Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek between doors left slightly ajar. This week: The 58-Year-Old Divorced Branding Consultant, Living Out Her Fantasies With an Active Playdate Life: female, 58, West Village, straight, divorced and actively playing.
5:03 a.m. Drift into regret that “Craigslist Depressed Dad” canceled last night’s date. And that the economy’s killing me.
5:15 a.m. Fantasy time. Me in a two-man threesome? The spanking I’ve never had? It’s now 30 months since my last long-term relationship, and I’m totally realistic about who I am and what I need.
5:30 a.m. My body shudders long and hard, gasping for more. By the way, I haven’t a submissive bone in my body.
2:02 p.m. No word from “Irish Man,” but he will show for tonight’s playdate. He, too, is self-employed economic trash these days. It’ll be him and the Captain, a man twelve years younger than me.
7:07 p.m. Both arrive. The Captain and I hug deliriously, his tongue becoming fat in my mouth. The Irish Man gives me a present: black stockings. I improvise a dinner for us.
9 p.m. Straddling Irish Man, I sit in his lap. Perfect fit. I drive him crazy talking global economics while squirming against the Captain. Unleashed and inspired, I don’t hold back, devouring them both.
9:30 p.m. I have somehow slammed the Irish Man and his chair into the wine refrigerator. Photos are falling. I worry about the chair. We are loud, rowdy lovers.
12:36 a.m. We watch a movie, and Irish Man is dead in my bed. Kissing his contented lips in the dark, I whisper “I adore you both.”
6:07 a.m. The Captain wakes us. Lots of kisses and soft touching. Down goes Irish Man. Yes. Yes. Oh God! Another. Yes.
6:29 a.m. Now we have sex ferociously, and I demand every drop. I love this moment, glued to one’s eyes, turning him inside out.
8:03 a.m. Blissed, I stir. Irish Man schedules me in for next Sunday, sensing that others are at my door, if not my bed.
10:09 a.m. I write better when sexually satiated.
12:17 p.m. The “Manhattan Designer” calls and says, “You are very hot.” I say “ditto.” We agree on dinner Wednesday.
1:07 p.m. My accountant sends an apology after canceling lunch. God. Why can’t men organize their communications?
2 p.m. Speaking of body, get thee to the gym, femme.
4:47 p.m. Whoa! Craigslist e-mail from a married man. Is he crazy? I know everything but his Social Security Number. He writes: “I don’t sleep around and haven’t had an affair in over ten years. I want you.” I Google him. Jesus.
10:21 p.m. Self-pleasure.
6:17 a.m. I have lingered in bed for an hour, wandering around my fantasies.
11:37 a.m. “Tantra Guy” arrives for coffee, sensitive, sensual, and proud of being a good masseur. I totally believe in sexual energy and touch. Yes, I can see us naked — I think. He performs massage quite often, it seems.
11:08 p.m. Self-pleasure.
5:16 a.m. Get dildo out of closet and create seismic O.
11:08 a.m. Watch banned Calvin Klein Jeans commercial on a Dr. Laura Berman segment. I’m irate that Dr. Berman totally misses the sexy, homoerotic undercurrent.
2:17 p.m. Tantra Guy calls, saying Friday-night class on lingam massage is canceled, not enough interest. Men eagerly fill yoni-massage nights. What’s wrong with this picture, New York women and gay men?
6:48 p.m. Manhattan Designer’s late, so I sit at the bar, without making eye contact. My loverboy plate is full, and I want to be “present” for Manhattan. He finally shows up, and we have dinner.
9:37 p.m. We spill into the wet night. He anchors me against brick building, pressing hardness against my thigh, sending a jolt of hot electricity up me. Maintaining my resolve, I insist “next week.”
9:54 p.m. Alone in taxi, I read a message from my ex-husband: “I have been staying at Laura’s and haven’t had a chance to work on your work project yet. I will try to get it ready by the end of this week. ” Damn my ex. One minute he wants to reconnect, then he’s off with some Adult Friend Finder chick for a week.
4:42 a.m. No dildo this morning. Properly French-roasted, I send a calm response to my ex and start working.
10:42 a.m. The Married Craigslist guy calls. We talk Jung, life journeys. Can’t do lunch today but confirm next Tuesday dinner.
11:08 a.m. Manhattan Designer writes: “MMMMMMMMMM Yummy. You are Sooooooooo Yummy.”
1:54 p.m. Younger bi-coastal friend e-mails in impulsive, playful mood. He proposes wine, rain, classical music, and sensual touch on Perry Street. Tempting but I keep working.
3:39 p.m. Visions of Irish Man and the Captain cloud my brain. Memorial Day weekend. I was in his lap that night, too, at a bar in Park Slope. No panties. Self-pleasure.
10:48 p.m. Manhattan Designer asks if I’m online. We do sexy digital banter and make plans for next week. I send him a luscious photo and say good-night.
10:52 p.m. Masturbation inspired by the Captain.
5:51 a.m. No self-pleasure this morning. Work and more work.
12:48 p.m. “Appellate Lawyer” checks in, with the extra spice of roses coming my way. It’s just another fantasy come to life, accepting green and delivering a girlfriend experience. Pretty damn racy, if you ask me, but hey, I’m worth it.
1:07 p.m. Appellate writes back: “I love you.” In a weird way, he means it. What is love anyway?
6:30 p.m. Tantra Guy arrives, joins my best friend for wine. I’m ambivalent. He’s spreading his sensual wings for the first time — which is great — but I’ve been there for years and want to be regarded as a rarity.
10:37 p.m. Going home, Tantra Guy explained that he’s has twelve partners, 50 massages in the last year. I don’t see myself as No. 13. I don’t feel special enough, I explain, but I support his sensual flowering, especially at his age (60s).
11:45 p.m. Lying in bed, I think such loving thoughts of Irish Man.
6:09 a.m. More f— rain!
7:32 a.m. Married Craigslist guy writes to me. I respond: “Sometimes you just sense that you and the other person are on the same page. That’s the case with us. Looking forward.” I actually mean it.
10:13 a.m. I confirm an interest in exploring regular tantra sessions with someone who keeps a “quiet place” in the East Village. Perhaps he will lend it to me, because the real me can never face my doormen. The price of a river view can be high for a woman like me.
1:52 p.m. Irish Man texts about tomorrow night’s dinner in Park Slope. He tells me that work is promising for him, and I’m so pleased for him. I reschedule Monday morning, deciding that I will be very late leaving his apartment.
2:43 p.m. I’m so productive working that I dismiss my desire at first. Five minutes later, I am naked in an unmade bed. I never use a rabbit or anything that makes industrial noise.
Totals: Nine acts of masturbation; one act of cunnilingus; one act of fellatio; two acts of intercourse; six serious possibilities to deal with next week; one confused ex-husband.