Once a week, Daily Intel peeks behind doors left slightly ajar. This week, the Financial Analyst With Parent Problems and an Eye for Ladies, Men, and the Occasional Paid Appointment: 30, Manhattan, male, bisexual, in a straight relationship.
DAY ONE
12:34 a.m.: Angrily end call with my mother over my parents’ crumbling marriage. It’s a pity that divorce isn’t an option for their brand of Indians. Stomach churns when I consider that I’m their son.
12:35 a.m.: Almost bring dinner back up when thoughts of parents copulating come to mind. To calm my reflexes, I humor the notion of immaculate conception.
7:45 a.m.: Wake up to the sight of girlfriend’s face on a pillow. Even after a year, that sight never fails to produce wood. Late alarm means I have to run into the shower.
7:50 a.m.: Jerking off in the shower over sight of girlfriend, but guilt of not initiating sex minutes ago renders flaccidity. Fucking conscience …
8:47 a.m.: Notice that Tall Dark and Handsome on the other side of the uptown train is commanding looks from the majority of women. Pangs of jealousy ensue admitting that he’s hotter than I. I have had some flings with both sexes in the recent past.
10:26 a.m.: While in office, compile top five nationalities of Tall Dark and Handsome that women will reverse all logic for:
1. Brazilian
2. British (lack of the “dark” offset by irresistible accent)
3. Italian
4. Australian
5. Spanish
Instantaneously drop them to bottom of lists for length, girth, stamina, and presence of genitalia. Pangs of jealousy reside.
2:47 p.m.: Doctor calls with results from blood and urine tests: no diseases and evidently I’m not on any drugs. I’m happy, but his tone tells me he’s surprised.
7:39 p.m.: Girlfriend non-responsive to planned phone conversations. May withhold sex should I keep getting her voice mail.
7:48 p.m.: Create three couples while on downtown train and imagine them going at it. Evaluate each couple on the basis of sweat produced from copulation. Geek couple wins.
8:31 p.m.: Girlfriend calls, was caught up in minor family emergency that had comical overtones. Sexual status restored!
10:01 p.m.: Sex with girlfriend on the couch while watching U.S. Open. Athletic activities in short skirts are the tipping point for this fella (and a nod of approval for the inventor of the athletic skirt). We do it reverse-cowgirl so we can both watch Venus’s near upset.
10:25 p.m.: We move to bedroom because she only orgasms while in non-reverse cowgirl. It works out for both of us, as I get a great view of a woman who knows how to ride. So many other women have no clue what to do while on top.
DAY TWO
7:30 a.m.: Wake up to Brave New World–esque promiscuity dream. Surprised, since it has been a decade plus since I’ve read that book. Quiz girlfriend to make sure I wasn’t murmuring anything that could be held against me. Pleading the fifth doesn’t work in relationships.
8:34 a.m.: While on the uptown train, girlfriend tells me that I look great in today’s choice in shirt, and untucks a little in front. Look down to notice that it makes me look like I have a gut. Sexiness sabotage via jealous-girlfriend conspiracy theories swirl ….
10:23 a.m.: Self-induced wood in the office is masochistic. And this was from reviewing Miss Universe contestants. Going over to Maxim.com might have sent me home for new pants.
11 a.m.: Stumble out of bathroom at work, having cleared my head(s). Make a note to revert back to college-era method of straight-walking while drunk.
6:39 p.m.: After-work social hour includes ex-girlfriend No. 9 with new boyfriend/toy. I give him my best “I taught her that thing she does with her tongue” look. Not so sure it’s sinking in with this dense Neanderthal.
6:59 p.m.: Catch a look from ex-girlfriend No. 9 as she walks toward basement bathrooms alone. Spend two seconds debating nature of her glance, and then head down. Can’t find her in bathroom of either gender.
10:18 p.m.: Call with parents leaves me in the mood to drown puppies. Girlfriend clearly notices this. Thoughts of sex in various positions are replaced with crawling into a corner to embellish a drug bender. We spoon instead.
DAY THREE
8:38 a.m.: Pair up three couples on the uptown platform: lesbian, gay, and straight. Imagine intercourse, evaluate on the basis of sexual pain produced. Gay couple wins. Yeah, I’m still in a fucked-up mood.
9 a.m.: See a complete label whore, with a magnificent ass, walking out of the subway. Would like to “take her out for a nice seafood dinner, and never call her again.”
