Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek at what your friends and neighbors are doing behind doors left slightly ajar. This week, the overserved Ivy banker chick: 23, female, Murray Hill, single.
DAY ONE
9 a.m.: Wake up from a vivid sex dream about my best guy friend from college. We’ve had sex exactly twice. Once in November after two bottles of red wine at Freemans, once in January after way too much bottle service at Le Souk. I’m obsessed. And think about his sex face alllllll the time. When I had sex with him in January, we did lines off each other’s stomachs and used Velcro hand restraints.
10:35 a.m.: Enter work crush. Me working at an investment bank is like a modelizer working at a modeling agency. He’s a year younger, went to Harvard, has the most gorgeous green-blue eyes and a huge chin — what my friends like to call an “Ivy League chin” — and also a really big nose.
Noon: Thinking about last “boyfriend.” A fabulous Jewish advertising exec. I think the closest we ever came to going out on a date was a ride in his Mercedes to Weehawken where we looked out at the lights and did massive amounts of coke together. He dumped me right after we had incredibly kinky sex on the roof of his apartment building. I mentioned something about Valentine’s Day, he freaked out, and I never heard from him again. This after over a year of putting up with his 4 a.m. booty calls and coke-dick issues.
3:30 p.m.: Scoot out for a quickie manicure-pedicure and get two cat calls: one homeless-looking guy, one from huge 400-pound guy. If only my work crush…
4:18 p.m.: Maybe my foot masseuse is really the only serious relationship I need. Her foot massages are WAY better than sex with any Ivy League frat boy.
8:30 p.m.: I resign myself to a late night at the office and daydream about the best guy friend.
DAY TWO
9:50 a.m.: Late to work again. I have a date with this super-hot Barclay’s trader tonight. He has the most perfect abs ever, blue eyes, slightly floppy brown hair, a southern accent, and … completely overintellectualizes everything. (For example, me: “So, how did you and your mom like Wicked the other night?” Trader: “Oh, you know, it was like a Greek tragedy, and all the characters had tragic flaws, but then there was a happy ending! I mean, how can a Greek tragedy have a happy ending?”)
2:20 p.m.: In the kitchen, work crush walks in. I e-mailed him last weekend and invited him to be my date to a ball game, and he chooses this moment to awkwardly reject the invitation. The ultimate rejection. The kind that only happens when you are totally obsessed with a guy and he is totally not obsessed with you. With or without a textbook explaining the psychology of it, I know that work crush is SOOOO not into me.
8 p.m.: Sitting opposite Barclay’s trader at BLT Prime. It’s suddenly as if best guy friend and work crush don’t even exist.
10 p.m.: Licking his face and nibbling his earlobe like he is a hamburger. Totally outrageous. I’m already practically dragging him out by his Hermès tie.
11:20 p.m.: Fucking Barclay’s trader … in his bed, on the edge of his bed, on my back, on his back, on his desk, in his desk chair, up against the wall … loving his blue eyes and his southern accent more and more.
12:01 a.m.: Wrapped in Barclay trader’s arms, drifting away to sleep, knowing that the whole night my flawless plan was perfectly executed and was the ultimate coup.
DAY THREE
6:30 a.m.: Barclay trader’s alarm goes off. The drawback of dating a trader. I stumble into the office completely wasted from the night before.
9:02 a.m.: Find out this guy that i know from college who took me to all of the best parties, formals, and office parties is now ENGAGED. Feel like I’ve been kicked in the stomach. Have to keep reminding myself that I rejected him repeatedly.
10:30 a.m.: Work. Crush. Near. My. Desk. Can’t breathe. Sweating martinis profusely.
5:30 p.m.: Early dinner at Houston’s with best guy friend. I find myself babbling about the breakup with the advertising guy. I’m sure it’s not making me look attractive, yet telling the best guy friend about every facet of my life is probably my favorite activity. He gets me like no one else ever could. And makes me smile uncontrollably even while discussing breakups.
12:03 a.m.: Wasted at Tenjune with best guy friend. It’s just the two of us and we’re dancing and dancing and dancing. I’m kissing his neck, and his ears, and his face … and yet I think he’s totally oblivious.
2:11 a.m.: Share a limo with best guy friend back to his apartment. The place is toxic and disgusting. We mosey into the kitchen to smoke up and a HUGE roach crawls across the counter. I am totally disgusted and make a scene about leaving immediately. We debate whether we should hook up again. I argue that he has a girlfriend. He insists I’m a great hookup but that sometimes I’m really bitchy and annoying. Decide the toxic apartment is not worth staying in and leave. As I’m walking out, though, he gives me a huge bear hug and I’m inspired to whisper “I would stay over … if it weren’t for the roach.”
DAY FOUR
4:03 p.m.: Thinking about best guy friend again. He has the cutest sex face ever. He leaves his mouth open just a little bit and it is adorable and sexy and intoxicating.
