Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek at what your friends and neighbors are doing behind doors left slightly ajar. Today, the Jewish Carrie: 32, single, Gramercy, editor and blogger, single-as-fuck, straight.
DAY ONE
8:14 a.m.: Check cell phone to find text from Band Dude. Band Dude is a drummer who occasionally tours in NYC. Somehow we have kept up a phone/text relationship for the past three months, even though we only kissed (once, no tongue). I think he is starting to expect phone sex, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Text reads: “You’re the sweetest girl in the world.”
8:19 a.m.: After some contemplation, I don’t send him my incredibly thought-out text (“Barely, but thank you.”). After all, he did text at 4 a.m. We are on different schedules.
2:38 p.m.: At work. A lot of my job includes reading content about sex. As usual, I get horny while reading about achieving orgasms in the doggy-style position.
6:03 p.m.: At home and still horny from work, but too tired to drop trou. Skip dinner, and instead drink a beer in bed while watching last week’s Lost.
7:12 p.m.: Biweekly phone call with mom. She asks if I’m dating anyone. I tell her no, and she says I should sign up for JDate. I remind her (for the twentieth time) that she has already suggested this, and I have already tried it. It’s all horrible bankers.
7: 29 p.m.: Am reminded that I need to deactivate my JDate account, so I sign on to the Website which has been charging me an ungodly rate for several months now.
8:02 p.m.: Blog about Band Dude and mom’s phone call. My life has become an open book, and I wonder if I should have more shame.
9:59 p.m.: Moment of panic: I am going to die alone.
DAY TWO
9:22 a.m.: Stop at Duane Reade to pick up bottle of Advil and wander by shelf of pregnancy tests. Consider picking one up. My two neuroses: I am constantly convinced that I either have cancer or I am pregnant — neither at the same time.
9:25 a.m.: Find Advil. Skip pregnancy-test purchase. Karma dictates that I will probably get my period the moment I purchase a test. Therefore, a waste of money.
10:55 a.m.: Blog about complications of phone sex with Band Dude.
11:15 a.m.: Friend replies to blog post, “What don’t you share with the Internet? You are turning into Julia Allison.”
11:52 a.m.: Ahh! Co-worker who I have a crush on is organizing things near my desk. Desperately search for something to say. I come up with, “It smells like beer in here. Do you smell that?” He doesn’t. Cringe in horror and text several girlfriends to relay bad interaction with crush.
9:15 p.m.: Text from Band Dude: “Hey lady. How are you on this fine evening?”
11:17 p.m.: I take a pic of my cleavage with my phone and send it to him.
DAY THREE
10:52 a.m.: At work, iTunes shuffle plays James Taylor’s Shower the People, and I am brought back to a moment of grocery shopping with my practically-engaged-to-ex-boyfriend from a year ago.
10:54 a.m.: Check ex-boyfriend’s blog. Dorkus. Decide that I am glad we broke up even though I really fucking miss having sex on a nightly basis.
8:20 p.m.: See cute guy on the subway. Imagine my future post on SubwayCrush.com (“you were reading a Dave Eggers novel on the L train…”), knowing I won’t actually post.
8:55 p.m.: Meet up with my lesbian posse at Huggs in Williamsburg. Meet cute, French, brunette. She is very flirty, smiling, and brushing my shoulder. I am pretty positive that I am going to make out with her.
10:15 p.m.: Moment of clarity: I am straight. Goddamn, why can’t I just find a boyfriend? Leave Huggs.
DAY FOUR
11:03 a.m.: Reading article on G-spots for work. Why, God, why will I never find my G-spot?
4:52 p.m.: Friend sends me instant message with a link. “Can you Digg this?” he asks. I tell him I never really understood Digg, and he explains that if I Digg his articles, then he will Digg mine if I ask. “Kind of like foreplay?” I suggest. Tru dat.
9:23 p.m.: Meet up with male friend at party for his work to find that my pseudo-ex (dated for two months) is also there and mildly drunk. Good thing I look superhot in my silk, emerald-green minidress.
9:48 p.m.: Male friend pulls me aside to confide in me that pseudo-ex told him that I look hot and he wants to bone me. I am flattered. “Don’t do it,” male friend advises.
9:57 p.m.: Plagued by dilemma, I pull male friend aside and tell him I need to know everything he said. Male friend says that pseudo-ex thinks I’m amazing in bed. I am so having sex with pseudo-ex tonight based solely on this fact. I rock at sex.
1 a.m.: The gang drunkenly heads to La Esquina for soft-shell tacos. While waiting in line, I feel pseudo-ex’s hands creep up my dress.
1:54 a.m.: Groping/making out in cab ride back to my place.
2:15–3:22 a.m.: We have sex twice.
DAY FIVE
10:11 a.m.: Morning sex with no talk, and I receive lovely oral.
11:34 a.m.: Above, repeated.
12:15 p.m.: While he gets dressed, we talk very openly about what happened between us. I cannot expect anything from him as he is a douche-bag wanker, yet I am curious why he can’t commit. He can’t answer the question. Boys.
12:29 p.m.: He is lying on my bed fully dressed. Why has he not left?
12:49 p.m.: “Want to have sex again?” I ask. “I was thinking about it…” He answers and tells me that he’s on the antidepressant Wellbutrin, which he finds makes him super-horny. OMG! I am on Wellbutrin, too! More sex.
1:30 p.m.: Pseudo-ex leaves.
2:23 p.m.: I am plagued by one thing. Pseudo-ex went down on me. He never did that once when we were dating. Why did he go down on me??? I cannot figure it out.
4:22 p.m.: It is a sign. We are getting back together.
5: 03 p.m.: Male friend from last night signs on to instant messenger, and I ask him if the oral sex has any significance. “No,” he says.
DAY SIX
2:43 p.m.: I feel fat. Wonder if I am pregnant.
6 p.m.: I text pseudo-ex and for safe measure, Band Dude.
9:47 p.m.: Back at home. Text from Band Dude, “I’ll call you in an hour, okay?” I text back: “Definitely.”
9:58 p.m.: Start to wonder if I can seriously go through with phone sex. What does one say?
9:59: p.m.: Google “phone sex,” and am horrified by search results. Tiredly pass out before his call.
DAY SEVEN
11 a.m.: Meet cousin at Spring Street Natural, where I update her on my life, and admit to having slept with the pseudo-ex. She says, “I’m worried about you.” I order another Bloody Mary.
12:45 p.m.: Meet my roommate at Agent Provocateur to lust after naughty lingerie. I’m feeling pretty good after two Bloody Marys which doesn’t bode well for my wallet: I end up slamming down $175 for a black quarter-cup bra.
2:29 p.m.: Back at home I take out new bra. Why did I buy this? I realize bra was an incredibly stupid purchase, seeing as it most definitely cannot be worn with any piece of clothing. Nor can it be worn for a random hookup, as it’s a “special” thing. I have no “special” people to surprise. Shitfucker.
9:10 p.m.: Art-gallery opening with friend from college. I strike up a conversation with a fortysomething architect. He has gray hair and a potbelly, but I am strangely attracted to him.
9:17 p.m.: Confess to college friend that I always wanted to have an affair with a well-to-do older man who was infatuated with my youth. She excitedly tells me she has the same desire.
11:02 p.m.: Oops, I am drunk. I stumble into cab, having abandoned hope of fabulous older-man affair.
Totals: Four Wellbutrin-driven acts of intercourse in twelve hours; two acts of oral sex; one aborted phone-sex date; one aborted act of masturbation; two not-really-warranted-but-understandable pregnancy scares.
