Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek at what your friends and neighbors are doing behind doors left slightly ajar. Today, the Terrified-of-Seeing-the-Ex Fashion Student: 20, female, Manhattan, straight, single.
DAY ONE
11:56 a.m.: On my way to class. Ever since I moved into his neighborhood, I’m terrified of running into him … and his new, younger, prettier girlfriend. We had a happy relationship until one day he felt it was too much for him to handle and dumped me by deleting me on MySpace. Haven’t seen him in four months, and I’m still trying to figure out what to say when I finally do see him again.
5:13 p.m.: : Eye-fucking some hot guy in the elevator at school, but he reeks of the “straight-boy who goes to fashion school” ego. I suspect that the girls who have found decent boyfriends here are probably the same girls who have an orgasm every time. Lucky bitches…
9:19 p.m.: : Dinner with my best friend from high school. We finally resolve the typical catty bullshit we’ve been holding for years — but I can never tell her about that one-night stand I had with her boyfriend during freshman year of college after one too many Red Stripes.
DAY TWO
12:10 p.m.: : All the beautiful girls walking around campus with the words “Juicy” written across their asses and tits galore hanging out. I wonder how many male professors actually work here for the academia.
10:13 p.m.: Smoking a spliff at home with one of my friends.
10:40 p.m.: : One of those “we’re high” conversations about how hot Shia LaBeouf is. He just seems like one of those intellectual, hot guys who knows how to hit all the right spots. He probably has a nice, big, pretty dick. Mmm … Shia.
10:48 p.m.: : My neighbor just knocked on my door to remind me that when the window is open, he can hear our conversations from upstairs.
DAY THREE
7:58 p.m.: My favorite matchmaker straight male friend has arranged a date for me with a mutual friend of ours from high school. I haven’t been laid since, unfortunately, our breakup four months ago. I just want to forget the touch of my ex and move on.
11:30 p.m.: Date. We’re checking out the spoken word out at the Nuyorican Poets Cafe in LES. I don’t know what’s more seducing, the poetry or his cocky persona. But he’s holding my hand and I’m falling for it.
12:15 a.m.: My favorite poem of the night so far, titled “Never Fall in Love With a Poet.” Amen, girl!
2:04 a.m.: My date tells me he’s really diggin’ the joint and that it should be “our” spot. So far, I’m still trying to decide if I really like him or just want sex.
3 a.m.: Fucking. And it’s such a disappointment. He’s so mechanical, and I wasn’t into his whole, “Okay, now do this, go this way, suck this, turn around…” You’re fucking me, so show me what you can do!
DAY FOUR
11:03 a.m.: He just left for work.
12:39 p.m.: Matchmaker friend just stopped by. He ran into my date from last night, and the asshole told him every single detail! Everything but the fact he lost his hard-on TWICE due to the fact he was stoned and how he had to spend 30 minutes psyching himself up in the kitchen.
5:30 p.m.: Just got a phone call from another mutual friend I share with the limp-dick. Apparently … his orgasm was “euphoric,” and he thought my tattoo was incredibly sexy.
DAY FIVE
9:30 p.m.: I’m out for a few beers at Down the Hatch with some girlfriends from work. I’m hearing some boys will be joining us tonight.
11:45 p.m.: I’ve downed enough Jäger bombs for the night, and I’m tired of meeting new people and telling them what my major is. The girls and I are heading over to Fat Cat to meet up with more boys.
12:02 a.m.: I’ve just been introduced to one of the hottest guys I’ve seen in real life. Dark hair, blue eyes, and just enough scruff on his face. He is amazingly charming and I am amazingly turned on.
12:17a.m.: My girlfriend informs me that the smokin’-hot, wet-panty-inducing guy is not only her best friend, but also the secret love of her life. I can tell he’s not into her like that at all, but I finish my beer and headed home.
DAY SIX
1 p.m.: I just ran into my limp-dick date from the other night in Soho. We awkwardly dance around the subject of his gossiping mouth, but I decide to let him live … for now. He hooks me up with a nice bag of chronic, so I call it even.
2:34 p.m.: Along Essex Street, a man with a tattoo of a teardrop on his face yells at me, “Ay mami, que linda!” Nothing like the sweet serenades from the street to make a girl feel classy.
8:30 p.m.: Movie night at my apartment with my roommate. I hate staying at home. I can’t help but imagine my ex and the blonder girlfriend doing fabulously fun and dirty things. Even though I know better, I don’t want to admit that I might be the loser in this breakup.
DAY SEVEN
4:12 p.m.: My cute French friend, who is an intern at Chanel, just called to ask me to dinner tonight. It seems she’s bringing her boy toy, a male model, who conveniently has another model pal for me. I’ve never been on a blind date before or known any male models.
8:49 p.m.: Drinks and empanadas at Florencia 13 in the West Village. I love the margaritas but can’t stop staring at the hideous turquoise pashmina scarf my blind date is wearing.
9:23 p.m.: I’m bored to death by his vapid tales of the runway and turned off by how he “accidentally” pulled out his huge wad of hundred dollar-bills. I want to grab his pashmina and hang myself with it.
10:03 p.m.: After dinner, my date asks to walk me home. I politely tell him that I’ll be fine. I give the evil eye to my French girlfriend for thinking we’d hit it off.
10:09 p.m.: The French girl just sent me a text. My male-model escort for the evening … was 17. I light up and hope I don’t run into my ex along Houston Street.
TOTALS: One act of intercourse; one act of waiting for stoned date to redevelop a hard-on in the kitchen; one blind date with a model; zero feasible dating options.
