Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek behind doors left slightly ajar. This week: the British Bartender Trying to Figure Out American Girls, 23, male, East Village, straight.
DAY ONE
10:00 a.m.: Wake up. Dreamt I took home a beautiful brunette. Realize instead that Jack, a friend from home, is snoring on my floor. Lack of morning erection is both a blessing and a curse.
11:00 a.m.: Jack and I discuss our desires to meet and entertain girls tonight. I know the fantasy is better than the reality. I’ve never been the one-night-stand kind of guy. Prefer intimacy over pointless drunken sex. Briefly question my sexuality after writing that thought.
12:20 p.m.: A girl in see-through black tights strides past us, walking up Houston. She has a breathtaking derriere, accentuated with a black thong. My mind flashes back to my recent ex, who had the most beautiful body. In a sudden pang of depression, missing her, I lose sight of the girl.
1:30 p.m.: Catch sight of our reflections in a shop window. Both of us agree the past week of going out has taken its toll. Jack suggests a happy-ending massage and offers to pay. Not even tempted. Never found the concept of paying for pleasure to be very appealing.
4:40 p.m.: Jack informs me we’re having dinner with two beautiful friends of his. We discuss whether we have to pay for them. Our experience with American women makes us think they will expect it. They should wear signs saying, “My Vagina Costs $____ in drinks, dinner, and general pampering.”
6:15 p.m.: Jack admits he jerked off in my bed while I was out. Not impressed. Consider returning the favor in his suitcase.
6:16 p.m.: Realize suddenly that if I’m getting laid tonight, I’m going to last a record-breaking four-and-a-half seconds owing to not being able to masturbate for the past week. Sexual performance has always been a constant source of nerves, and now I’m hesitant about tonight.
8:10 p.m.: Jack describes experiences with squidgy drunk sex. Definition of “squidgy”: When you’re not soft, but not quite hard enough for anything really productive to happen, so you flail around pointlessly for a while. His words, not mine. I laugh until it hurts.
8:46 p.m.: Girls we were supposed to have dinner with message to say they’ve just eaten, but will join us at dinner for a drink. What the fuck? This is typical New York flaking, plus double and triple booking. Things are different back in London, and Jack and I agree it’s rude.
11:30 p.m.: Meet up with Jack’s friends. They are definitely beautiful, and much more down-to-earth than expected. Play the good wingman.
1:30 a.m.: Run into a girl from work. Standing at the bar, she asks what I want. I say, “I want a blow job and a cup of coffee.” She replies that she doesn’t make coffee. I like her nature. Fits mine. She’s so drunk that I put her in a cab with her friend.
3:00 a.m.: Moronic guy in the toilets utters these words: “Dude, all you gotta say is, ‘How much does a polar bear weigh?’ Breaks the ice. Works every fuckin’ time.” If this is the standard, why am I finding it so hard?
DAY TWO
7:00 a.m.: Wake up on the couch surrounded by remnants of late-night takeout. Shuffle into my bed.
10:00 a.m.: Wake up, outrageously horny. Hate my friend for still being on my floor. Consider slapping him with my morning erection. Realize that last thought means I must still be drunk.
12:00 p.m.: Debate the pros and cons of fake tits with a friend who has fake tits. I’ve never been a fan, but hers look very real.
1:00 p.m.: Could really do with masturbating, but don’t have the time, as I’m doing some prep work for shift at the bar tonight. Distracted by argument with very flaky friend. Being a large piece of dandruff seems to be the culture in this city. Not a fan.
2:30 p.m.: Stop in and say “hi” to coffee-shop girl I flirt with. Mentally peruse places to have sex in coffee shop. The counter seems the right height. Wonder if I have the patience or energy to deal with a girl who would almost definitely stray.
10:00 p.m.: Leave work and consider my options. Very New York–crazy and flaky friend wants me to join her for a birthday party. I know she will be bad company, but she really is very, very pretty.
10:50 p.m.: Meet Jack and friends at East Village Italian restaurant. Secretly think that if they manage to get laid in just a week here after I’ve been struggling for over two months, I’ll kill myself.
11:00 p.m.: Miss my ex again. Wonder if she has moved on. No way of finding out that won’t cause massive emotional damage.
11:30 p.m.: Stop in to see coffee-shop girl at a bar near mine. She gives me a big kiss. She’s a good kisser. This could be interesting.
12:30 p.m.: Coffee-shop girl says she needs a place to stay, and I know what she’s angling for. I tell her she can stay at mine. I don’t want to sleep with her tonight, but don’t see any way out of it without offending her and feeling like a pussy.
