The Self-Servicing Waiter

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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 Self-Servicing Waiter: 25, male, Long Island City, gay, live-in boyfriend.

DAY ONE
10 a.m.: Wake up horny after disturbing threesome dream with Tori Spelling and her semi-hot man. Walk naked to kitchen. Hope neighbors don't mind that we sleep in the buff. Take my daily herbal antidepressant, which I refer to as my "happy pill."
2:20 p.m.: While working on an article from home, my mind wanders to last night's activities. He's a white boy with a swimmer's build and a southern charm. I'm a Hispanic-American with a penchant for tattoos and stylish clothes. We're hot together. Erection.
3 p.m.: Xtube surfing for the last 40 minutes. Finally decide on military men with tattoos.

7:15 p.m.: During dinner at a nearby restaurant, my boyfriend tells me he wants a repeat of last night's sexual romp, wherein we kneeled over each other like crabs. I smile at him. After two years of living together, we're lucky if we have sex three times a week. It's not for lack of attraction.
9:30 p.m.: Boyfriend attempts to give me a blow job. Surprisingly, I'm too full to get it up. We kiss for a while and then crawl into bed.

DAY TWO
11:20 a.m.: I tell Boyfriend about my sex diary and warn, "Unless you want every entry to read, 'Masturbated again today,' you'd better help me out."
1:40 p.m.: Boyfriend prepares to send me off to my hellish restaurant job — I wait tables — with an afternoon 69 session. We then shower together.
5:35 p.m.: Co-worker talks to me about the virtues of using poppers during sex. I remind him that he's sniffing VCR head cleaner to get a rush. He tells me it makes penetration easier. I'm sold on the idea because the boyfriend often complains about the pain. Call Boyfriend from the bathroom and try to persuade him. He sounds hesitant.
7:10 p.m.: My recent (botched) stint at "manscaping" has left me severely itchy in my down-there parts. Waiting tables and scratching at one's genitals doesn't bode well for tips.
1 a.m.: Boyfriend's asleep after a long day at work as a store manager. To quell the fiery hell that is my itchy groin, I spend some quality time with youporngay.com.

DAY THREE
12:35 p.m.: Best friend calls to tell me he has a swollen blood vessel in his penis. His doctor advised him not to engage in any sexual activity for three weeks. Meaning no masturbation. He's freaking out.
4 p.m.: Perez Hilton posts a YouTube clip of Pete Wentz in a "sex scene." Am mildly aroused. Mildly.
4:55 p.m.: I'm getting a cold. I can tell 'cause I haven't had an erection the entire day. That, my throat's all scratchy, and I'm feverish.
9 p.m.: If I had a viable erection and my boyfriend weren't so scared to swap spit with me for fear of catching a cold, maybe I'd get a little post–Turkey Day gobble gobble. But no.

DAY FOUR
3:45 p.m.: Co-workers and I are discussing the pros and cons of shaving the genital area. I list the cons. We're at an impasse.
11 p.m.: As predicted, Boyfriend and I are nowhere near horny tonight. Looks like the only "stuffing" happening tonight already happened during dinnertime. I don't mind, though. Boyfriend and I often joke that we replace sex with food, and with good reason: Boyfriend's a trained chef. His warning to me when we first met was, "I guarantee you will gain at least ten pounds if you stay with me." He was generous; I gained seventeen. Our idea of foreplay is Iron Chef America. Turnoffs: Rachael Ray and Bobby Flay.

DAY FIVE
1 p.m.: Masturbating for me is kind of like a daily routine (i.e., shower, shave, spank). Sometimes it's not even about being horny at all.
1:15 p.m.: I hit the Internet-porn rounds and find some suitable pictures. Glad to have my erection back.
6 p.m.: At work. Some European guy is standing next to me in the bathroom urinal. Though I am fully committed to (and in love with) my boyfriend, a brief Larry Craig–esque fantasy enters the mind.
Midnight.: I feel like a truck has run me over. I'm in serious need of an actual career so I can quit being a server. The long hours, the horrible customers! The hundreds of irate tourists I had to wait on tonight have squashed any hope for late-night lovemaking with the boyfriend.
1 a.m.: While de-stressing at a nearby bar with a fellow co-worker, a tourist hints to me that his hotel is just around the corner. No, thank you.

DAY SIX
1 p.m.: Wake up late after a restless night of nightmares. Xtube to calm the nerves, followed by daily "happy pill" consumption and Thanksgiving leftovers.
11:40 p.m.: After another high-stress day at work, arrive home to find Boyfriend asleep. Kiss his forehead, walk the dog, and return to our cozy apartment.
2 a.m.: Can't sleep. Late night Web surfing.
2:45 a.m.: I can barely attain an erection tonight. A daddy-son scenario does the trick. Crawl back into bed and spoon the boyfriend.

DAY SEVEN
11 a.m.: Boyfriend wakes me up with kisses on the neck.
3:15 p.m.: After an enjoyable day of brunch and shopping with Boyfriend, we part ways: He, to his job. Me, to the nearest sex shop to buy poppers.
6:30 p.m.: Alone and bored, I turn to Xtube once again. I toy with the idea of using the poppers, but want to try them out with the boyfriend. I decide on a clip of straight men's first gay experience. I know it's totally fake, but the straight-acting men turn me on.
Midnight Boyfriend's home, and awake. Time to try out those poppers, if he's willing.

Total: Zero acts of intercourse; one failed blow job; one act of 69; five acts of porn masturbation; one act of non-porn masturbation; one itchy manscaping attempt; one Larry Craig men's-room fantasy; seven morning happy pills.