Once a week, Daily Intel looks behind doors left slightly ajar. This week, the Postgrad TV Assistant Sharing a Studio With Her Boyfriend: 23, female, midtown, straight.
DAY ONE
8 a.m.: Awoken by my boyfriend of a year wanting morning sex. Too tired to reciprocate. Get dressed and leave for work while receiving extremely dirty looks from said boyfriend. Mantra in my head keeps repeating itself: “A healthy sex life is key to a healthy relationship.” Feel guilty.
10 a.m.: My boss is twice my age and very sexy. Silver-fox-ish. Looks extra good today in his waffle shirt. I print out his schedule for him, which I never do.
Noon: Scoot my chair over so I have perfect view of boss. Order a salad for lunch because I couldn’t bear the thought of the treadmill this morning.
3 p.m.: When cube mate goes to meeting, I seize the opportunity to call boyfriend in my “sexy voice.” Hoping to get excited. He hangs up on me, clearly still mad about his blue balls this morning.
6 p.m.: Meet friend for a drink, she tells me about her Saturday night hookup and I get extremely horny. Down my drink, take a shot, claim fatigue, and scoot home. Hoping BF is waiting for me.
10 p.m.: Lie in bed after much-needed sex. No orgasm, but still feel fulfilled. Might have seen an image of the boss run through my head during it. There’s that guilt again. Share a bottle of wine with the boy and pass out.
DAY TWO
8:45 a.m.: Sprint to the subway with slight wine hangover. Pass cute guy with dog, try not to look as frantic and sweaty as I know I do.
9:30 a.m.: Blush when I see my boss. I feel like we shared something last night, except he has no idea about it.
Noon: Co-worker comes to my desk almost crying. Thinks boyfriend is cheating on her. Stomach drops; every girl’s nightmare.
2 p.m.: Must get negative, cheating thoughts out of my head. Call boyfriend and demand he tell me how much he adores me. He obliges, as he usually does, and leaves me smiling. One of his best skills is dealing with my insecurities.
7 p.m.: Cook boyfriend’s favorite: spaghetti and meatballs with garlic bread. He looks as if I just told him I was joining the army.
9:30 p.m.: Tell boyfriend about co-worker’s situation. He proceeds to discuss most girls’ paranoia and concludes that boy is probably not cheating on her. I know this boy deserves a blow job. His smile is bigger than a child’s on Christmas morning and he moans throughout the whole thing. Always so appreciative.
DAY THREE
11 a.m.: Order some lingerie on sale at Victoria’s, even though my ass will look nothing like the pouty model staring back at me. Really seeing results of “long winter hibernation” techniques on my body. Think about dyeing my hair darker to spice things up.
2 p.m.: SUN+TEQUILA+ONLY CHIPS FOR LUNCH = trouble. I burp as I get back to my desk. Boss raises eyebrow suspiciously, I pray he does not smell anything. “You finish that report I asked for?” he yells out his open door. I start drunk Gchatting.
4 p.m.: Really hope that drunk censor thingie on Gmail really exists, or I may have done some damage. How does Gmail know I’m drunk? Isn’t it between certain hours? Does drunk lunch hour count? Place head on keyboard.
6 p.m.: Boss goes to bathroom, I sneak out of office, sans report. I’ll deal with it tomorrow. Too much tequila coursing through veins to bear look of disappointment on his face. His cute little face.
8:30 p.m.: Boyfriend out with friends, I take extra-long shower and curl up in bed with Giada de Laurentiis. Pass out while thinking ‘are her boobs real or fake?’
Midnight: Boy nuzzles me. Boy is sweet, affectionate drunk. I am lazy, incompetent drunk.
DAY FOUR
7:30 a.m.: Wake up with impending doom. Hangover and no report done. Boy can tell I’m upset, so he orders strawberry pancakes from downstairs, my favorite. Kiss boy good-bye and walk out of apartment as if it is my last day on earth.
10 a.m.: Boss calls me into his office. Don’t know what to say. Nod my head and promise to improve. No more margaritas for me.
