Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek at what your friends and neighbors are doing behind doors left slightly ajar. Today, the Casual-Encountering Retail Merchandiser: 26, male, Lower East Side, straight, in a relationship.
DAY ONE
11:30 a.m.: Waking up to a massive hard-on and loving that it is unseasonably warm and sunny. I finally get to see some legs after a long, cold, damp winter.
2 p.m.: Walking into my friendly local Key Food and notice a note on the door that the hot cashier — who I used to dream of having sex with on the conveyer belt for all shoppers to see — was murdered by her nut job of a boyfriend. In the store. I sure know how to pick ’em.
5 p.m.: Setup my biweekly Craigslist casual-encounter post with a shirtless pic of myself from an angle where my girlfriend can’t notice it is I. I can’t help it that so many white women have secret fantasies of sleeping with black men behind closed doors. Just type “interracial” on any porn site.
DAY TWO
Noon: Lazy Sunday and cloudy out, but I am over the moon because my posting received an unprecedented five replies from alleged “women”. Four turned out to be gay men complementing the pic, and the lucky winner was a 35-year-old Park Slope stroller-mafia member who was recently divorced. JACKPOT.
3 p.m.: Enter Stroller Mafia’s brownstone to a wide-eyed hello, shortly followed by digestive fellatio from her end, and punishing doggy style from my end.
4 p.m.: Exchange numbers and run home to study for my GMAT, which I am definitely going to flunk in two to three months. I am so not ready.
9 p.m.: Watching The Family Guy with girlfriend and receive a nasty text from Stroller Mafia, but quickly delete it before she sees. Phew, close one.
DAY THREE
8:30 a.m.: On the crowded V train Monday morning already dreading the week as a retail merchandiser, until a sexy brunette walks in wearing a miniskirt and Christian Louboutin pumps. Guys salivate and girls hate. I try to make eye contact, but she is not having it. Bitch!
11 a.m.: Weekly sales meeting with the staff and execs. Out of the blue I start thinking of the lady with the pumps on the V train and get an unsolicited boner. Damn! And it’s my turn to stand up and explain the sales forecast. Luckily I have on my supertight briefs on to tame my bulging manhood.
2 p.m.: Late lunch because of unplanned meeting with my ugly, overpaid, obsessive-compulsive boss over the Excel formatting on my reports. In other words, she hasn’t gotten laid in well over a year and is taking it out on me.
5:30 p.m.: Go home to find three hits from a guy who offers me money to use the bathroom in front of him. Out of pure disgust, I don’t even bother to respond.
9 p.m.: Pornhub myself to sleep by watching two German women fist themselves. Ha-ha fun time.
DAY FOUR
10 a.m.: Co-workers unexpectedly want me to chip in twenty bucks for the going-away party of a manager that I have never heard of. I pretend like I have to go to the ATM and never respond to the e-mail.
1 p.m.: Having lunch at the local deli, and I bump into my old roommate’s girlfriend and exchange numbers. She is an analyst at Lehman Brothers making serious bank. Damn! I wish I paid attention in calculus.
3 p.m.: Start to think that my GF is getting wise to Craigslist, so I try to find a new site, but to no avail. I repost my ad.
7 p.m.: After hooking up with my GF for some quick “bedsheet walking,” I rush home to catch a quick, free bite at my mother’s and watch the 30-minute cluster of misery called CNN International.
9 p.m.: Filter out the sadomasochists, perverts, and weirdo replies for my ad and set my sights on a hottie from the Bronx. But she lives in a bad neighborhood, no thank you. End up linking up with my GF and her friends for drinks. I hope her superhot, slutty friend who speaks French is there. She arrives two hours later, but by then it’s bedtime — early meeting tomorrow.
DAY FIVE
Noon: Head out to lunch. It’s midweek, so I am broke as hell thanks to buying rounds of drinks the night before. I have really got to stop thinking I am a baller.
3 p.m.: Share an elevator with a leggy brunette from marketing. She smells of expensive leather and probably has a hedge-funder boyfriend. In other words, out of my range, but I am ecstatic after she compliments my Costello-type frames. Damn, I’d maybe have a chance if I had an additional three zeros to the end of my checking account.
9 p.m.: Having sex with my GF while thinking of Kim Kardashian. For strange reason, finish in less than two minutes.
DAY SIX
8 a.m.: On my way to work and I almost get mowed down by some skinny hipster on a Fixie. I throw my coffee at him and nail him (don’t worry, it was iced coffee).
Noon: Training a hot new employee from the Dominican Republic, and her accent and beautiful big ass seriously distract me. I do the ultimate bold thing and ask her to get drinks after work. She accepts.
5 p.m.: Meet up for drinks with co-worker and things rapidly heat up when she comments jokingly on a bulge in my pants. She loves my brash perverted retort, and we follow each other into a cab. Fifty dollars spent on drinks and as we approach her stop, she tells me she has a boyfriend.
DAY SEVEN
Noon: Take the day off so I can have some “me” time and catch up on the sights of my beautiful city and its many inhabitants via bike, and notice the amount of poseurs on $2,000 single-speeds all of a sudden.
1:30 p.m.: Share a bike lane along Central Park with an Upper East Side girl with a great smile.
Midnight: Friday night and it is kind of warm out. I meet with Upper East Side girl at Niagara and quickly find out she has a wild side when after five drinks, she starts admitting to the fact that she “just wants some dick.” I ask the bartender to close my tab, we head to 76th Street.
Totals: Two brief acts of intercourse with girlfriend; one rough act of intercourse with Stroller Mafia divorcée Craigette; one act of fellatio; one act of masturbation with the help of Pornhub.com; two casual-encounters postings; one $50 tab on drinks for a co-worker who neglects to mention that she has a boyfriend; one act of learning that a former cashier crush was slain at the register.
[Ed. note: You guys always complain that these seem fake — they are not. In fact, we are looking for new contributors. Think your life is diary-worthy? E-mail us at intel@nymag.com. We’re especially looking for folks who are out of their twenties and thirties. Even if your sex life is boring, we want to hear about it!]
