Once a week, Daily Intel looks behind doors left slightly ajar. This week, let us introduce the Freelancer in Love With a Junkie and a Good Guy: female, 24, East Village, in two swiftly ending relationships.
DAY ONE
10 a.m.: I just told my live-in boyfriend of five months, Carl, that he needs to move out of my place. He has until tomorrow morning. I told him we need time apart. He’s co-dependent (he lost his virginity to me, I’m his first “love”) but even I am stunned when I give him a mere 24 hours to vacate. What I did not tell him is that tomorrow, my junkie ex-boyfriend will be filling his void for a couple weeks.
10:15 a.m.: Carl isn’t happy. We’ve been living together since the day we met in September. He’s from the West Coast, and relocated to be with me. Now he’s unemployed and totally screwed, to put it lightly.
10:16 a.m.: If there is one thing I have learned from my years of yoga practice, it’s the ability to zone out on command. I collapse on the couch and Zen out as his pleas drone on in the background. I probably look demented. But I admit we were smitten, inseparable, until this morning.
11 a.m.: Carl is crying and pacing in the kitchen, and mustering up enough air in between long-winded outbursts to call me a selfish bitch. Maybe so. Carl is helpless. I need him to leave. I’m tired of playing Mrs. Robinson.
Noon: I am losing my temper. Carl finally storms off.
4:05 p.m.: Phone call from Junkie Ex. He lets me know that he’s looking forward to moving back tomorrow and that he will need a set of keys. I had left Junkie for Carl, when I was tired of caretaking and being the breadwinner. I tend to recycle men from my past. Last week in an e-mail, he told me that he took me for granted and was beside himself for the past five months and “had” to start using again to fight the pain.
11 p.m.: Shut the phone off, thoroughly clean my apartment, hide any traces of Carl — everything must be bagged and shoved into the back of my closet.
2 a.m.: House is spotless. Find half an Ambien on his side of the bed. It doesn’t work, and I flip TV channels, settling on Robyn Bird on public access. Most of the women don’t shave. Inspired, I decide to grow mine back — something hot about a little mane down there.
DAY TWO
9 a.m.: Hardly slept and have work to do, but spend an hour primping for Junkie’s arrival instead.
11 a.m.: Receive e-mail from Carl. He agrees about us needing a “break” but needs to find another place to live — he will couch surf but will need to come by the apartment every day to use the shower. “Give me a few hours’ notice — always,” my reply.
Noon: Junkie Ex arrives with two large suitcases (both are mine) and a giant sack of dirty laundry. I notice the dirty sheets at the brim of the bag … my old sheets. He is sharply dressed (like many closet junkies) but has washed-out skin and all the bad-boy sex appeal that originally caught my eye. He’s got a bouquet of flowers for me. What had I expected?
12:20 p.m.: Immensely turned on, am letting go of all spite.
12:40 p.m.: He gives me a speech about how miserable he’s been and how I always made him feel confident. Doesn’t ask about my work, or if I have been seeing anyone.
1 p.m.: I am bent over while Junkie’s methodically screwing me from behind. He doesn’t last long — at all. I get a bit turned off when he sloppily mops it up with a paper towel on the ledge that I had used to clean the window yesterday.
1:30 p.m.: Conference call with a client/celebrity I’d star-fuck if I was alive back in the forties. Over an hour. Great, we plan to meet in person professionally when he’s next in NYC.
3 p.m.: Meeting with a boss about a gig. He tells me I look “soooooo skinny” and I decide that means, “We are sooooo going to pay you 20 percent more.” He laughs and then ups the rate. Kiss on cheek and prance out of the café and into a cab, back home.
5:30 p.m.: Junkie is in the shower, so I quickly get rid of the rest of Carl’s belongings that I missed.
10:25 p.m.: Working. Received a Facebook friend request from co-worker. I fantasize about being gagged, tied up, maybe even waterboarded for the next round of items he must clear before the story is shipped. Accept request.
11 p.m.: Order in Thai and spend the night riding a dead-ish Junkie. Depressing.
DAY THREE
10 a.m.: E-mail from Carl listing the reasons why he can’t lose me. One bullet point is “getting rich together,” which makes me angry — I’m barely surviving off my freelance checks.
Noon: Carl needs to come by tonight. Luckily Junkie is working late, which buys me two hours to hide his belongings and play it cool with Carl.
2:30 p.m.: Panicking. Two men have keys to my apartment. This is risky.
8 p.m.: Carl wants to move back in. He has no place to live. We are on video chat, he is at a Wi-Fi café just a block away from my place. Our deal was that he could come over to shower. If Junkie wasn’t coming home, I might have let him.
8:30 p.m.: Junkie arrives, I sign off Gchat, Carl calls, I turn phone off. Junkie cooks me dinner and we play all night. The sex was never an issue with him …
DAY FOUR
9:30 a.m.: Junkie gets ready for work. I make him coffee in bed, join him in the shower. He whispers, “I’m happy, you’ve changed. You are a good woman.” Am I?
10 a.m.: Carl is arriving in 30 minutes to pick up more of his belongings.
10:15 a.m.: Phone call from a producer I slept with a few years back. He monologues about how angry he is because I pitched a project to his partner and not him. He then asks me to make it up to him and come over. I hang up.
