Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek behind doors left slightly ajar. This week, the Young Nanny/Student Seeking Sugar Daddy But Only Finding Online Hookups Instead: Female, 26, nanny/student, Red Hook, single, straight.
6:45 a.m.: Wake up after having nightmare about ex. We’ve been broken up for five years. I let it go.
8 a.m.: Upon entering his house, I’m given a giant, juicy kiss by Boogers, the toddler I nanny for.
11:13 a.m.: In Starbucks, buying Boogers a chocolate milk, and of course P. walks right in. P. and I hooked up over the summer, and he told me he was moving to Scandinavia for three months but lo and behold, we’ve run into each other four times since. It wasn’t a good hookup at all. In fact, he was a jerk and upon taking my clothes off the only remark he made was a complaint that my bra didn’t match my panties. I consider walking up to him and announcing that Boogers is our love child, but Boogers is nearly two so the timing is off.
11:15 a.m.: Trying to act demure when Boogers wipes his nose across his palm and then grabs a handful of my hair. My ponytail will be crusty for the rest of the afternoon.
6:25 p.m.: Staring at a cute boy in my class. I’ve never talked to him but like to sit behind him and look at his muscles.
7:55 p.m.: My professor announces that she is having a hot flash and that we’re free to go after we complete the lab. Cute Boy walks up to her and they begin talking; I figure it will behoove me to join the conversation.
8:21 p.m.: Riding train with Cute Boy, who lives just outside my neighborhood. Our first conversation is an intimate one, as a few minutes earlier our professor inducted me into the chat by explaining, “We’re talking about how his mom is very sick and dying. ” Turns out she has a rare and aggressive form of cancer.
9 p.m.: Thinking about Cute Boy’s muscles and trying to masturbate with a vibrator I bought from Babeland. I guess my eyes were bigger than my you-know-what, because I literally can’t fit the thing inside me. How come sex is always painful, even when it’s with myself?
12:35 a.m.: Woken up, for the second night in a row, by a Potential Sugar Daddy I found on Craigslist. Usually he texts but tonight he’s decided to call. I’m pissed he called so late. I don’t answer and he leaves a voice mail.
9:30 a.m.: At the playground. Boogers and I are playing a game where he makes “ice cream” out of sand and I pretend to eat it. We do this about eight thousand times in a row. There is a really hot dad/manny running after a little girl, and I let myself drift into a sexy manny fantasy. It’s true, seeing a man interact with children is super-hot.
9:51 a.m.: I can’t think of a conversation starter that is appropriate, and dad/manny and kid leave park. Boogers crawls on my lap and tells me he loves me.
10:07 a.m.: Text from Potential SD: “I called but you did not answer.” No shit. I don’t want to be a “sugar baby” but at this point it’s an issue of survival. Survival vs. Morality, I guess. I’ve been stealing toilet paper and eating Boogers’s leftovers because I’m too broke to buy lunch.
1:30 p.m.: Boogers is napping in his room. I start thinking about Cute Boy. It could be so perfect — we have a test coming up and I could invite him to “study” after class. He didn’t mention having a girlfriend, but he did make sure to mention he was a Catholic. Does that mean he won’t hook up? I allow my hand to drift downstairs, and before I know it I’ve had an orgasm on Boogers’s parents’ couch.
6:45 p.m.: Cruising Union Square with a friend. We go into a new store on University, and I am overwhelmed with a desire to buy everything I see. Maybe I need to bite the bullet and push things along with Potential SD.
10:30 p.m.: Voice mail icon still on my BlackBerry screen. Continue to ignore it.
11:03 a.m.: In overpriced boutique with Boogers. God, everything is beautiful. The funny thing is that before I became so poor I didn’t even notice fancy clothes, and now I can’t give up the feeling that I’m missing out.
1:30 p.m.: Boogers is asleep. Thinking about seeing Cute Boy later tonight, and if I’ll have the balls to ask him out.
5:54 p.m.: Rush to get to class early and of course, Cute Boy isn’t even there.
6:06 p.m.: No sign of him.
6:11 p.m.: Hurrah! He’s here. Wearing a green shirt that shows off his arms nicely. We make eye contact briefly but he spends most of his time texting on his BlackBerry.
8:01 p.m.: Cute Boy is packing up before class is over. What? On his way out the professor asks him why he’s leaving. “Problems,” he says.
8:30 p.m.: Home from class, feeling lonely and rejected. I listen to Potential SD’s voice mail. He has a nasally drone that makes me cringe. I call him back but he doesn’t answer. His voice mail isn’t a personalized message, just an operator reciting his number. It makes me think that maybe he’s a serial killer.
12:14 am: Text from Potential SD: “Sorry, I was taking a bath.” What grown man takes baths? I don’t respond.
