Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek behind doors left slightly ajar. This week: the Single Fashionista Not Looking for Love: 27, female, UES, straight, single.
8:15 a.m.: The couple that lives above me is having sex at this ungodly hour. Squeaky metal is how I know it’s the weekend.
8:17 a.m.: Cover ears with time-tested combo of turban and two pillows, and hum “Feeling Good” by Nina Simone, hoping this will block out the that fact that I have neither sex nor a job.
8:30 a.m.: Only make it to the line, “And this old world is a new world” before it’s over. This happens a lot. I wouldn’t want to waste my seven months of chastity on that sort of methodical romp, suggesting both a lack of creativity and care.
9:00 a.m.: Clean, starting with my “pseudo boyfriend”: The mound, laid vertically against the wall, of paper, pens, India ink, note pads, laptop, books, cigarettes, bed cookies, water, and magazines about art, literature, New York, fashion, and, sometimes, Britney.
2:00 p.m.: Jog, bong hits, Thai food, and Sex and the City movie. I know, I’m a big cliché. But I was in the movie. Side-boob shot. It was practically a close up. Acting is what I do when I’m on corporate hiatus. It’s surprisingly easy; I got my SAG card in two months and they feed you a lot which is the real perk.
7:15 p.m.: College friend Geena calls. We now serve as each other’s life coaches. She starts: “So you know that guy? Well, I didn’t sleep with him.” Turns out she gave him a hand job. I thought they stopped passing those out in middle school.
7:30 p.m.: Deep breath. Offer perspective: “Anna, you are a nice girl. Unlike Jen who makes guys go down on her while she has her period.” I can’t help myself. “Now you’ve got your Eighth-Grade Gloves.”
11:15 p.m.: Friend Lisa and I head to bar below apartment. Need to make peace with owner. On Thursday, the music was literally breaking dishes in my cabinets. I didn’t call the police. Instead, I threatened to write nasty and perverse notes and tape them to the skylight that looks down into the café.
12:45 a.m.: Lisa and I head to my place to smoke a joint. We’re physical opposites. She’s 5’11”, blonde; I’m 5’1/2”, petite, half-Japanese, 93 pounds (think MaryKate post-rehab with boobs). And sexual opposites. Lisa is brazen. I steal a big comfy sweater from every guy I sleep with. I want the number of sweaters in my closet to stay under ten.
2:00 a.m.: Out. At a club I’ve been faithful to through at least three or four name changes, all by two brother owners trying to find their niche.
3:30 a.m.: Pointless drinks, which we spill on the dance floor. When we dance, we really dance.
4:00 a.m.: Getting hit on here is a given. There’s the Guy Who Sprays Champagne in Your Face to Have His Own Wet T-Shirt Contest, the Sneak-Attack Grinder, the Creep-Eyes Guy Who Just Stands Next to You, and, of course, the Guy Who Mentions Where He Was ‘Prepped’ and His Most Recent Vacation Destinations.
4:15 a.m.: Lisa’s on the prowl. I’m drawn into conversation, and learn that pot is what men are using to get girls back to their house. Pot is also a good excuse for the guy who has nothing intelligent to say, which is exactly who Lisa has picked.
5:40 a.m.: Cab uptown to my place so Lisa can prepare for sex and pot. Stop at bodega below my house. Lisa asks if they have condoms, but not lubricated ones because that’s a mess and sometimes they hurt. I hear this from the yogurt section. Will apologize tomorrow.
6:00 a.m.: Lisa got stood up. I wish I could be more like her: unaffected.
12:30 p.m.: Awake, reflecting in bed with bagel.
2:00 p.m.: Xanax, in the form of Bikram yoga.
4:00 p.m.: Relaxed, bendy, and slightly annoyed that the teacher told me I am too skinny. I need sex in a big, bad way and I’m working on the weight.
7:00 p.m.: Dinner at my sister’s interrupted by frantic Lisa calls. Sex date has been moved to two hours from now.
10:00 p.m.: Before leaving my sister’s, she tells me that I look gray and need to get my glow back. I tell her I just got laid off, have been a total beatnik, and it’s been seven months since any natural glow could have been produced naturally.
11:45 p.m.: Lisa calls. He provided wine, she provided pot, and they both provided supplies to do it three times. It wasn’t fantastic, but she even got rid of him without spewing an imaginary to-do list. She informs me they will probably do it again. Fabulous!
11:46 p.m.: If it were me, I would feel weird and lonely. But I guess I already do, so what difference would it make?
11:50 p.m.: Sudden urge to clean apartment. Tomorrow I will reinvent myself. I will no longer be gray.
8:00 a.m.: Wake up with huge urge to really ‘do’ life.
10:00 a.m.: Heading to the LES to have the stylist that has done glossy magazine hair do mine. Hair is something you don’t skimp on, but we are in a recession and for me to get myself out of it, I need a new look.
10:15 a.m.: ACTUAL PHYSICAL CONTACT! Josh, an apprentice, is washing and massaging my head.
10:40 a.m.: Puerto Rican Josh (we are on a first-ethnicity basis now) and I are chatting like normal people do in real life. Without drinks! If he were older, I’d pick him up.
12:00 p.m.: I leave with “The Penélope Cruz” cut circa Vicky Cristina Barcelona and something strange happens: People are looking at me.
12:30 p.m.: Get a call from a production company about an audition for a large pilot. They want to test me for the role of a relationship and sex expert. Right now.