10:15 a.m.: Find that company is devoid of gay men, outside of HR. Make list of gay stand-ins in case of hypothetical government diversity audit. Find that they all work in marketing. Make note to request office on their side of the building.
3:45 p.m.: If the day just can’t get any better, ex-girlfriend No. 4 asks me how to make her current boyfriend, who is Indian, happier; she’s got the audacity to think that we’re all cut from the same brown cloth. I text back that she ought to try deep-throating while sticking a finger up his ass. Wonder if the venom hit the target.
7:48 p.m.: Another call with my father has left me with ice in my veins and a load of pain in my stomach. In the gap of our generations, there is just way too much that is lost in translation. It’s not that I want to do something self-destructive, it’s that I need to.
8:26 p.m.: Standing in front of the building that houses my parlor of choice, justifying ringing to be let up. It sounds like the opening monologue to Trainspotting.
8:30 p.m.: She’s brought to my room, and after a few niceties and a closure of negotiation, she goes straight down. She’s good, but I really don’t care; I’m laying back and thinking of all that is fucked about me. Pretty messed up, should you ask me, but with the relocation of my shrink, this is all I’ve got.
10:05 p.m.: Make it home; call girlfriend, who has already left a few messages. She comes over and already sees the decrepit state that I’m in. Asks how she can help, for which I have no answer. I even thwart her advances. I feel sorry for her; she’s got one messed-up boyfriend.
DAY FOUR
6:45 a.m.: After a shower, return to the room to find that girlfriend is wearing a wood-inducing pink nightie (how did I miss that last night?). I wake her by practicing cursive with my tongue, then climbing on top and into her. Morning sex.
3:30 p.m.: Female colleague who held quiet during a dirty work conversation IMs me asking the definition of “whiskey dick.” I forward the Urban Dictionary definition. Wonder if I have just mentally raped last innocent lamb in NYC.
5:40 p.m.: Surprise arrival of my father, who apparently came on an airplane without my mother, sends the day south instantly, as the greatest cock-block is under my roof.
7:34 p.m.: Launch into heated argument with father, badgering him over faithfulness, commitment, maturity, and other items that should have come to him over age and marriage. I may be a hypocrite, but it’s easier to be just when your skeletons are left in the closet.
DAY FIVE
9:15 a.m.: Colleague has a pair of white pants on that accentuate her finely shaped ass. Begin to think that this city has transitioned me from a tits to an ass man. There may be fake racks out there, but an ass like that comes naturally, right?
10:49 a.m.: Head to the restroom to blow a load, using her ass as motivation.
7:30 p.m.: My mother arrives with little fanfare. Pretty happy that the girlfriend witnessed this and didn’t run for the exit. She deserves a few tongue-induced orgasms for this, just as soon as this is over ….
7:40 p.m.: Spot another Tall Dark and Handsome in the airport. Scan to see if girlfriend, mother, or father noticed drool.
DAY SIX
10:10 a.m.: Sneak into the bathroom for a morning jerk-off thinking of the girlfriend. Afterward, notice that I never fantasize over men for this. Does that release me from gayhood?
6:15 p.m.: Take the mother and father to visit some distant relatives in Jersey (every Indian has some distant relative in Jersey). Bit of discomfort owing to an attempted arranged marriage to their daughter eight years ago.
6:45 p.m.: She’s now arranged-engaged to some fella in California. She was cute, but not the sharpest stick.
DAY SEVEN
9:45 a.m.: Another sneaky session in the bathroom. The mother and father are putting a crimp in my style. Just mentioning masturbation and parents in the same entry has my stomach churning.
11:30 a.m.: Intervention with the mother and father. No kid my age should be doing this. Still, they have a shitload of problems, so we look up therapists. Talk them into heading home, on the same plane, TODAY.
7:45 p.m.: Head over to girlfriend’s place. She’s got takeout from our favorite Mexican place and sleeping pills: She knows exactly what I need. Pass out.
11:45 p.m.: Wake up to phone ringing, it’s ex-girlfriend No. 9. Answer thinking it’s an emergency situation, get an earful over our breakup. She closes her argument demanding payback; I promise her a new vibrator and hang up.
TOTALS: Five acts of masturbation, two in workplace bathroom; two acts of intercourse with girlfriend; one act of fellatio by paid prostitute; one tortured visit by divorce-worthy non-divorcing parents.
