Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek at what your friends and neighbors are doing behind doors left slightly ajar. Today, the Unemployed Palin Fetishist: 35, male, Crown Heights, straight, single.
10:30 a.m.: Checking e-mail for job responses and the flight time of this Nigerian chick that I’m seeing, flying in from London in a week. She is a friend with benefits, but she wants to be the only friend getting the benefits. I’m not the boyfriend type, though I like the thought of relationships until I realize I’m in one.
1:30 p.m.: Thinking about texting a Cali chick who texted this weekend, but decide not to, because she is a relationship hound, and that’s usually when I go out for milk and cigarettes — for years. For the record, Man Law says if your chick is in another state, let alone another country, you’re not cheating. You’re a bleeping patriot.
2 p.m.: Debating porn or writing. Or I could look for a job. I do none, and go to the Park Slope Barnes & Noble. Why does this store not have any clerks with that Sarah Palin sex-hair that librarians have? God, the things I could do to her!
7:30 p.m.: Receive call from this Williamsburg chick. She just never turns me on. She wants to hang out, eat, and relationship-type stuff. Man Law rule of thumb: Never hang out with a woman with whom, should something go wrong, you could not see yourself with.
9 p.m.: Get a series of texts from this Cali chick about how I’m dodging her after hooking up with her once, a month ago. Truth is I just don’t want to have sex with her. I’m in a semi-relationship with the Nigerian chick.
11:30 a.m.: This is my week three of no sex, so there is a backup. I have to go to the backup plan, porn. Hmmm, gangbang, cheaters, interracial plucking, stolen home videos … no … no, tonight it’s Kay Parker in Taboo — incest. I really am trying to cut back on my porn.
10 a.m.: Urgh … text from the Cali chick. She is tired of trying to hook up with me. I could not care less right now. I need to apply for jobs that will pay me a ridiculous amount of money.
2 p.m.: God, I need to get some real, non-Blu-ray sex. The Nigerian chick does not get here for another six days. I was thinking about a quick jerk until I saw the face of Mo’Nique, the comedian, talking about her brother molesting her. Eeww! That’s a penis downer.
2:10 p.m.: Think of Sarah Palin. I know she likes to do the dirty dog, she has five kids. I see dirty seventies porn all over her. Woof!
7 p.m.: I am so hungry, metaphorically and literally. I’m by the Brooklyn Art Museum and they are having some sort of opening. Art chicks are always risqué.
9 p.m.: Instead of the museum, I go to a couple bars. Useless. Total of five women in two bars. Those are Alaska- or gay-bar numbers.
11 p.m.: I take pride in being the Servant of My Domain with a night of Brazilian “films.” I’m so cultured.
1 p.m.: I have not received one call or text today. I have approximately nineteen hours to get as much sex as I’m going to be able to get because my “sensitive Southern brother” is due to arrive with all his fabulousness and delicate drawl. I have come to realize that the amount of sex he gets in New York in a few days takes me weeks to negotiate.
5 p.m.: Can’t get ahold of my brother, which puts a damper on my sex life because I need to know how available my apartment is going to be.
7 p.m. I’m really trying not to think about sex so that I don’t have to act upon it. Because, let’s be honest, should my climax not be up to par in action and volume with Nigerian chick, there will be questions. She has a sixth sense. Man Law: deny, deny, deny.
8 p.m.: Still not able to reach my brother. I get a text from a Panamanian chick asking how I’m doing. To be quite honest, I would love to remake the R.Kelly sex tapes with her minus the water Olympics, because she has the body of a high-school girl. But I can’t get her to talk about the naughty details of life. Which is a sign that she’s either freaky, a prude, or blowing me off and keeping me as a penis in a jar. I’m so annoyed at this thought that I don’t respond.
10 p.m.: So my assumption is that my brother is not going to make it. It’s a great fall day. I love this time of year, seeing women in layers, and imagining what’s beneath the layers. Wickedly hot. Of course, I don’t have to worry about being turned on by most Brooklyn women.
2:30 p.m.: Nap. Not working can be so tiring.
5 p.m.: During nap, missed a call from Williamsburg chick. I text her to see what she wanted, but no response. My assumption is it’s happy hour and she’s moments away from being face down and skirt up in the back of a car.
8 p.m.: I am in desperate need of liquor and company outside of myself. I receive a text from one my exes. I would like to get a drink with her, but I know there will be no sex. Besides, I need to maintain my little-man count for Nigerian.
Midnight: Hit my usual bars, and run into the Cali chick. She wants to talk. They all want to talk. I just want to drink. We hang out and go back to her place. She knows my situation with my Ms. Sixth Sense, so we hang out, talk, and fall asleep without having sex. Though she probably thinks I’m gay.
Noon: Wake up. Let’s be honest. I’m feeling rather proud of myself that I slept in the same room as a woman and did not try and take advantage of her. This has not happened since band camp. I hang out with the Cali chick all day, we shop, eat, and drink. I feel like my brother. Surely I’m 30 seconds away from gold hot pants.
8 a.m.: This is really a blur. I bar-hop in Brooklyn. Man Law: The key when bar-hopping is to always fly solo.
Midnight: I have always felt that drinking covers for something in people. So I spend the next few hours going from high-end bar to high-end bar, to make up for all the sex I’m not having. I am still master of my domain.
10:30 p.m.: Nothing really happening today. I get an IM from the Nigerian chick, who is trying to catch up with me before her flight. Sleep through it.
1 p.m.: I have to do what the majority of people in Brooklyn hate: go into the city. It’s not the city that bothers me, it’s the people in the city that bother me. Tourist and terrorist are one and the same.
2 p.m.: My friend and his wife are away for another week. That cuts out a drinking partner. He has been with his wife for six years, and I think how bad the sex is after six years.
10 p.m.: I have no control in life! A few minutes of a cheesy Skinemax late-night movie and I’m fulfilling those Palin fantasies. All that built-up desire is absolutely GONE! I’m so busted. Need oysters, steaks, and soy tomorrow.
10:30 p.m.: Okay, I have no desire for sex. Which is probably not a good thing. But I’m in the middle of a stressful time. I have to pay some bills and clean my apartment before the Nigerian girl gets here. But most important, I need to have my suit dry-cleaned for a wedding this weekend. Weddings are the big business of being a single guy, and my clients deserve the best.
3 p.m.: I can hear my plus-size neighbor getting her back blown out. Doesn’t she have a job? And who the hell is mounting that?
8:30 p.m.: Watching Jett Favre and the New York Bretts take a spanking like a harlot in a Singapore whorehouse. Not pretty.
11:35 p.m.: I get a call from the Nigerian chick telling me she landed and will be over in a couple of hours. I start going through the checklist: bottled water, candles, clean bathroom, snacks, smell check, and the right brand and number of condoms (trust me, they check). Ready.
TOTALS: Zero acts of intercourse; four acts of masturbation, two involving Sarah Palin doggy-style fantasies; one sex-free sleepover with female admirer; one failed visit from gay visiting brother.