10:30 a.m.: Carl shows up. Totally forgot to hide Junkie’s razor and monogrammed bathrobe. He breaks down, stammers pathetically, “You deceitful cunt!” I explain with, “He needs my help — it’s not romantic.” It’s my lucky day. He “respects” me for being honest and for helping an ex in need.
11 a.m.: Back to work. I have phoners all day. All I can think about is how satisfying it would be to have a three-way with Junkie Ex and Carl. Can’t get off. It’s too real …
4 p.m.: Junkie calls. Tells me he will be staying until the end of the month. He wants his own space but wants to date me. That was fast. I am “not allowed to see other men.” Right.
5 p.m.: Confirmation received from a flack who offered a free stay at a hotel in Times Square. I decide to invite Carl. “SHOW ME THE BRIGHT LIGHTS, BABY,” he texts.
5:30 p.m.: Another fantasy of a threesome with both men. This time I get off.
8 p.m.: Carl comes by to pick up clean clothes for our staycation and finds an open box of magnums in a drawer of my stuff. They are the Junkie’s. Carl shrugs it off. Text Junkie, “I am going to be home late.” I will ask about condoms in person.
10:35 p.m.: At the hotel, spent 30 minutes fighting and 45 minutes screwing the poor chap. “You’re so tight! I know you haven’t been cheating!”
1 a.m.: Still no reply from Junkie. Decide that I won’t worry about it for rest of the night. Still worry about it.
1:30 a.m.: Perform a selfless act of pity head. After, Carl kisses me (oh, rarest of species!) and even better, he gives me a back massage until I pass out.
DAY FIVE
8 a.m.: Leave hotel and head home with Carl, who needs a change of clothes.
8:30 a.m.: The alarm clock is buzzing, house is tidy — Junkie clearly didn’t come home. No answer when I phone him. I have no right to be angry, but I still am.
9 a.m.: I am tired of switching men’s underwear in my dresser on a daily basis. Carl stumbles upon boxers that are Junkie’s. I can’t be bothered. He wears Junkie’s clean socks.
9 a.m.: House to myself. Try my best to finish a project that was due yesterday.
10 a.m.: Text from Junkie: “You need to learn how to suck cock like Sasha Grey does.” Bastard. Another: “See you in an hour.” Junkie better have a good explanation.
1 p.m.: Junkie’s home. Long hour! He reeks of liquor, appears high. He admits he did me wrong. Australian. Bartender. I dry heave.
5:30 p.m.: Spend the afternoon giving him the silent treatment, and he begs for me to forgive him. When I don’t, he takes pills and is asleep within ten minutes.
DAY SIX
10 a.m.: Hardly slept. Tell Junkie that he must leave. He’s consuming my entire life.
10:30 a.m.: Junkie says I can’t be angry, he is a “free man.” He tries to kiss me. He calls me selfish. If he knew the full truth this would be valid. Since he doesn’t, I tell him to stay with the bartender and get an STD test. He doesn’t want to move out.
11 a.m.: Junkie shagged the bartender to “get back at me” for cheating on him two years ago. Plus, she “gives better head.”
Noon: He walks out with a backpack filled with clothes.
4 p.m.: I head to the gym. I feel like I barely have enough stamina to last twenty minutes on the treadmill. Junkie texts: “WHERE ARE MY FUCKING RUBBERS?” They’re in my purse. I don’t reply.
4:45 p.m.: He won’t be home tonight, I invite Carl over.
7 p.m.: I tell Carl everything. We drink two bottles of wine. He doesn’t want to talk but we spoon all night.
DAY SEVEN
8 a.m.: Carl goes out and gets coffee and croissants. Junkie comes back home while he’s out. I’m doomed. I tell him a friend is on his way over. He shrugs, diverts his eyes to my bedroom, shuts the door.
8:15 a.m.: Carl is back and stays in the living room with me while Junkie is in my bedroom. He’s downloading porn, it turns out. Carl wants me to introduce him, but I tell him to leave.
9 a.m.: Junkie yells, “Is that your new gay friend?” They really should be dating …
Noon: Junkie is still at my desk, watching anal porn now. Have I mentioned that I work from my living room, which is really a converted hallway to the bedroom, and that I can see right in?
1 p.m.: I need to work. Beg Junkie to leave, but he tells me he won’t be moving out until the weekend. I give him the same 24-hour speech I gave Carl, but unlike Carl, he doesn’t play nice. He pauses the porn and opens a folder with explicit photos of me that he took two years ago, and announces that he will send the images to various blogs if I call the cops to get him out. He’s high. Junkie spends the rest of the day trying to jerk off, manically — he can’t.
4 p.m.: To borrow a line from American Psycho: I think my mask of sanity is about to slip.
5 p.m.: I have decided that Junkie Ex is a bottomless vacuum of endless disregard for others, mainly me. I have been blinded by good looks and Class A cock. Carl is still wild about me, and I miss him.
5:30 p.m.: Score. I manage to get two nights at a swank boutique hotel until Junkie’s gone, thanks to yet another flack.
6 p.m.: Carl tells me he’s not moving back in once Junkie is out.
9 p.m.: Chain smoking in the hotel room until it becomes a health hazard. Call a friend. She’s “concerned about my well-being, but has to go meet her boyfriend,” which makes me feel worse.
TOTALS: Four acts of intercourse with two men; one act of pity fellatio; two acts of masturbation, one aborted; two ex-boyfriends evicted from apartment.
