Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek behind doors left slightly ajar. This week, the Writer Whose Boyfriend Is Doing the Hot-Sex-Then-Fade-Away Maneuver: 27, female, Manhattan, straight, single.
8 a.m.: Wake up to the sound of my cell-phone alarm and begin what has become my daily routine since returning from France: shower, drink a glass of orange juice, and head down to my favorite local café.
9:15 a.m.: Drinking a latte, munching on a brioche, thinking of V, the European man I’ve been seeing for the past four weeks. Muse about our romantic, leisurely dates. Reflect wearily on V’s recent breakup with his longtime live-in girlfriend, who wanted to marry him and bear his children.
2:30 p.m.: V calls to tell me he can’t make it to the bar this evening, explaining that he’s stuck in New Jersey with work. V sounds genuinely disappointed and says he expects to return to the city by Friday.
10:15 p.m.: At a wine bar. Pleasantly inebriated, I reveal too much information about my private life to my friends’ friends.
10:45 p.m.: Brag about the wild marathon sex with V. Friend’s friend stares at me in disbelief when I tell her that V and I went at it for a total of nine hours last weekend, pausing to eat dinner (45 minutes) and sleep (four hours). Her attention piques as I recount how V declared I deserved a “Ph.D. in blow jobs.”
11:53 p.m.: Call it a night and stumble tipsily toward the subway with friend’s friend, who has now officially become my new friend.
11:30 a.m.: Exhausted and hung-over, drink lots of fluids and go for a jog.
12:20 p.m.: Jogging, eyeing passing men. Swoon, pant, swoon.
1:10 p.m.: Just came back from my jog. Take a shower and then collapse on my bed with the intention of taking a brief nap.
4:15 p.m.: Brief nap turns into a long siesta, and I awake to find I’ve wasted a good portion of my day.
11:45 p.m.: Masturbate in bed to recent memories of salaciously torrid, hot-and-heavy sex.
10:30 a.m.: It’s probably a little too early to be checking my phone for a message from V, but I do it anyway. No new messages.
11 p.m.: Monday evening and still no news from V. I’m experiencing anguish. Is this guy pulling the infamous fadeaway on me? Debate calling him and then decide against it. Reach for the phone and dial my best friend’s number instead.
11:30 p.m.: Best friend has just spent the past half-hour calming me down. I’m probably freaking out prematurely.
11:40 p.m.: Compulsively turn on my computer to Google the phrase “why do men disappear?” Hit No. 2: Article titled “The Fadeaway.”
11:03 a.m.: V calls to explain that he just returned from New Jersey this morning. I am instantly relieved! He asks me to meet him this evening at a bar in the Village.
8:35 p.m.: Talking with V, drinking Corona, and laughing. V is clean-shaven and looks quite dapper, though I somehow get the sense that he is trying to keep his physical distance from me.
10:15 p.m.: Cracking V up. He is amused by the American concept of TMI.
10:45 p.m.: We go to an eccentric punk-rock bar on the LES that he knows. We are having a hard time hearing each other, so we do what seems most logical: make out.
11:10 p.m.: Making out and groping. Makeout session has been made slightly awkward by the presence of two drunken twentysomething-year-old men who have decided to take a nap directly across from us. Decide to leave and head toward V’s apartment.
12:15 a.m.: V’s place. He pushes me against the wall of his kitchen, kisses me, and explores my body with his hands.
1 a.m.: Couch. V undresses me and eats me out. Reciprocate with a “Ph.D.-worthy” BJ.
1:30 a.m.: In the heat of the moment, V tells me that I am “frighteningly beautiful,” and that he could “never get tired” of looking at my face. I feel the same way about him.
3:15 a.m.: Finish making love, collapse on V’s bed. We both fall asleep breathless, exhausted, naked, and sweaty.
7:30 a.m.: Sunlight. More hungry sex.
11 a.m.: Deeply satisfying lovemaking session comes to an end. I shower, V prepares what he calls a Turkish breakfast: a tomato, cucumber, green pepper, and black-olive salad, white cheese, boiled eggs, juice, and bread. I could really get used to this.
1:15 p.m.: V and I finish eating. I gather my belongings, kiss his cheek, and leave his apartment.
11 p.m.: Silence from V.
12:45 p.m.: Send V the following text message: “I think we wear each other out too much.” I have managed to master the art of appearing nonchalant via text. I wish him good luck on his meetings today.
12:55 p.m.: Prompt response: “How was your meeting? I slept almost the whole day yesterday. See you soon.”
9 p.m.: Over at my best friend’s new luxury apartment, watching Pillow Talk with Rock Hudson and Doris Day.
10:15 p.m.: Beep from cell phone indicates a good-night text from V.
5 p.m.: V hasn’t contacted me to tell me how his very important meeting went. After eight rings, I reach V’s voice mail for the first time since we’ve been dating. I leave a friendly message to ask how his defense went, and tell him to call me back at his earliest convenience.
10 p.m.: V hasn’t returned my call. I had chosen to ignore the signs, but now realize he is indeed pulling a fadeaway on me. I am enraged and upset.
10:20 p.m.: After a few minutes of calm, composed contemplation, I decide to send V the following text message: “I’m sorry things couldn’t work out between us, for whatever reason that may be. I wish you all the best of luck in life. Take care - A.”
10:22 p.m.: Send impulsive text for romantic effect: “P.S. It’s nice to know you existed.”
12:59 a.m.: I wake up to the hum of my phone. Text from V: “A, I couldn’t give the love I intended to give, so the fault is mine if there is any. I wish I had a more clear sense of what I wanted for us both. I need to reformulate what I want for my life and any possible relationship. I am sure it will be better for both of us in the long run. Good luck to us both.”
TOTALS: One act of masturbation; one makeout session; one act of cunnilingus; two acts of fellatio; two acts of intercourse; one breakup by text message.