5:15 a.m.: Wake up in the middle of dream about the dungeon. I almost never think about the dungeon but since my decision to acquire a sugar daddy, it’s been coming up a lot in dreams. I worked as a dominatrix for a few months in 2007 when I was even poorer than I am now and living in a studio apartment that had roaches the size of rats. The dream I was having concerned M., a colleague who once made her client eat a shit sandwich — literally, her shit stuck between two crackers — and got a $250 tip out of it.
8 a.m.: Trying to play with Boogers but these dark feelings won’t lift. I haven’t thought about those things for ages, and that’s probably because I’m not sure where to file the things I saw and did there. Testicle piercings, golden showers, mummifications, soy-milk enemas, strap-ons, you name it. The dungeon that I worked in was in midtown and a large majority of our clientele was Hasidic. I was always so afraid I was going to run into my rabbi.
3 p.m.: Get out of work early. I go home and go for a run outside, a luxury nowadays since it’s getting colder, and on the way back I see my neighbor D. pushing a stroller. D. knocked his girlfriend up two years ago and, as evidenced by the bundle of joy inside the stroller, is clearly off-limits. There’s always been something between us, though, and one night over the summer he came over for a party, got stoned, and confessed that if he wasn’t with his girlfriend he’d want to be with me.
6:12 p.m.: While Facebook-stalking Cute Boy I come across a friend-of-a-friend’s album and see a girl who looks eerily similar to a fellow dominatrix that worked with me at the dungeon. Her stage name was Turquoise. She was living with one of her sugar daddies but had another one who liked to buy her heels and have her trample his balls with them.
9:01 p.m.: Check my OkCupid account for the first time in forever. As soon as I sign on, there’s an IM from a guy who says he lives in my neighborhood. He offers to buy me a beer and I accept. I have a hard time turning down free booze.
1:30 a.m.: OkCupid guy is fingering me against a gate. So glad I had the foresight to groom and shave my legs. It feels really, really good. His fingers start traveling towards my back door, and I impulsively shriek, “Don’t touch my buttcrack!” He’s rubbing his impressive package against my hip, but when I invite him over he declines.
1:39 p.m.: Sleep is delicious. I never want to stop sleeping.
4 p.m.: Text from last night’s OkCupid date: “I can’t stop thinking about you. It’s kind of annoying.” Interesting mix of compliment/insult. Such is the Brooklyn way of life.
5:21 p.m.: Stoned and watching porn. I watch some alternative punk-rock stuff that’s more entertaining than sexy, and feels too silly to masturbate to. Eat half a tub of ice cream instead and go back to bed.
1:05 a.m.: Check my phone, see a text from OkCupid guy: “I’d like to see you again, as long as you promise to never say the word ‘buttcrack’ again.” Same combination of compliment and insult.
9:30 a.m.: No food in the house.
6 p.m.: Smoke a bowl and then head to my second job.
8 p.m.: Text from OkCupid guy: “Got any plans for tonight?” He’s seeming a little desperate. Although I hate the waiting game, I’ve grown to expect the “three-day rule” and when guys violate it I always feel like they like me too much.
9:10 p.m.: I haven’t responded to OkCupid guy’s text and he sends another one: “Hello? You around tonight?” I tell him I’m working.
10:10 p.m.: Rich people have the best food! Help myself repeatedly to guacamole, mac and cheese, animal crackers, dried fruit, and a jar of almond butter that I eat out of with a spoon.
1:12 a.m.: Finally home. Can’t believe the week is starting again tomorrow. I want to sleep forever.
8:30 a.m.: Boogers is having a tantrum.
8:35 a.m.: I pull a chocolate popsicle from the freezer and he quiets down.
10 a.m.: We take a walk to the bookstore. There is an Indian guy inside that is always checking me out. I think he’s kind of cute but don’t know how to start a conversation. “My kid peed on your rug one time” probably isn’t the way.
10:11 a.m.: Indian Guy asks me if I’m Boogers’s mother. I emphatically decline any familial relationship, and Indian Guy nods and nervously goes back to working. Boogers and I have similar complexions and people always think I’m his mom. I wish I could wear a shirt that said “Not his mother” to alert all the hotties in this neighborhood that I’m a free woman.
5:32 p.m.: My phone is ringing. It’s Potential SD!
5:34 p.m.: Uggggh he is SO weird. He doesn’t know what the phrase “where do you hang out” means and demands that I give him a synonym. I say it means “where do you go out” and he gets all indignant and says that since he has no friends, he rarely goes out.
5:37 p.m.: Somewhere in Potential SD’s demented head, he thinks that I once accused him of not making time for me. Now he is accusing me of not making time for him when I previously accused him of the very same thing. Which never happened.
5:38 p.m.: Ughhh he is SO weird. I get nervous that maybe he really is a serial killer.
5:41 p.m.: I hang up, feeling stressed, sweaty, and 100 percent sure that Potential SD has officially lost all his potential.
Totals: two acts of masturbation, one act of manual penetration.