Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek behind doors left slightly ajar. This week, the Unemployed Frat Guy Who Is Okay with Once-a-Month Sex: male, 24, West Harlem, straight, single.
DAY ONE
10:30 a.m.: Goooooooood morning, morning wood. Can’t quite remember what sort of dream would bring on an upheaval such as this, so I just let it be. Too much to do today — I’ll save it for later.
Noon: Willie Nelson on the radio, checking in with Craigslist personals. Nothing strikes me as real and/or amusing. Sometimes I just want the wild and unexplainable. Sigh, and move on to Craigslist jobs. Nothing.
2:05 p.m.: Hear a song that reminds me of my senior-year sweetheart. We were together for a year and a half, on and off. I moved here for her, but she probably doesn’t know that, and to this day I still don’t know what I did wrong. We never really broke up, instead sort of drifted apart. Maybe that’s why I always want her around. For answers.
2:10 p.m.: Aforementioned thoughts bring on an erection that I just can’t say no to. Self-loving commences. Damn her, she got me again.
11:30 p.m.: At karaoke. Brother Jimmy’s on the Upper West Side, every Tuesday night, if anyone is interested.
12:15 a.m.: When you have the microphone to your lips, every lady at the bar could be yours. And they’re naked, too.
DAY TWO
1:45 p.m.: Stuck at my desk, so doing my finances. My dark-skinned ex begins texting me. Thoughts of her lead to a much-needed masturbatory session. The most serious relationship I’ve ever had is now used merely for lubrication.
5:35 p.m.: Receive proposition for sex tonight from a 34-year-old that I met at a birthday party, where I let her take a tequila shot out of my crotch. We both thought the other was 27. I was 23. Since then we meet up occasionally for NSA sex. An early interview in the morning, though.
6:40 p.m.: Tomorrow it is. Confirmed via dirty text.
11:05 p.m.: Man, I’ve been doing all right for myself lately, compared to my college days. I wouldn’t usually attract girls like this, let alone sleep with them. Hey, if I can have sex once a month and enjoy it, I call it a victory. Despite my occasional sexual escapades, though, sometimes just sharing the bed with someone can be enough.
11:30 p.m.:: Late-night texting with a girl who I installed shelves for recently. We shared a bed one night, but nothing happened. The thought sends me into a frenzy that only some soothing digital girl-on-girl action can subdue.
DAY THREE
1:30 p.m.: Bored and unemployed, on my couch, watching cartoons. Want to masturbate, but it wouldn’t be fair to the cougar (does 34 qualify her as a cougar?).
6:30 p.m.: Meeting my friend at his office. He brings along a tall porcelain doll that looks like my ex.
10:05 p.m.: Debating with my friend why some girls don’t enjoy cunnilingus. After a long discussion, no clear answer is determined. In related news, the fried chicken was delicious, the pizza was adequate, but the mashed potatoes had a lot to be desired.
10:20 p.m.: With the cougar. Though we’ve done this a few times, this time, halfway through, I regret coming over. But it’s too late to stop now.
12:15 p.m.: Emotionless sex with a woman ten years my elder is over. It’s also too late to go home from Brooklyn.
DAY FOUR
7:23 a.m.: Wake up in a different borough, on satin sheets, curled into a ball, and trying to avoid any awkward physical contact. It’s like waking in a bear cave. Just curl up and play dead.
5:45 p.m.: In line at the Highline Ballroom with a couple of young, lovely French tourists for a free rock concert.
11:45 p.m.: A couple of frat bros are in town. Good to see the old crew. Shooting some pool and going over stats from our college days. To paraphrase the song: the girls, they fell like dominoes.
12:30 a.m.: The conversation takes an odd turn when one of the guys goes on a tangent about his boyfriend and various positions. Funny, he was the guy who had the best stats.
2:45 a.m.: In a tide of Pabst Blue Ribbon, passing a fine girl bent over, eyeing her shot, isn’t helping me.
DAY FIVE
3 p.m.: This hangover is doing no favors to the hard-on in my pants. Masturbation sprinkled with severe headaches is a road no one should head down.
11:30 p.m.: Large-breasted women + mechanical bulls = a cure for the common Saturday night. At a birthday party for a college friend. As I expected, my friend and I are the only men at this party.
12:14 a.m.: The birthday girl has always been polarizing among my friends. I never had a problem with her, but she recently divorced a member of my fraternity. At the moment she’s mentioning repeatedly how good she is in bed, and how I need to find out.
2:45 a.m.: No matter how many times you hear stories about it, you are never quite prepared to see a nude female friend of yours spread-eagle, begging you to stick it in anywhere.
3:15 a.m.: We fooled around. It’s not like we didn’t try to have sex, but it just wasn’t to be.
3:34 a.m.: Whoa. No intercourse for the blacked out.
DAY SIX
9 a.m.: Where am I? She’s still naked. That’s where.
10:20 a.m.: Didn’t notice that tattoo on her back last night.
2 p.m.: Try to restart things to no avail. Even if she was drunk, don’t we all do what we subconsciously have always wanted to do?
8:30 p.m.: Man, Danica Patrick is all over CBS Sports tonight. I bet she’d be a good lay. Shame these GoDaddy commercials are just awful. Our conversations veer in that direction, despite the fact that we are probably the least sexually aggressive people that our friends know.
DAY SEVEN
11 a.m.: Haven’t been in my apartment for about two days now. Might as well reacquaint myself with it. And with myself.
11:45 a.m.: E-mailing. The girl I want to actually have a relationship with is back in town. She’s six years older than me, but we seem to connect so well. (Lots of people think I’m 30 due to facial hair.) But she always seems to be busy, or something unexpected will come up. Of course, that just makes me want it more. Back to the grind.
12:15 p.m.: Lots of girl news today. My ex is moving out-of-state. This may be the best thing for me.
8:35 p.m.: This How I Met Your Mother show ain’t half-bad. Yep, I’m sitting home alone, in my bedroom, watching CBS. The whole premise of the show is the story of how this guy actually met his wife, with all the roadblocks along the way. It’s corny, but I’d like to think there’s something similar going on here with me. Don’t get me wrong, I am all about outrageous sexual exploits, but for me, those things are superfluous next to loyal companionship and security. Perhaps it took writing it all down to really see that.
TOTALS: One act of cougar intercourse; one failed act of intercourse with drunk birthday girl; four acts of masturbation.
