Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek behind doors left slightly jar. This week, the Art-School Grad Student who’s sleeping around: 26, female, Upper East Side, straight, single.
7:30 a.m.: Dizzily board the early-morning Acela back from a weekend home in Boston.
8:45 a.m.: Replay the activities from weekend. For some sad reason I get more sexual action in Boston than New York. One easy explanation is that my only fuck buddy lives in Southie. We play out porno-like fantasies. He has been a fuck buddy for eight years, with a five-year hiatus during which time I was (almost) completely faithful to ex.
9 a.m.: Read same art-theory homework sentence 30 times. Think about ex, with whom I recently ended our LTR. Ex was very loyal, sweet, and supportive, but mentally unstable. Deep down I knew our relationship was never healthy, but stuck it out two years too long. I’ve become such a whore since. I think I am hoping for my next serious relationship to be “the one,” yet I’m enjoying the freedom.
2:20 p.m.: Cannot pay attention in class. Cannot get over that, after seeing my fuck buddy, I proceeded to go out later, get wasted, and sleep over with/fuck the only boy that I cheated on the ex with. I call him the Ugly Leprechaun.
7:10 p.m.: In spin class. Hate the cheesy pop music. Look at myself in distant mirror and think it’s unfair how I totally adore Ugly Leprechaun, and he doesn’t seem to be thankful for it. Maybe if I lost ten pounds.
12:50 a.m.: Can’t sleep. Call ex. He doesn’t pick up.
2 p.m.: Spend most of the morning printing photos. I have a problem where I really need the red blink of my BlackBerry. Disappointed by lack of communications.
3:30 p.m.: Go to 71 Irving Place for coffee/to read. End up looking around at eye candy more than the Lacan.
9 p.m.: Watch DVR-ed Gossip Girl. Want Chuck Bass.
10:40 p.m.: Have been mulling over a Craiglist ad for months.
1 p.m.: Do it. Ad is up, and quite perfectly written if I may be so vain.
2:15 a.m.: Only three responses so far? I’m disappointed. One guy actually seems pretty hot. Need to turn phone on silent and take my Ambien.
8:45 a.m.: Wake up to twelve CL e-mails. Damn. This is fun. So many pictures. A poem. Mostly foreigners.
1 p.m.: Thank God it’s not the week I am assigned to present during critique, as I am busy e-mailing three potential CL suitors I’m actually intrigued by.
4 p.m.: Super turned-on by one response from a guy who does not fit my criteria on paper. Didn’t go to college, lives off-island (Brooklyn), self-employed D.J., has a lot of ink — but it’s the pics of his inked arms and body that suddenly make me tingle.
9:45 p.m.: Am pissed off beyond belief. Invited to big Jewish benefit by friend who said I could buy tix at door. Is sold out when I arrive, and Hasidic Jew will not budge, even with my offer of doubling the charity amount. I spent way too much time getting beautified and money on cab ride. Didn’t realize how many good-looking Jewish people are in this city. My mom wants me to marry Jewish, but I always date Irish Catholics.
10:15 p.m.: Meet CL Wall Streeter new to town at bar. He is handsome, but not exactly my type. We first go to Duane Reade to buy the right type of light bulb for his newly delivered designer lamp. He is incredibly obnoxious to the employees in DR, but informs me he is friends with all of them.
11:30 p.m.: After three glasses of wine I agree to go check out his newly decorated apartment. It’s nice in a spare, feng shui style, but I want to leave. Some sort of curious will keeps me glued to couch.
11:45 p.m.: He is making out with me. It’s only okay. He keeps telling me how cute I am. How he loves my curves. I go into autopilot. He asks to finger me up the ass. He doesn’t come and I don’t either.
12:30 a.m.: He really wants me to stay over, but I realize sleep is not going to happen here. In cab I make a mental note that I am officially a whore, will never tell anyone about this.
5 p.m. Stay focused on work all day. Ignore all CL e-mails. Finalize wholesome weekend plans, including a live trance show Friday, and dinner with girls from college field-hockey team Saturday.
9 p.m. Ignore texts from CL guy from yesterday asking me to meet up again.
10 a.m.: Start day off right by skipping coffee and drinking lots of water in preparation for drugs I know I will ingest later.
5 p.m.: Response from Tattooed Guy. Text back and forth and make date for tomorrow night at Death and Co. I figure a few drinks prior to dinner with the girls won’t hurt. I’m actually quite excited.
1:30 a.m.: Rolling beautifully at Pacha. So happy we were offered VIP at door for free because it grants us access to upstairs balcony with tons of fans blasting. See through dilated eyes that crowd is surprisingly not too sketchy.
