Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek behind doors left slightly ajar. This week, we bring you a special treat, the Single Sales Girl Who’s Sleeping With Last Week’s Diarist: 21, female, financial district, straight, single.
Midnight: I’m hitting various bars in the East Village with my amazingly preppy girlfriend, letting some Salvadoran pediatricians buy us drinks. Though I just graduated with a degree in Ethics, this never makes me feel guilty.
1:30 a.m.: Meet up with a former summer-camp counselor of mine that I recently reconnected with. He’s got a notorious sex blog, and we realized quickly we had a lot in common and that we’d probably inevitably sleep together. We all head over to Employees Only, then my preppy girlfriend finds a Harvard golf-team grad, and the counselor and I head back to his.
2:30 a.m.: I always end up sleeping with guys I’m only physically attracted to, with whom I never want to be on an intimate level. I’ve been single for nearly two years now. I should probably be in therapy, but instead I’m just hedonistic, and don’t let anyone get close. I know it’s all a power play.
3 a.m.: The counselor and I start hooking up; he’s surprisingly great with his hands. Hopefully I’m unsurprisingly great with my mouth. Even though I’ve been wrestling with the inner anxiety of my number getting higher, we rock the missionary. Sometimes good vanilla is all you need.
9:30 a.m.: Wake up at the counselor’s. I jokingly point out the mirrored armoire facing his bed, and next thing you know we’re watching as he takes me from behind. Trust me, watching yourself during doggy-style definitely leads to those amazing body-shaking orgasms. Actually, I’m pretty sure we finished at the same time. Yum.
10 a.m.: Half-awake thinking about the 35-year-old who I started seeing last week. We met through mutual friends and I wooed him with my philosophical thought experiments, and then pretty much lived at his apartment, naked and coked up, for the entire week. While we still haven’t slept together, blindfolding me with his Italian cashmere scarves has certainly gotten my attention. It’s still very new, but this is the closest thing to a crush I’ve had in a while. I’m totally infatuated in that nervous, butterflies-in-my-stomach, way. He reads me perfectly, and he’s gorgeous to boot.
10:15 a.m. About to go for my vibrator when my phone rings; my dad’s two blocks away and coming up to say hi. There goes that.
3 p.m.: At work, but apparently no one wants to buy lingerie today. Suddenly remember making out with one of Harvard Grad’s friends the other night in the bathroom while the counselor waited for me at the bar. Oops. Actually, I think he was pretty hot.
8 p.m.: Preppy is over helping me pack my apartment, and she decides to Facebook the Harvard grad. I assure her that the worst-case scenario is that he doesn’t friend her back, and she really has nothing to lose.
10 p.m.: My fuck buddy of about a year shows up. I refer to him as “Old Faithful” because he’s always available, never stays over, and we’ve got a routine. It’s like Hi-How-Are-You-Blow-Job-His-Hands-Missionary-Doggy-Style. Always. ALWAYS. But it always gets me off, so that’s worth something. We commence.
11:35 p.m.: Old Faithful and I smoke a J, and he heads home. I browse through XTube.com and fall asleep to it.
9 a.m.: Wake up early for packing; I’m moving back to my parents’ today for a few weeks before I spend the spring traveling abroad. I’m doing my law-school applications for the fall, but there’s little chance my degree in Ethics will get me a job I want in the meantime.
3 p.m.: The movers are a disappointment in the looks category. Why do I always have a thing for the help? After much self-analysis over this, I’m probably obsessed with control.
1 a.m.: I realize my bedroom shares a wall with my parents’. Can I XTube? This isn’t going to work at all. Instead I fall asleep watching Gossip Girl on iTunes.
4:30 p.m.: Get a dirty text from one of the twins I met last month in the Bahamas. I chaperoned a trip my younger sister won, so I naturally seduced a pair of identical twins, separately, but in the same night. Disclaimer: I don’t usually have one-night stands, more like a succession of fuck buddies that allow me zero commitment. This, however, was worth it. How many people can say they’ve had BOTH twins?
9 p.m.: Text back and forth with the 35-year-old. He’s fourteen years older than me. Fourteen. I lost my virginity at 14. Still, I’m slightly head-over-heels. He may be as screwed up as me, and I’ve started to crack him. That’s when I really started falling. Tonight, though, the conversation goes nowhere beyond him retorting that my staying with my parents is “cute.”
2 p.m.: Since I finished my last final, I’ve been unmotivated to do anything other than party. I haven’t taken any time off school since last January, and I’m just completely burnt out. Should be unpacking or application-ing.
3 p.m.: Driving to Greenwich, Connecticut, to shop, while on the phone with the trip organizer for the internship program I’m preparing for abroad. Lots of heavy flirting, and I’m showing off my great driving skills by screaming, “Where the hell am I?!” He tells me he thinks it’ll be a lot of fun when I show up. How do they always know?
9 p.m.: I tend to frequent the Equinox gyms on Wall Street or Tribeca, where this time of night I’ve got all the eye candy in the world. Equinox in Westchester, where my parents live, however, currently has about five middle-aged, divorced guys, and one or two firefighters or other civil servants. Where’s the motivation?
1:21 a.m.: After a flirtatious Facebook chat session, I could really go for a session with the vibrator right now. Living with my parents is terribly frustrating.
5:30 p.m.: It turns out that the camp counselor does the reverse commute into Westchester from the city for work, so I meet him for happy-hour drinks at some random sports bar. All we ever talk about is sex and our past experiences, but I actually have a lot of fun with him. I do feel we connect as friends as well as in bed, so I guess that’s nice.
8 p.m.: After ordering food at the bar, the counselor confesses that he’s never run out on a bill. Me neither. We “go out for a cigarette” and run for the car park so I can drive him back to the train before we get arrested. What about me makes everyone so reckless?
8:30 p.m.: We get to the train station at 8:10, at which point the counselor slyly hints that even though the train’s in seven minutes, they run every half hour or so. He’s in no rush. We drive up to the roof of the car park and I straddle him in the backseat. Skinny jeans are not conducive to car sex.
8:30 a.m.: I’m back in the city. YES. FINALLY. Selling lingerie all day.
4:30 p.m.: Text the 35-year-old, letting him know that I’m back. He calls within four seconds of receiving my text. “That was immediate,” I say. His reply: “Don’t you know you always make me come quickly?”
11 p.m.: At what turns out to be a really great party in the Village. Doing way too much blow because I can never say no, and making a fool of myself on the phone with the 35-year-old when he calls to see what my plans are. He’s slightly condescending, and I’m going to lament this all night.
11:30 p.m.: Frustrated over the 35-year-old who’s still got my head spinning, but high as a kite.
TOTALS: One act of bar-bathroom making-out; three acts of aborted masturbation due to parental proximity; four acts of intercourse with two partners; two days of obsessing over 35-year-old beau with coke predilection.