2:00 a.m.: People leave my apartment; Jack falls asleep on the couch. Coffee-shop girl has already put herself to bed in my room. When I get to bed, she’s lying seductively on my bed, almost naked. Who am I to refuse?
5:00 a.m.: Plenty of extended foreplay, teasing, kissing, and mutual oral later, we both fall asleep. No condoms prevent anything further from happening. Never thought I’d be happy to be unprepared.
DAY THREE
11:00 a.m.: Coffee girl doesn’t seem to be going home anytime soon. That’s fine, I guess. I focus most of my energy on Jack, who leaves today.
3:00 p.m.: Coffee girl is asleep on my couch. I hope she doesn’t get too comfortable. Let’s have sex before she moves in.
4:15p.m.: Jack puts on a remix of an old Zero 7 song that reminds me of a summer spent with my ex. They say the best way of getting over is to get under. I don’t know if I’m ready to move on, though I don’t really have a choice.
5:20p.m.: It’s clear that coffee girl has some baggage or drama. I’m looking for somebody lighthearted and fun, with no real complications. A bit selfish, since I come with my own share of issues.
6:30p.m.: Finally free! Jack and coffee girl leave. Bring food to sick friend. She knows the details of my ex and warns me not to get involved with the wrong girls.
12:30a.m.: Get to bed early, with the prospect of masturbating and falling asleep. Click onto a literotica site. Last only a few minutes. Pass out slightly disappointed.
DAY FOUR
8.30a.m.: Wake up horny, but too tired from the past week to masturbate.
8.45a.m.: Decide while in the shower that I’m definitely not too tired anymore. Masturbate and wash up.
11:00 a.m.: Doing some sketching in East Village coffee shops, surrounded by couples. The city can be big and lonely as a single newcomer.
12:00 p.m.: Get a message from my sick friend who again reminds me not to get involved for the sake of getting involved. Confused. How can I have casual sex if I don’t get involved, and also don’t do one-night stands? Fucking hell. I need to man up, or my penis will hate me forever.
11:00 p.m.: Finish up work early. No calls or messages from coffee girl. Is it my responsibility to message first? Yes. Do I? No. No energy tonight.
DAY FIVE
9:00 a.m.: Hit snooze, then decide that even though I definitely don’t, I definitely do have time to masturbate.
10:30 a.m.: Coffee girl invites me for movie night. That sounds way too domesticated. Suddenly worried how interested she may be. Feel bad, this girl can’t win, and it has nothing to do with her.
2:10 p.m.: Gchat with work girl about the possibility and practicality of blowjobs at work. Somehow I don’t think either of us are serious. I get horny and start to fantasize about work sex.
3:30 p.m.: Still shamelessly flirting with work girl. Now going through the possibilities when trapped in an elevator. Definitely racking my brain for free time to go for more drinks with her. We would both get in a lot of trouble.
5:10 p.m.: New York women seem scared to look you in the eye when walking down the street, as though it’s an invitation to rape. How aggressive are American men?!
1:30a.m.: Why am I considering masturbating when I have to be up for work in five hours? Oh, okay.
DAY SIX
12:00 p.m.: My boss is hot, and has an affinity for tight black sheer tops. Not that I’m a breast man, but it’s a male physical impossibility not to look.
6.30p.m.: Heading to Connecticut for the night. Cousin is meeting us there. Very cute girl sits opposite us on the train. Consider flirting with her, but cousin’s girlfriend and I clearly look like we’re a couple.
DAY SEVEN
9:00 a.m.: Wake up extremely hungover. Maker’s Mark is nobody’s friend. Always feel bad for wanting to masturbate when staying at somebody else’s house, so I refrain.
9:30 a.m.: Didn’t refrain. Feel bad.
5:00 p.m.: Back home. Coffee girl has invited herself round to mine for a DVD and a cuddle. I’m not quite sure I like the comfort with which she inserts herself into my life.
5:35 p.m.: DVD and a cuddle has turned into naked time in my room. More mutual oral and fooling around. My incompetence means I still have no condoms, and sexual frustration almost kills us both.
10:25 p.m.: We emerge from my room for food.
11:30 p.m.: We both fall asleep on the couch. It seems whether I want it or not, she’s staying over again. She’s already in my T-shirt and sweats. When did this happen?
2:00 a.m.: I have never heard anybody snore like this before. Coffee girl sounds like a wild beast. I’m sure she’s not aware of it. It’s too scary to be funny.
TOTALS: Three acts of masturbation; two acts of fellatio; two acts of cunnilingus; zero acts of intercourse; two periods of temporary depression over deeply missed ex-girlfriend.