4:20 a.m.: Home. Listen to music. Masturbate to odd fantasy of making out with myself — a doppelgänger/fantasized twin. Weird, but I always get super turned on by said fantasy even though I usually hate the way I look. Fall asleep eventually.
1 p.m.: Eventually roll out of bed. Not depressed, but very drained. Take a hit of weed. Bad idea; feel even more lethargic and brain-dead.
3:30 p.m.: Brunch, but leave friends as the crowd makes me nauseated.
3:50 p.m.: Puke at home. Feel a little better. Know I will rally tonight, but figure I will be in early, around midnight.
6:15 p.m.: Arrive fifteen minutes late to meet tattooed CL boy. OMG, he is so cute. Totally my type.
8 p.m.: I am drunk, and don’t want to leave to meet my friends for dinner. He walks to me to the dinner and I tell him he is cute and I hope to hell he’ll come out later and join me.
9:10 p.m.: Get text from tattoo guy saying he thought I was adorable too and will come back to the city only if I promise to make out with him. Then, he’s just kidding. Sorta. I’m beaming.
12:30 a.m.: With large co-ed group of friends. Should not be so wasted. Wall Streeter texts more, which I ignore. Realize he is stalker type.
1:40 a.m.: Somehow wrangle a handful of my friends to go to Heathers with me to meet Tattoo Guy. He is with a hilarious gay friend of his from home who is crashing at his place for a while.
1:50 a.m.: Making out with Tattoo Guy. Have bad spins. Tell him I need water and to sober up before hooking up again. He gives me a line of his own stuff.
3:30 a.m.: Back at his place in Brooklyn. He has an awesome turntable setup and is playing records while me and gay friend dance. I’m much more sober thanks to only drinking water for a few hours, but have a lot of drugs in system.
5:30 a.m.: Trying to sleep in his bed while he still plays music. He gives me a Valium. We make out for a while.
6:30 a.m.: Sun is up and I’m not asleep. I say fuck it. Feel completely loopy and insane and pop an E. This is turning out to be perhaps the biggest drug binge of my life.
10 a.m.: Baaaad decision-making. E this time just makes body feel cold and achy. Hug toilet for a while, which, for some reason, feels really good.
1 p.m.: In bed with TG. Am freaking out. I feel very unsafe, depressed, and scared. He tries to calm me.
2 p.m.: Somehow all bad feelings suddenly lift. Am loving making out with TG. He sticks his fingers in me and tells me my pussy feels amazing. Certainly feels amazing to me. We whisper our sexual fantasies to each other. His are definitely darker than mine, but I don’t care. We talk about our exes. We talk about dreams. I find out he has a young daughter and I don’t care. I don’t want to stop kissing him.
2:45 p.m.: Two uncanny voice mails. One is from mom who says she and dad are very proud of how well I am doing in the city. Other is from ex wondering why my cell is going straight to voice mail.
4:20 p.m.: I tease TG but he can’t seem to get hard. Says too many drugs. I’m doubtful and get a little insecure. He also keeps saying “Really?” when I say I won’t have sex with him. Not today. Can’t tell if he is actually upset with me. He should just tell me to leave but for some reason doesn’t. Eventually fall asleep.
6:30 p.m.: We try to have sex. I make him wear a condom. He stays hard for less than a minute. I’m annoyed that I gave in for nothing but try to stay positive.
7:10 p.m.: Text from Wall Streeter saying, “I will DELETE YOU.” WTF? Should I worry for my life?
9 p.m.: Hang out with gay roommate. Order food. Joke around. Sarcasm has started to flow brilliantly from my recovering drugged-out mind.
11:30 p.m.: In bathroom, I notice prescription bottle. Shouldn’t look, but who wouldn’t? Suddenly sick-feeling. Valtrex. Shit. Could I have contracted from five-minute intercourse with condom?
11:35 p.m.: Try to act normal. Watch more TV. Wonder when these guys are going to call me a car.
12:35 a.m.: Car is finally called. Tattoo and I agree it feels like we’ve spent a week together. In car home I realize I am totally fucked because I have kinda fallen for a high-school dropout who has a Valtrex prescription, drug habit, and a child.
2 a.m.: Pop Ambien.
10 a.m.: Know this is going to be one hell of week as feeling in love with Tattoo Guy, and now super-depressed. Make appointment with school shrink.
11 a.m.: On own, fantasize buying home in Brooklyn with Tattoo Guy and starting a spin studio in basement with awesome spin-table setup. Every night would focus on a different genre of music.
1 p.m.: Go to free STD-testing clinic in Chelsea.
TOTALS: Two acts of masturbation; one act of mutual petting; one act of intercourse; two Craigslist blind dates; two nights of drug use.