7:36 p.m.: Out for drinks at Primehouse with my best girlfriend from high school. We discuss my theory about noses and penis size and decide that the chart would really have to be a multidimensional graph coordinating height, weight, nose length/width, and penis size. We reminisce about every guy we’ve ever hooked up with, their noses, and their penises. I tell her that even though lots of people think Jewish guys have small penises, they actually have huge penises.
12:37 a.m.: Get a text from work crush!! “Are you out tonight.” Hmph. What is it with guys under the age of 25 and their vague booty-call text messages? If you’re really interested, call me a day in advance when I’m not trashed in a pencil skirt and French-cuff shirt.
DAY FIVE
9:11 a.m.: Weirdly missing my ex.
11 a.m.: E-mail back and forth with best guy friend. Get insanely jealous thinking about best guy friend and his prepubescently skinny girlfriend.
12:45 p.m.: Thinking about work crush and his great lips and his Ivy League chin. I bet he’s a good kisser…
8:30 p.m.: Sneak away to the bathroom at work and change. Going to a derby-themed party tonight at the Maritime and already salivating about all the boys in seersucker that will inevitably be swarming the place.
9:30 p.m.: The girls pick me up in a cab along with my roommate’s asexual guy friend — the really beautiful one. He’s wearing a khaki blazer and looks incredible but is definitely off-limits.
9:45 p.m.: Walk into the derby party. Bump into my best friend from fourth grade and we giggle uncontrollably about how some of the guys aren’t even that cute, but seersucker makes them irresistible. Oh, the things they teach you at all-girls’ private prep schools!
11 p.m.: Wasted and drooling all over this guy I know from college. He was president of College Republicans or something. God, I love southern accents and seersucker. My roommate gives me this “you’ve got to be kidding me” look.
11:17 p.m.: Bump into a guy I used to hook up with a while ago. He is the son of a very famous senator. I once gave him a blow job in college, and he was so ticklish he giggled through the whole thing.
1 a.m.: Put my blacked-out roommate in a cab to go home and get in a different cab with the asexual guy friend. Call best guy friend and announce that I’m with “the most gorgeous guy ever” in a cab, just the two of us. Best guy friend doesn’t particularly care. Asks where I am, says he’s on his way.
1:33 a.m.: So piss-ass drunk and suddenly find myself alone on a street corner in the East Village. Can’t remember who I’m supposed to be meeting or where but remember that my roommate is home with a big plate of Brie and crackers, which sounds hugely appealing, so I stumble home and she and I prepare to pass out in our living room while watching Gossip Girl.
1:43 a.m.: Angry phone call from best guy friend. He’s super pissed that I’m not there to meet him. I slur together some words closely resembling “Come. over. and. fuck. me.” He is angry and going home to do drugs. Awesome … a guy choosing drugs over me. This is a new low.
1:55 a.m.: Drunken, confusing, awkward booty call from the giggling-blow-job senator’s son. I’m trying not to be overeager so I wait for him to invite himself over. He’s way too polite to do that so he says something about taking me to dinner sometime and then hangs up. I go to bed smiling thinking about the giggle blow job.
DAY SIX
11 a.m.: At work and miserable. Then a random super-cute guy stumbles into the conference room where I’m sitting. “Is this where I am supposed to be?” he says. “Abso-fucking-lutely,” I think. And then, five minutes later, he’s gone.
9 p.m.: Finally leave work and meet the girls at Death & Co. Suck back a ton of absinthe-laced drinks.
11 p.m.: Vaguely familiar guy at the bar at Death is checking out my friend. Then I realize how I know him — he is a client, and I once went to a Yankees game with him. He has front-row season tickets at Yankee Stadium!! Within arm’s length of Derek Jeter’s ass!!
2:15 a.m.: Cute guy working the door at Cain takes a liking to me and my friend and lets us in.
3 a.m.: Dancing on the couches at Cain thinking how fun it would be to be a bikini dancer there.
3:03 a.m.: Slur into some lumberjack trader’s ear something along the lines of “You should diversify your holdings. Take on more risk. Increase your leverage. You’ll definitely increase your returns if you know what I mean.”
3:07 a.m.: Swaying around on the couches, looking out at the dance floor and over at my friends who are all serial monogamists and I’m feeling weirdly nostalgic. Thinking about all the guys I’ve dated in the last two years in New York: the slick advertising guys, the entrepreneurs, the Bungalow 8 fixtures, the busy bankers, the over-45 hotel owners, the senators’ sons … I suddenly realize maybe it’s better to enjoy being single rather than pine away for a boyfriend.
Totals: One act of intercourse with a Barclay’s trader; two vivid sex dreams; one failed booty call from giggling senator’s son; near-constant workplace fantasies about work crush; six fantasies about best guy friend.
