Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek at what your friends and neighbors are doing behind doors left slightly ajar. Today, the Self-Obsessed, Emotionally Detached Hedge-Funder: 25, male, Brooklyn, heterosexual, single, comfortablysmug.
DAY ONE
4:30 a.m.: I got barely any sleep last night. After being on Ambien for four months, I think it’s lost its effect. Like many single guys, I make it a point to run every morning and stay in shape, mostly to attract women.
5 a.m.: During run, I think about how I haven’t been in a committed relationship for a year and a half now, since I broke up with the Only One That Mattered, the only girl I ever loved. The breakup was especially bitter — I still refuse to answer calls or e-mails from her and have become extremely pessimistic about relationships working. I’ve pretty much convinced myself that I am capable of living the rest of my life without a significant other, starting a family, or ever letting someone that close to me again.
9:30 a.m.: I’ve gotten back to dirty phone-texting with one of my exes in Austin. She broke up with a boyfriend recently, which means she’s back to talking dirty to me. After a few minutes I excuse myself from my desk to the bathroom where we have phone sex. After I come, I realize its not even 8 a.m. yet in Texas …
7:30 p.m.: Thank God it’s Friday. I work hours that will kill me ten years before my time. I predict the usual program of going home, taking a shower and not eating dinner. I don’t eat on nights I go out drinking to minimize calories. Plus I get drunk faster, always a goal to strive for.
4 a.m.: I’m chatting up an attractive blonde lesbian at an LES bar, explaining to her how much I hate children. She completely agrees and I begin overtly flirting with her while her girlfriend sits a few tables away. I get her number, and say I’ll call her to meet up when her girlfriend is at work.
DAY TWO
11 a.m.: I’m completely worthless — I can’t find the napkin with the lesbian’s number on it. Plus I ended up getting dragged to some diner when I was drunk. I’m going to have to take more Adderall to curb my appetite so I don’t eat today to make up for it.
3 p.m.: I’m on the Facebook profile of the Only One That Mattered, my most pathetic habit. I’ve been prescribed Wellbutrin pretty much since we broke up. I hate days when my thoughts turn to her — it hurts but fits in with my many masochistic tendencies.
11 p.m.: Went to some local art-space exhibit in Bushwick of some artist my friend is sleeping with. Anyone who doesn’t shave and can’t hold down a salaried position seems to call themselves an artist in Bushwick.
1 a.m.: Home early because I didn’t even feel like trying to enjoy myself. I masturbate thinking back to a particular sexual encounter with the Only One and go to sleep.
DAY THREE
10:30 a.m.: Pastis, brunch. My best friend’s girlfriend has brought her co-worker who I’ve met before. When she leaves to go to the restroom, I’m informed that the co-worker has a crush on me. I already know this and plan to continue ignoring the friend to make her want me more.
4 p.m.: Back AGAIN on Facebook looking at the Only One’s profile. Her new boyfriend has put up new pictures of them. I can feel my face get hot, even though I know she’s been seeing him. I’m better looking than him, have more friends, and know I make far more money … he’s a freaking graduate student in philosophy. I will never understand or stop wanting her.
10 p.m.: I’m back from the gym and strangely horny. I pick up the phone and dial up an orgasm from my Austin ex before I shower and go to sleep. She’s so clutch and I always treated her like shit.
DAY FOUR
1:30 p.m.: Lunch with some guys from work. I hate spending time with co-workers beyond the 60 hours a week I already see them. Each complains about the nuances of their respective girlfriends. I realize I am the only one that isn’t in a relationship, and for some reason it makes me feel inferior to them. I go to the bathroom and take a Xanax.
7 p.m.: Receive a text from someone not in my contact list saying we should meet up for sangria at the Mexican place I was telling her about. Using context clues, I figure it must be the co-worker of my friend’s co-worker. I wonder how she got my number and if she realizes how obvious she seems trying to get up with me just a day after I’d seen her at brunch. I wonder if she wants me so much that I could sleep with her tonight.
10:30 p.m.: After two pitchers of sangria, I’m pretty sure I can sleep with her.
