Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek behind doors left slightly ajar. This week, the Co-habitating Artist Exchanging Dirty Photos With a Celebrity: Female, writer/artist, East Village, in a relationship, straight, 30.
1:35 p.m. I am a pretty sexual person anyway, and having the task of keeping a sexual journal has gotten me excited and feeling ambitious. So the moment I see my boyfriend, I walk over to him and just straight up grab his cock, a move I’m not generally dispositioned to, uh, whip out. Sometimes he responds to my coming on to him really strongly, flapping his big fat lips all over my face and body, which I must admit I do love. But today he pooh-poohs my aggressive fingers. That’s what I get for trying to contrive my sex life.
2:25 p.m. I snap a faceless shot of myself in a pair of pretty panties for a famous person who I text naughty things back and forth to, but that’s the extent of our play. Who knows if we’ll ever get down and dirty? I’m petrified of him for many reasons but I like him sending me photos of his large penis in exchange for my relatively benign flesh peeks. Having a boyfriend has, since I was a teen, been my main source of slut control. I take all my bad behavior out solely on one man’s wanger, but that doesn’t keep me from flirting and even some light sexting, and it probably makes our sex life better for my guy, truth be told.
12:30 a.m. Most nights, my boyfriend and I climb into bed exhausted after a long day of work and are both asleep before our heads hit the pillows. But tonight, we rock out with his cock out, and it’s excellent in nearly every way, yet somehow, I’m still not exactly content. I blame my mom. Lately, my fella and I have been on a once- or twice-a-week sex schedule. Not exactly my cup of tea, but I cut him some slack because he’s just about perfect in every other aspect of our relationship. And he can cook. And when he is in the mood, he will eat my pussy for a full hour like it’s a pizza with all his favorite toppings on it.
11:30 a.m. I masturbate in the shower, simply by using the dependable and steady stream of water pointed directly at my dirty parts. I don’t know how many other women do this, but it’s one of my favorite things to do in the shower, besides wash my hair. I’ve been masturbating less often lately because I read a few news stories about young women who’ve dropped dead masturbating, discovered naked with dildos still lodged in their pinkest parts, Internet porn on the laptop and a cat asleep on their chest. No, thank you. If I die rubbing one out my way, people will just think I slipped in the shower, and that’s a somewhat respectable way to die. At the very least, it’s one that won’t embarrass and horrify my loved ones.
6:30 p.m. I text my sexter friend but he doesn’t text me back.
11:56 p.m.Rarely do my BF and I have sex two nights in a row, and tonight we are out cold like children three minutes after we hit the sheets. Isn’t that always the way it goes? We used to bang sometimes twice a day, every day of the week. But now we’re getting all fat and content, confident in our relationship and all that business. Boo to that. I was talking to this girl who told me she dumped her boyfriend of two years whom she loved dearly because he was “taking her for granted.” It was a sentiment that stuck with me. But I know that good guys are hard to find, and I’d rather have dependable, great sex with someone I really dig once a week than sex with randoms whenever. Random sex has its pros and cons. But mostly cons.
12:21 p.m. The colder it gets, the less likely I am to expose my flesh. The mercury is dropping, which is making my pants seem to rise even higher around my waist, clinging tightly around all the parts where sex happens the most. My boyfriend is doing his thing, and I’m doing mine, and generally days are reserved for us to do actual work, not have an afternoon sex party, though I wouldn’t be opposed to sex on the living room couch when goddamn ever. But if I try to egg him on, it usually turns him off. He likes to caveman me, and I like to please him.
6:24 p.m. I’m involved in this show that has a cast of incredibly hot people, many of them gay, which is great because we can slap each other’s asses and squeeze each other’s tits left and right and I can feel just jolly about it in my heart and soul, because like, they’re gay, and so it’s totally fine. In one rehearsal, I squeezed an ass, had my ass and thighs caressed, and cupped the most perfect little breasts ever. Every show’s cast should interact like this.