3 p.m.: Report done, finish all leftover work, give boss all his messages. He smiles at me. ‘Thatta girl.’ I wince. No man has ever said this to me, and hopefully no man ever will again. His sexy factor plummets.
5:30 p.m.: Shipment-confirmation e-mail from Victoria’s Secret reminds me to drag my ass to the gym.
6:30 p.m.: Sprinting spastically on treadmill when trainer approaches me. Usually hate when they hound you mid-workout session, but his dimples cloud my head. Gets my e-mail and arranges first session before I can say “Jake Gyllenhaal look-alike.”
8 p.m.: Tell boyfriend I got a trainer. Do not tell him he is a hottie. Pretend I wouldn’t be pissed if he had some hot, blonde trainer who could bounce a quarter off her ass.
DAY FIVE
10 a.m.: Set status on Facebook as “T.G.I.F.” and try to plow through my day. Boss tells me it is his ex-wife’s weekend with the kids and he is going to his beach house on the Jersey Shore.
Noon: Try to block out images of my boss hitting on trashy girls in trashy Jersey Shore bar as I wolf down my salad and organize a dinner with friends tonight. It’s been too long since we’ve hung out. Sushi at our favorite BYOB place.
4 p.m.: Cyber-sex with boyfriend. He. Is. So. Hot. I can just see him rubbing his dick over his pants under his desk at work. He calls me slut and asks me if we can “for real” do it in the butt tonight. I tell him it depends how much wine I drink at dinner. Secretly hoping he forgets this convo, but I know he won’t, considering it is probably his favorite thing in the world.
8 p.m.: Wear my new DVF wrap dress I got super-on-sale and meet the girls. My oldest friend in New York is there, telling everyone how she thinks her boyfriend is a closet dominatrix lover. We all crack up, picturing her in a leather face mask and leash.
10:45 p.m.: Stumble out of restaurant, wrap dress almost untied. Share cab with friend uptown, telling her I might have to have butt sex tonight. Cab driver grunts approval.
Midnight: Butt still sore, despite all the lube we used. I am feeling a little degraded as I climb into bed. Don’t feel like cuddling.
DAY SIX
12:30 p.m.: Wake up wishing I had chugged the entire glass of water by my bed instead of passing out. Do it now, along with three aspirin, and wash off leftover eye makeup.
1:30 p.m.: Feel even worse when sweaty boyfriend gets home, fresh off his Central Park run. ‘Aren’t you good,’ I mutter.
2 p.m.: As if I couldn’t feel any WORSE, boyfriend presents me with freshly made egg sandwich, just the way I like it, with OJ on the side. Thanks me for being a good sport last night.
4 p.m.: Go for a walk in Madison Square Park and stare longingly at all the dogs scampering around. Look at boyfriend, and his answer is that he is clearly not ready to have a child with me. All the dog-humping makes me horny, so we go back home and have an afternoon fuck-fest. He steers clear of my backside.
9 p.m.: Wake up from nap starving, beg boyfriend to take me out for Thai. Remember I have my trainer tomorrow morning, order accordingly.
DAY SEVEN
10 a.m.: Wake up feeling refreshed and hangover-free, a rarity for me on Sunday morning. Kiss the boyfriend good-bye and feel (what else) guilty as I head off to my Adonis of a trainer.
10:30 a.m.: Never had trainer before. Always thought that image of stretching with one leg up was a myth, but it is clearly not. His head is three feet away from my vagina as I close my eyes to ease the awkwardness. “We’ve got some work to do.” I can feel his breath in places I should not.
1 p.m.: Boyfriend tells me I look better already. Asked me how I liked my trainer. Casually say she was okay, but don’t think I’ll be renewing. Too expensive. He looks disappointed.
4 p.m.: My doorman is awesome and has been hiding my Victoria package. Decide to surprise boyfriend with one-day-old new body.
6 p.m.: No biceps, no trainer, and it feels great.
TOTALS: One act of fellatio; three acts of intercourse; one act of anal sex; one act of cybersex; one uncomfortably close trainer-stretching routine.
