Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek behind doors left slightly ajar. This week, the Banker With a Heart of Gold That’s Not Quite Activated Yet: 24, Upper West Side, banker, single, straight.
8:18 a.m.: Hung-over, fully clothed, and sleeping on a couch in a city I don’t live in. I am too old for this. I traveled to Philly last night on an Amtrak to visit a college friend. After a night of heavy drinking, in an awful club, I’m disoriented and irritable. Back to sleep.
10:33 a.m.: Check my phone, see I received texts from my recent interest, the reporter. I met this girl a month ago on a trip back home to visit the family. She’s smart, gorgeous, and refreshingly stable (to my knowledge). Unfortunately, she lives/works in another city. We speak almost nightly and she’s visiting in a month.
10:43 p.m.: My friend is having a few of his grad-school buddies over before we head out to the bars in Center City. One of the girls in the crew, apparently an ex-athlete, initiates a debate with me on the NBA versus NHL. I start to get the sense that this girl, despite her tough talk, likes to get thrown around a bit.
1:56 a.m.: On my way back to my buddy’s house with another one of his med-school friends I met at the bar after only about five minutes of incoherent discussion. She appears to be cute, nice, and has an assortment of tattoos, which is completely new/awesome for me.
2:30 a.m.: Hammered drunk, and talking dirty.
3:22 a.m.: She’s a great dirty talker, and enthusiastically jumps into every position requested. I am really drunk, and have to finish myself off after the fact.
8:22 a.m.: She slinks out of bed and leaves the bedroom wearing my T-shirt from the previous night. Exchange numbers. Ah, the great American one-night stand.
1:30 p.m.: Catch the afternoon train back to New York. My Catholic guilt is already making me feel bad about the one-night stand, and drunken lovey-dovey texts from the reporter last night don’t help either.
3:33 p.m.: Walk into my apartment and immediately fall into bed. Exhausted, guilty, and nursing a persistent headache. Shoot off a text to the reporter telling her I wish we were together and that I’m counting the days to her visit. Hypocritical and a bit slimy, but we barely know each other, right?
5:54 p.m.: Wake up from the nap and immediately throw on some workout gear. Force myself to go on a run. No cute girls are working out in the park.
11:10 p.m.: In bed for the night and talking to the reporter before I pass out. I genuinely enjoy talking to her and it’s interesting to build a relationship over the phone first without sex to complicate things.
11:33 p.m.: Jerk off to the thought of having sex with her missionary-style. Pass out shortly after.
5:44 a.m.: I hate waking up early for this job. Think about jerking off, but immediately dismiss the idea simply because I don’t have the time. Protein shake and oatmeal (I am a meathead, give me a break) and I’m out the door.
11:13 a.m.: Things slow down a bit at work and I start chatting with our assistant. She’s a bit older than me, in excellent shape, and dangerously stupid. She asks me about my weekend and drones on about some terrible book she’s reading; I zone out and imagine what she’d be like in bed.
7:15 p.m.: In the gym and trying to avoid speaking with anyone. A few older women on the stationary bikes blatantly check me out and, not going to lie, I appreciate the attention.
10:15 p.m.: Surfing the web for some porn, bro! Bedtime.
12:11 p.m.: Prospective hires or prospective summer analysts, not sure which, are walking around the trading floor. The girls are still tight and in relatively good shape — that will all go out the window once they’ve been subjected to the rigors of the job.
6:46 p.m.: In the gym and can’t help but take a few extended stares at the yoga class. There are consistently only women in the class and most of them are extremely limber. I’ve considered doing a class for my own benefit, but I don’t want to be perceived as That Guy Trying to Meet Women via Yoga.
10:08 p.m.: Just got off the phone with the reporter in what was a fairly vivid conversation. I wouldn’t say it was phone sex, but it was damn near close. I’m horny and decide I need to get laid at some point this week. The reporter’s visit, one month from now, certainly isn’t going to suffice. Blast text a few old hookups, “Hey — long time, no talk. How are things? What are you up to this week?”
10:37 p.m.: Get a response from a girl I used to occasionally hook up with a few months ago. We set up drinks for tomorrow night and she gives me a flirty text message telling me she can’t wait to pick things up where we left off. Immediately jerk off to the memory.
11:11 p.m.: I tend to lose interest in a girl if she shows that she likes me too much, and the reporter, being a sweet southerner, is bordering on the danger zone.
1:18 p.m.: Get a text message from the ex. Ugh. It was her birthday last week and I mindfully didn’t wish her a happy one for the sake of being petty (so mature, I know). We broke up two years ago and she moved out of the city. The sex was great, so I can’t help but get hard at work thinking about her.
8:18 p.m.: At drinks with my old hookup and I notice her boobs are significantly larger. I’m not really a breast guy, but I’m pretty excited about getting her naked based on the new developments.
11 p.m.: She announces she doesn’t want to have sex because (a) she’s on her period (wouldn’t have stopped me), and (b) she thinks it would be too easy for me after not speaking with her for a few months. Make out.
8:33 a.m.: Despite being very busy with work, I can’t help but feel guilty, as per usual, after a night of unattached hooking up. It’s partly my upbringing and partly my disgust with New York’s hedonistic culture that I have subscribed to. I love the idea of committing to one girl and having some sort of magical union, but I’m either too rational or too jaded (depending on who you ask) for that.
7:45 p.m.: At dinner with a group of close friends from home. We’re all single except for one guy that is probably a year or two away from getting married. We all agree that even though there is no shortage of women in NYC, our lifestyles make it difficult to build a functional relationship.
Midnight: Get in bed and check texts. Nothing from the reporter. I shoot one off, “hope you had a good day. sleep tight,” and hope that she responds. On the bright side, I got an NYU girl’s number post-dinner at a bar downtown. She claimed she was a senior, but there was no way she’s older than 19 and I frankly have no problem with that. But for whatever reason I probably won’t call.
6:55 a.m.: Run-down, nursing a head cold, and happy it’s the end of the week. No text from the reporter and, though it’s hard to admit, I am disappointed. I have plans to go out with a few friends from work later on tonight.
1 p.m.: It’s one of the first nice days of spring and I run out of the office to pick up lunch. The scantily clad girls of New York make my brief exit from the trading floor more than worthwhile.
2:44 a.m.: It’s that time of the night where it’s time to pair up. There are plenty of available and attractive women, but I am in no mood to pick anyone up for the sake of getting laid. I keep thinking about the reporter. Decide to head home, pick up a slice of pizza, and call the damn girl.
3:53 a.m.: Finish up having a fun round of phone sex with the reporter. Tell her I can’t wait to show her around the city and actually spend some time with her — face to face.
TOTALS:Three acts of masturbation; one act of intercourse; one casual hookup with a girl with new breasts; two nights of heavy drinking; three acts of long-distance pillow talk with crush.