Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek at what your friends and neighbors are doing behind doors left slightly ajar. Today, the Morose Married Musician with a Partner in a Midlife Crisis: 46, male, Brooklyn, gay, married.
7:23 a.m.: My partner, apparently in mid-midlife crisis, wakes me to complain that I ate his chocolate. Morning ruined. I had planned to dawdle with Pizza Guy, my longtime imaginary friend, when he left for work.
7:45 a.m.: Write apology e-mail to partner at work address.
9:30 a.m.: Clean up for visit by cable guy, hoping he’s hot. Would make visit more interesting. If he is, will hover and be helpful.
10:24 a.m.: No return e-mail from partner, feel a little bad again. Taking the fun out of the anticipated cable appointment.
Noon: Cable guy not here yet, still no return e-mail from partner. Figure he’s really pissed. Call partner, leave voice mail.
3 p.m.: Cable guy arrives. Disappointment. Short, competent, flawless grammar, turnoff.
9 p.m.: Cool reception from partner, but he allows me to stroke his leg while I tell him the cable is fixed.
8:30 a.m.: Wake from dream of two guys doing two girls. In the mood for Pizza Guy, who delivers in minutes.
1 p.m.: Meet straight girlfriend for lunch, talk about her kids, mother-in-law and sister-in-law while I look over her shoulder out the window. Neighborhood filled with straight moms, kids, and mothers-in-law. Where’d all the hot guys go?
5:30 p.m.: Take subway. Nearly bowled over by awesome-looking guy who knows he’s awesome and spends ride obviously posing. Very strange. Later, two sexy young guys in wifebeaters get on. I decide I like public transportation.
6:30 p.m.: Business meeting with two guys. Thought they were straight, turns out they’re both gay. We relax after business and dish.
9:30 p.m.: Arrive home with a chicken-kebab sandwich for partner, who appreciates it and lets me squeeze him. We both fall asleep happily in front of the fan.
8:30 a.m.: Wake to usual morning randiness, try to decide which imaginary friend will help out. Not feeling imaginative, resume yesterday’s episode with Pizza Guy. Satisfactory, but ask him to bring friends tomorrow.
8 p.m.: Wake up hungry from late nap, await partner, hoping tonight is the night I wear down his resistance. Hope his midlife crisis is suddenly over.
9 p.m.: Partner arrives home, barely says hello. He immediately returns a call to his best friend with whom he argues for an hour. I’m starving.
10 p.m.: Partner calls different friend for help with his computer. I’m starving, fuming.
10:45 p.m.: Partner gets off phone, I’m starving, fuming, and near death. He apologizes. We order food and I moan on couch.
Midnight: Fall asleep on the couch watching TV. Miracle of miracles, we cuddle.
9 a.m.: Wake. It’s fucking hot and humid — can’t bear the touch of partner’s skin. Am in no mood for Pizza Guy or his friends. I move into air-conditioned TV room.
Noon: Partner says he hates air conditioning. I agree to forego it, fall asleep downstairs under the ceiling fan.
6 p.m.: We have food, go upstairs, watch a movie with fan on, too hot for cuddling. Life kind of sucks.
9 a.m.: Wake, partner’s in good mood, I rejoice.
1 p.m.: We play music together, partner has sweet singing voice. He’s so cute when he sings, turns me on.
2 p.m.: Order partner to the couch. Make love on the couch and floor. Life is good again, hardly remember Pizza Guy now. Naively hope that partner’s midlife crisis is over.
11 p.m.: Go to bed, able to bear the sight of each other again. Fall asleep gazing at him. No touching, though — too hot.
9 a.m.: Wake up, tell Pizza Guy about yesterday. He’s not interested; just wants sex. I give in.
3 p.m.: Conversation with writer friend struggling to write about his history of picking up guys in sex stores. Realize both our pasts are more exciting than my present. Am weirdly okay with it.
9 p.m.: Partner arrives home, still likes me, laughs at my jokes. We spend evening in front of fan watching Judge Judy. I kiss the mosquito bites on his legs.
9 a.m.: Wake, have heart-to-heart with Pizza Guy, who’s beginning to bore me again. Perhaps I’ll call in Farmhand.
7 p.m.: Planned to hear straight former crush play in a bar, but I have shakes, fever, sore throat, so can’t listen to songs about wife, kid, and God.
8 p.m.: Partner comes home, feeds me harira soup, and fusses. Am groggily content.
Totals: four acts of masturbation with fantasy Pizza Boy; one act of intercourse with partner in midlife crisis; one act of eating partner’s chocolate stash without asking; one bribe of partner with chicken kebab; one unfulfilling visit from Cable Guy.