Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek behind doors left slightly ajar. This week, the TV Producer Who Knows Everyone: female, 29, Upper West Side, straight, single.
DAY ONE
3:30 p.m.: Uneventful weekend. Spend the first few hours at work Facebook-stalking old boyfriends/hookups. I have been on a hot streak since July, when I broke up with my ex, which was the best decision I’ve ever made. I am nowhere near ready to settle down. I don’t view myself as slutty, just honest.
8:30 p.m.: Industry party, open bar. Run into two old flames, Marathon Man (he runs a lot of marathons but likes to come in his pants while we’re just making out) and Famous Actress’s Son, who professes his love for me yet again. I kindly hold back that the reason I broke it off with him is because his oral-sex skills used to make me actually scream out in pain.
10:30 p.m.: Talk up a cute guy for my friend. Turns out that I’ve booked him as a political talking head more than a dozen times. He’s drinking a red, fruity drink, which is questionable.
10:45 p.m.: I call it a night — but not before falling on the way out. Classy.
11:30 p.m.: Get into bed and masturbate. Always have the same fantasy of my ex on top of me, pushing into me, with his hands on my ass. Fall asleep happy.
DAY TWO
2 p.m.: Get an e-mail from a guy from my sex road trip to Newport right after the breakup. He’s asking when I’m coming to visit. Am so excited, I stare blankly at my computer screen for 30 minutes, fantasizing about our Newport rendezvous. E-mail all my single girlfriends and start organizing road trip.
4:30 p.m.: Get a very explicit fantasy (including size and placement details) text from my D.C. hookup. Okay, it’s a little aggressive for the middle of the day, but I play along. Filthy texts. Put an end to it before I have to head down to the control room.
8:30 p.m.: Dinner with girlfriend. Tell her that my friend wound up sleeping with the political talking-head guy. She does nothing but obsess over her BlackBerry about why none of her boys have written her back yet.
10:30 p.m.: Call the ex for the final of our breakup conversations. Determine that we love each other deeply, but are at different stages in our lives, namely that he wants a wife (me) and I want a life (going out every night). Cry myself to sleep, wondering if I’m letting go of the one person who really knows me, and loves me for me.
DAY THREE
1:30 p.m.: Sneak out of work for a gynecology appointment. Not my favorite thing in the world, but necessary. Panic while being examined — let’s face it, I’m not always the most careful. Doc tells me my junk is in perfect working condition. Hooray! Vow to never have unprotected sex again.
5:30 p.m.: Get a message from a hotel one-night stand a couple of weeks ago who is at a wedding in Philly. He’ll be in town on Friday night and wants to hang out. Can barely contain my excitement at the prospect of a good old-fashioned lay.
9:30 p.m.: Head to local bar with a friend to meet her guy friend, who she wants to set me up with. Proceed to get supremely wasted. He never shows, because he’s “working late.” Wind up staying out until 3 a.m., anyway, celebrating the fact that I’m getting laid by a hottie tomorrow!
3:01 a.m.: Attempt to masturbate. Pass out with the vibrator still going.
DAY FOUR
8:30 a.m.: Wake up with a splitting headache. Seriously contemplate suicide. Then remember I’m getting laid. Walk to work with a spring in my step.
5:30 p.m.: Go home to shower, get ready. Smoke with a friend before happy hour with old work colleagues. I’m so excited I feel like I’m about to burst!
6 p.m.: Arrive at happy hour. Flirt with the hot bartender, who I’ve been flirting with for years. I totally would have banged him by now, but he has a live-in girlfriend who he proclaimed would literally “kill him.”
9 p.m.: Arrive at a friend’s party. Get nice and liquored up before heading to the apartment where Philly boy is. Smoke over there with his friends for hours before we are finally left alone. Start making out hard on the couch. After what feels like hours of manual warm-up, he can tell I’m ready to do it. Unfortunately, he is not so ready. Pass out on the couch, pissed off.
DAY FIVE
9 a.m.: Wake up to something poking me in the back. It takes a few minutes, but I finally realize where I am. Start to get into it, and the performance is much better, especially when he sticks his finger in my butt. Quickly finish and even more quickly get dressed and get the fuck outta there. Go home and pass out for several hours.
3:15 p.m.: Exchange texts with Philly throughout the day, but remain supremely noncommittal. To be honest, I’d rather just stay home and watch TV then have a subpar lay.
4 p.m.: Start missing hometown boyfriend, and even though I’m not supposed to, call. We talk for 30 minutes, and I feel better. At least someone out there loves me.
7 p.m.: Can’t decide what to do tonight, am so tired. Stay home. Philly and I text a bit. Use my Sharper Image vibrator — ahem, back massager — for hours before falling blissfully asleep.
DAY SIX
11:30 a.m.: Have weekly therapy session. Carefully omit all the casual sex. Lying to your therapist is normal, right?
1:30 p.m.: Meet the girls for boozy brunch. Don’t realize how boozy it is until Champagne bottle No. 3.
3 p.m.: Return back inside from smoking, and find my friends talking to two dudes. Before I know it, I’m making out with one of them, a Brit. At the bar. Sunday Funday has begun!
7 p.m.: Everyone else leaves except for me and the Brit. I realize I’m starving and he buys me dinner.
10 p.m.: Hop in a cab and realize we’re heading back to my place. Why the hell not? Get inside, get naked and get a good look at this guy for the first time. He’s not a big dude, but he is packing. Also: uncircumcised. Let out an “Ewwwwwww” (I can’t help it) but he still manages to stay hard.
3 a.m.: On our fourth time of doing it. He begins touching my breasts and asks me in his sexy accent if I’m a naughty girl. Shortly after, he discovers that, yes, I am a very naughty girl. Almost orgasm on the spot.
DAY SEVEN
9:30 a.m.: Start to wake up and realize I have a virtual stranger in my bed. He seems nice, though. Do it again.
10:30 a.m.: Leave for work. The Brit walks me to my office, holding my hand the whole way. Um, he totally lost me by that one move — the hand-holding. For me, sex does not equate emotions of tenderness and love, unless I’ve been dating the person for awhile.
3 p.m.: Already received two texts and countless Facebook IMs from the Brit. Am slowly starting to realize I have a Stage Five Clinger on my hands. He asks me to hang out again this coming Sunday. I do not respond.
8:30 p.m.: Leave work and head immediately to McDonald’s where I order a Quarter Pounder meal. On my walk home, spot a guy from my Newport sex trip standing outside a restaurant. Immediately cross the street to avoid him. Pass out twenty minutes later.
Totals: Three sessions of masturbation, one aborted for sleep; six acts of intercourse with two partners; two anguished phone conversations with long-term ex; three casual spottings of former hookups; one therapy session.