1:00 p.m.: I put on my cutest camera-friendly outfit that shows off my zero-percent body fat. It’s the one place it’s not only accepted, but appreciated.
3:15 p.m.: Is it strange that I enjoyed the sound techie slipping the wire down my shirt and attaching the battery pack to the back of my waistband?
4:00 p.m.: Action! They ask all sorts of questions about sex, relationships, love, dating. I told them about my ex who wanted to be sexless lovers after we broke up, which sounds like a bad Clay Aiken song, and played out like one, too.
6:30 p.m.: Tao birthday dinner with my former sorority sisters.
7:00 p.m.: At dinner, girls gushing like soro-stitutes. Jessica scrolls through her BlackBerry, picks one of many naked pics she has saved, and presses send. Then laughs as she wonders how many guys have this saved on their memory stick.
7:07 p.m.: The guy sends back a photo. I’ve never seen anything so big in my life. We all ask why they broke up. And then I remember: It’s Jessica. She’s insane. Like bald-Britney insane.
7:45 p.m.: The birthday girl shows up, with her boyfriend. He hands her a birthday gift. It’s the “infinity” bracelet or something. Apparently everyone knows it’s something similar to engagement because it requires being screwed off to be removed.
2:00 p.m.: Yes, I slept until two in the afternoon. That’s what I do these days: apply for director and manager-level fashion jobs at fashion houses until 6 a.m., then sleep hoping my phone won’t ring.
2:30 p.m.: Still in bed, The New Yorker Caption Contest. I’m absolutely addicted.
7:30 p.m.: Dinner plans in two hours, with Stalker John from three years ago. How did I let this happen? I remember. While PMS-ing, I logged into Facebook and replied “yes” to every request. Stay in apartment.
8:50 p.m.: John really doesn’t give up. Three years ago we had a date where I showed up two hours late. And he waited! I was automatically turned off. Who waits? But I felt bad about the whole two-hours-late thing, so I decided that it was only fair to make out a bit. Six minutes later I left. He responded with three years of unanswered texts and e-mails.
9:55 p.m.: He just texted he is still there. I text: “I’m so so so sorry, having an anxiety attack, it’s just been so long and I’m so stressed with this work nonsense! Dizzy in fact, think I should stay in :( … Talk soon ;) -A”. I added the exclamation points and creepy colon faces to make it seem I am being playful-yet-panicky.
11:47 p.m.: Excited to paint and stay in. I say “hi” to bodega guy, and he fires back hastily, “Where is your ring? Why you still have no husband?” We go through this a lot. I tell him I’m thinking of getting a cat and calling it a life.
3:00 a.m.: Okay, it got to me. The guilt of my no-show and lack of ring. I look good right now, toned and tight. I will probably never look this good again. I’ve been too frigid. It’s time to thaw.
8:30 a.m.: Wake up covered in India ink, a good excuse to buy new sheets.
8:45 a.m.: Receive texts from the guy friend I want to sleep with, but he’s friends with both my exes. Who doesn’t love a booty call, answered or not? It makes me feel good in a non-threatening way.
10:00 a.m.: Morning coffee and a muffin with friend Steph turns into bellinis and bellinis.
12:30 p.m.: Suddenly she says, “How are you going to do it this time?” Same way I always do: One night I will make up my mind, and go out with the intention of having a one-night stand. I don’t want to waste it on just anyone. I want whoever is getting it to know that they are getting a fur coat (metaphor, people) and not a sock. Socks get used a lot and aren’t special. “Wow,” she replies. “You seriously need to just pick.”
3:30 p.m.: Core Fusion class and bath products from Molton Brown, waxed, and new razor blades from Duane Reade. Thank you, government.
7:00 p.m.: Bubble-bath preparations as I may do some picking tonight. Another sorority sister is in town.
9:30 p.m.: Catching up with Lucy; blah, blah, blah. We talk about how men don’t want trophies on their arms anymore. They want trust funds. It must be this whole recession thing.
12:30 a.m.: Stop into a local bar, then club. Stare at the line of guys waiting in the freezing cold to get in.
2:00 a.m.: Too many shots of Jaeger from 20-year-olds. TAXI! LES PLEEEAAAASEEE.
12:00 p.m.: Surfing Craigslist. $500 per hour for a guy to take pictures of your calves. Three hours of work. Nothing pervy. Since mine are enormous, this could work out.
1:00 p.m.: That was a brief low.
7:00 p.m.: Dinner with friends in midtown. We all poke fun at my dry spell, both the guys and the girls know the story all too well. I can’t defend myself.
11:00 p.m.: A friend I met on a TV set calls to say she’s at the bar next door. I call it the ‘E,’ for “entitlement.” I’m pretty sure everyone there is a chore in bed.
3:00 a.m.: Ran into an old friend I haven’t seen in ages. We knew each other through boyfriends during the Bungalow/Marquee era. Nothing’s changed, though our relationships are all in the past tense. It was nice to see someone similarly happy. I kind of like myself, um, uncompromised.
4:00 a.m.: Dance, flirt, laugh at bad jokes, accept free drinks, home. I suppose this week has been rather boring, so I will leave you with this: I know I need sex, everyone needs sex, and when the time’s right, it’ll happen. I’ve never been big on agendas.
TOTALS: One skipped date; One ignored booty call text; Zero acts of masturbation, intercourse, or oral sex.