Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek at what your friends and neighbors are doing behind doors left slightly ajar. Today, the Single and Lonely Hot Actor: 32, male, Manhattan, straight.
8:32 p.m.: I am sitting at the Union Square Starbucks fidgeting, and avoiding eye contact of a brunette, who seems to be tirelessly staring at me.
8:47 p.m.: Brunette left. I’m too lazy to hunt these days. Today the doe lives. The alpha male retreats. I’ve been single for two years or so. I’ve dated a lot, but I’m single. I just want someone to wake up to on a daily basis.
10:30 p.m.: In bed. Thinking of Ashley, a girl I dated for four months. We have not spoken for about five years. I think she didn’t trust me. Or thought maybe that I was unreliable. She’s my One Who Got Away. I wanted a life with that woman. Something tells me she is lonely. Very lonely. Obviously.
5:35 a.m.: Woke up aroused and thought of Lindsay Lohan, my default fantasy girl. Then went to gym. Worked out some more sexual energy. Gay man stares in the steam room. Sorry man, but no. Wish you the best though.
9:17 a.m.: I change my desktop to include a picture of a stunning blonde that I know from a casting call. She is in Sex and the City The Movie. Very hot.
10:15 a.m.: Day-job Boss #1 walks into office and asks, “Who is that bitch?” I reply it’s a friend, and that I’m offended by the comment. He doesn’t apologize.
3:33 p.m.: Still miffed about comment. He never apologized. Maybe I’m too sensitive.
9:20 a.m.: I remind Boss #2 of pending trip to Vegas. He curses. He’s a teeth-grinding fuckhead. I distract myself with devilish thoughts: Women are there just for a romp. I got in trouble for saying that word on national television when I alluded that a certain girl looked like she was made for sex.
12:45 p.m.: I think a teenager is looking at my crotch. Young lady, get your eyes from there. You should be tending to your school books. Plenty of time for that when older. Seriously, not good.
8:20 p.m.: F train. Dude over there, compose yourself. I am not gay. Stop staring. Uncomfortable.
10:30 p.m.: Whip out a porn magazine, and whip out my boy and have a great time.
9:23 p.m.: Pick up some Chinese food. Cute girl behind counter is nervous when I talk to her. She doesn’t even make eye contact. Unclear why.
10:15 p.m.: Watch news and have naughty thoughts about one of the anchors.
5:11 p.m.: Call mom. Tell her about diary. Also tell her story of how on Halloween someone asked me, “So who are you supposed to be, John Travolta?” I do button shirt too low sometimes. Heh.
6:30 p.m.: Think of sending a girl I like an e-mail asking her to see me. She said I “toy” with women. Untrue. Only extremely confident, attractive women would date me. Attractive, everyday types assume I am a lothario. It’s maybe cause I dress and carry myself like an alpha male-type.
8:27 p.m.: Strike up a conversation with a bartender. I analyze: She’s a sophisticated, wine-drinker, Brooklyn type. I say, “just here to watch some sports and get some writing done.” Because sports = manly; writing = brainy. Her eyes noticeably blink when I say “writing.”
4:11 p.m.: At a bar called d.b.a. in Lower East Side. Fine young thing two seats down, talking to a guy about Giants game. [Ed. note: Not the Super Bowl. We gather these things some time in advance.] They escaped with the win. I talk loud enough so young thing can hear me. Guy next to her is beau. I’ll leave this one alone. I have to start dating again. I am afraid of having my heart broken again. I am scared of that.
5 p.m.: Walking home with a slight buzz. I thought of sex but was not in the mood. Too sad and lonely. Life sucks.
10:40 a.m.: Get in a semi-heated phone debate with a producer of a TV show on which she asked me to appear. Doing a show on asking your best friend’s ex out. I should stay clear of these things. Note to self: Inquire later if producer is hot. They usually are.
11:19 a.m.: Just realized, I am writing a blog and I have not been laid yet. Time to work the phones and e-mail.
8:19 p.m.: A girl replied to voice mail. She said for me to be over at eight. On stairway to her fifth-floor apartment, I realized I just wanted not to be alone. She says, “You’re late.” I say, “But I’m here!” She’s happy, I’m happy too I guess. We don’t have sex, but I was not alone.
Totals: Zero acts of intercourse; four acts of masturbation, one focused on Lindsay Lohan; one booty -call hookup; two perceived flirtations by gay men; one fantasy about girlfriend from five years ago.