12:15 a.m. In bed late, wondering why my boyfriend is not motivated to play with my breasts. I mean, I brought them, so isn’t it rude to not play with them? I want to say, “Don’t treat my breasts like retarded children, play with them! They have feelings and they don’t like to be ignored.” I close my eyes and fantasize about train crashes and shipwrecks until I fall asleep.
9:45 a.m. I am running around doing errands, and there is no sexiness to be had in that, besides catching a glimpse of eye candy now and then and imagining “what that penis might look like.” I think I’m pretty good at psychically envisioning penises after years of practice. If only there were some practical way to apply this skill.
11:45 a.m. Boyfriend runs out the door to go to work without even a kiss. I guess that is the gas that fuels me to send sexts to scary yet sexy celebs. I imagine this is how John Edwards got himself into his mess. Except I’m thankfully a nobody so I can do this shit without fear of global humiliation. Mine would surely range only county- or statewide.
12:23 a.m. I get home late. BF is in bed, snoozing. He has to get up at 5 a.m. For some reason, this always inspires me to crawl into bed naked and cozy up next to him to see what he’ll do, but I always know what he’ll do, and tonight is no different. He tells me to stop. He says he has to wake up early and that I should be more respectful. And he’s totally right, except that when the shoe is on the other foot, the panties are on the nightstand and the penis is in the vagina. I can never say no to my sexy, horny man in need. I wish they all had the same brilliant, generous sex aesthetic.
5:15 a.m. BF leaves for work, gives me a quick smooch as he rushes out the door. Romance lives.
2:45 p.m. BF is working all day. I’m in my underwear for most of the day, working on my computer. At one point I take a shower, stand in front of the mirror, take a photo of myself foggy naked and send it to celeb friend. He responds immediately and tells me that he is stroking his cock looking at it. I feel guilty, but I can’t help but like the image that conjures up. I scrub extra hard in the shower, hoping to get some of the sin off, but it doesn’t work. Must be the soap I’m using.
10:07 p.m. I go to an event, and everyone is telling me how great I look. Back off, drunk dicks and holiday horndogs; I’ve got nothing for you. There is one kid, though he’s just a kid. I always go for the kids, and by kids I mean legal-aged young adults who are barely more than that. He’s 23ish with a cute scruff of facial hair because he doesn’t realize beards are for dads and depressed businessmen or distinguished gentlemen if they do it right. He clearly likes me, which I think about every man I meet. I decide if I got to know this kid a little better, I’d develop a relentless crush on him. I chat him up like a fun aunt for a few sips of my drink and then get the hell away from him. I don’t need that mess.
12:45 a.m. I get home way late and don’t even make an attempt to be cute or cuddly with BF. I know he has to get up early and I know he’s not going to respond well to my soft, warm skin. I go to sleep in the clothes that I’m wearing so I don’t turn on the light and bother him. I’m a little drunk anyway, so I am just doing what my brain told me was the easiest thing to do.
9:48 a.m. Looking over my sex journal I realize what a boring week of sexlessness it’s been. After a relatively busy week for my beau and I, sex has been shuffled onto a back burner. There’ve been six out of seven sexless nights. Something about being busy makes me forget about sex, which makes me remember that the end is near. When I feel like this, I think to myself, “I get to bangin’ to distract me from the inevitable.” But I know deep down there’s no need for me to get too upset or feel too neglected. I know soon enough it’s gonna be pizza night. Maybe even tonight.
1:38 a.m. I was right. Even though he had to get up early, he couldn’t put it off any more, either. Sex after we haven’t had it for a while is really nice. He always lights candles and sets ambiance. Next, he gets things started by going down on me for anywhere from 10 to 45 minutes. He knows when I’m about to get off somehow, with his psychic tongue, and that’s when he stops just in time to finish it up all cavemanlike. He compliments how beautiful I am as I collapse on top of him, and then he lets me lie on top of him until I recompose myself. Like I said before, it’s always damn near perfect. But somehow, I’m still not exactly content, and I know I never will be. I blame the human condition. And my mom.
TOTALS: one rebuffed come-on, one naughty photo sent to celeb crush, one act of in-person flirtation, one act of cunnilingus (receiving), two acts of intercourse.
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