half wanting to finish; needing to pee but not wanting to get out of bed; and wondering if my hand on his ass subconsciously turned him on.
1:30 p.m.: My stupid boyfriend won’t go to a parade with me because he has to work. I know exactly who I want to ask, but I call some other friends first. Finally I call the friend I have a slight crush on. He sounds flattered and pleased that I called. I wear a camisole with no bra and make sure my boyfriend sees it.
4:30 p.m.: We watch a parade on a hot, crowded street. My friend is tall and lets me stand in front of him so I can see. I can sense him behind me, and I have to keep resisting the urge to lean back on his chest or accidentally brush his groin with my ass.
6 p.m.: When I drop him off, neither of us feel ready to part. We sit in the car outside his building chatting awkwardly. It’s like ending a date only we know we can’t kiss. He invites me to the opening he’s going to that night, but I have to go to a show. I invite him to the show, but he has to go to the opening. I’m nervous that he might ask me up, but he doesn’t. Does everything have to end in sex for me?
11:15 p.m.: I send the friend an e-mail asking how our day would have been different if it had been a date. I know I shouldn’t bring it up, but I have no willpower.
1 a.m.: In bed my cold boyfriend doesn’t even want me to touch him. Either it’s too hot or it tickles. In the early days he couldn’t keep his hands off me. I miss that so much. It constantly makes me wonder whether I’ve changed in some horrible way or whether he’s using me or what?
10 a.m.: E-mail back from the friend thinking I meant I wanted it to be a date and asking whether I broke up or have an open relationship. I haven’t, I don’t, and I don’t want to betray my lover man. But the friend and I spend a day flirting in e-mail. In one e-mail he says maybe I’m not getting the kind of sex I need, that quantity isn’t everything. I can’t tell him I’m not even getting the part he’s assuming. That would be a betrayal.
2:20 p.m.: My sweet boyfriend comes over while I’m working on the computer, tells me he loves me, and hugs and kisses me. He does that a lot, and I love it every time.
7 p.m.: Hot guy on subway platform — shaved head, earrings. For a moment I have the horrible feeling that not only do I know him but maybe I dated him. I keep walking before he looks up.
10 p.m.: Trying to put away a video, I knock over a shelf of DVDs. My mean boyfriend says, “You mess up everything you touch.” I tackle him demanding him to take it back. We giggle and wrestle for a while until he says, “Fuck me.” I pull off his pants and straddle him. I come hard on top of him; he comes soon after. He still has his shirt on.
11 a.m.: My sexy boyfriend stretches out shirtless in a patch of sunlight on the wood floor next to me on the computer. He looks good. I get off the computer and go cuddle with him, kiss his chest, and stroke his reddish-blonde armpit hair.
5 p.m.: Walking through Central Park, my boyfriend teases me for checking out the shirtless volleyball players. They’re hot and sweaty and beautiful. I’m just looking.
2 a.m.: The sleeping sex maniac strikes again. This time he flips me on my stomach and pulls my ass into the air. I’m still asleep, and my vagina is dry so it’s hard for him to enter me. He does and fucks me for a while. Right as I begin waking up enough to enjoy it, he pulls out without coming. I ask him what I can do to make him finish, and he says, “Let’s just go back to sleep, okay?” He’s asleep again before I can figure out what’s going on.
10 a.m.: My flaky boyfriend asks whether he did anything funny in his sleep. He remembers a little bit, and I fill him in on the rest. I ask why he wouldn’t finish. He says he just didn’t feel like it; why do I need a reason for everything? Then he says he didn’t want to make a mess. Making a mess is what sex is all about! He’s repressed.
1:50 p.m.: My weirdo boyfriend comes across the room and kisses my cheek from behind while fondling my breast: “Hey baby,” he says. When my nipple starts to respond, he walks back to his own computer.
9 p.m.: I see the friend for the first time since our e-mail exchange. I don’t feel awkward or even particularly attracted. I like him, but it’s like we got it out of our systems. We’re in a big group at a restaurant. I notice he doesn’t eat anything and wonder vainly whether he just came to hang out with me. We wind up at opposite ends of the table and don’t talk. Afterward I can’t even drive him home because I have to run an errand 100 blocks in the wrong direction. I feel guilty even though I never offered.
Total: One act of masturbation. One day of flirty e-mail. Several cuddles and kisses. Three acts of intercourse, two while asleep.