2 a.m.: In a cab on my way back home from having sex with her. It was pretty decent sex. First-time sex with new girls is very exciting for me because I want to know if I can fuck them in the first place, and get immense validation once I do. She seemed surprised when I got up to leave instead of spending the night. People new to the city can be so funny. Irritated by the prospect of not being able to get more than a few hours of sleep.
DAY FIVE
8 a.m.: Working on two hours of sleep always sucks. Taking more Adderall than usual keeps me awake, but I still feel like crap. It’s going to be a long day. I barely think about getting laid the night before. As has become the norm, I feel nothing and am barely interested with a girl once I have sex with her.
1 p.m.: I get an e-mail from a friend who just lost his investment-bank job in a round of cutbacks. Guess my workday doesn’t suck that bad after all. I thought they only cut people on Fridays to avoid confrontation?
4:30 p.m.: I disappear from work early as I do every other Tuesday to get home in time for my 5 p.m. teleconference with my psychiatrist. I tell him how I’m not taking this girl seriously and how I’ve become cynical about relationships. He tells me I’m using my cynicism as a defense mechanism to cope with anxiety brought on by opening myself up to other people. He goes on to say that I need to find a better way to transition and build up trust in relationships. This is why I pay him the big bucks, plus he’s loose with the prescriptions.
9 p.m.: My mother’s calling. I consider screening, but a tinge of guilt forces me to answer. It wasn’t worth it. My dad had always been an unloving asshole, and throughout my childhood I felt that she tried to make up for that by smothering me. An attempt to make me a sensitive and caring man, I guess. It didn’t work.
10:30 p.m.: Answering e-mails and finishing up some work to hit the ground running in the morning. Afterwards, I jerk off in the shower thinking about one of the last times I had sex with the Only One. I come to the realization that I only like doing missionary with someone I’m really into.
DAY SIX
11 a.m.: I get a text from sangria girl wanting to meet up for lunch. I interpret her signaling interest as being weak and clingy. I shoot down the plan with the excuse that I’m very, very busy. Sometimes it really irritates me when other people want to spend time with me. I have so little of it and despise the thought of feeling like I owe any of my time or self to anyone else but me.
1 p.m.: I’m enjoying a cup of gazpacho at Hale & Hearty when I get another text from her asking me what I’m doing and if I really am that busy. I think the concern stems from her hearing that I’m an asshole from my friend’s girlfriend. She texts that she’s just bored in her office. Perhaps flush with relief by not getting called out, I decide to try and have sex with her again.
9 p.m.: At sangria girl’s apartment, on her couch getting a fantastic blow job. I press my luck and decide to get really aggressive — passive blow jobs bore me. My suspicion she has low self-esteem is confirmed once I’m basically fucking her face, which segues beautifully into rough sex. I’m satisfied by the thought this will probably leave her with bruises. Submissive girls have a short but enjoyable shelf life when it comes to maintaining my interest.
DAY SEVEN
11 a.m.: I get a call from her again while I’m at work. This is not good. Though it makes me feel great when I know someone wants me, because I’ll never let them have what they want. I don’t answer and continue wasting my youth staring at charts and PowerPoint slides.
2 p.m.: My best friend texts me asking if I’ll meet up for dinner with his girlfriend and the co-worker. Unbelievable. She clearly has gone through other channels to try and set this up. This is why men think women are crazy. I lie and say I’m under a tight deadline.
5:30 p.m.: I’m admiring the gorgeous long legs of one of our vice-presidents. She’s in her late thirties and still has an incredible body. I doubt she’s had kids to look that good and be so high up the ladder. I wonder if she’s really that hot, or just office hot.
9:30 p.m.: I’m alone in my apartment looking at new pictures someone else has put up of me on Facebook. Skipping meals and working out has done me well — I look fantastic. I drift over to my ex’s profile. Ugh, I’m such a sad bastard.
Totals: two acts of intercourse, one rough; one act of fellatio; two acts of phone sex with poorly treated ex; one collected phone number from lesbian; two acts of masturbation, both while fantasizing about ex-girlfriend.
