Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek behind doors left slightly ajar. This week: the Cosmetician on the Rebound, female, 31, Park Slope, straight, single.
2 a.m.: Home late from dancing with the Middle Eastern. He’s adorable and hot but kept “wooing” every time “his” songs came on. I decline to go to his place in Hoboken. PATH train walk of shame would constitute a personal low.
10:23 a.m.: Doing makeup for a lingerie catalogue. After making up their flawless Uzbek and Brazilian faces, I have to oil up their plump, perfect, real D cups. Love my job, but I hate God for ruining the boob curve.
7:32 p.m.: Meet up with a date I met on OkCupid at a wine bar. He’s super nice but not my speed. Handshake good-bye.
10:04 p.m.: Call my ex-boyfriend. Hang up. Feel like a complete idiot.
9:51 a.m.: Dance class. While stretching, I try to imagine making out with the drummer.
10:40 p.m.: At a bar, watching awful opening band. Spot some bearded hipster deliciousness.
10:42 p.m.: Lean over and ask if he’s here watching this awfulness by accident, too. He says the drummer is his roommate and bass player is his best friend. I die a slow death and turn around. He grabs my arm and says he’s fucking with me. Game on.
12:02 a.m.: Talking to Beard-and-Glasses about how we both went to school in Boston. Except he graduated in 2008. He’s 24. I choke on my vodka a little. Lie and say I’m 28. Feel shame plus sparkly feeling in my panties.
1:50 a.m.: Home solo. Take care of business while watching lesbian porn.
9:43 a.m.: Beard-and-Glasses Facebook messages me that he’s seen my work online, and thinks I’m funny. Hot.
3:50 p.m.: Take jeans and dress to the tailor’s hot son. The firm, bossy way he moves me around while pinning the dress is killing me. Takes me into fitting room, with my hands high on the wall and dress halfway unzipped, I tilt my head back so my hair reaches down to where he’s taking in the waist of the dress. I’m afraid what’s going on in my underwear will actually start to run down my leg. If he slipped it in I wouldn’t fight it.
10:43 a.m.: Invited Beard-and-Glasses to a show tonight. He’s down. Where’s my shaving cream?
3:45 p.m.: Receive random text from another Brooklyn Beard-and-Glasses dude I dated. He wants to have lunch soon. By which I mean he wants to cook me eggs and yerba mate in the morning after exposing me to his sundial of a penis. Ignore.
1 a.m.: I pretend I regularly drink beer while hanging out with Beard-and-Glasses. He’s smart, ambitious, and younger than my little sister. Goes in for the kiss. Bold move.
2 a.m.: He went from a sweet hipster boy to throwing me on the bed once he shut the door.
2:20 a.m.: Lots of rough play. He slaps my ass so hard that I slap his face. He smiles. Who is this sweet-faced kid with an enormous penis?
3 a.m.: Second condom breaks. It’s cute that you don’t realize how big your johnson is, but get some condoms that fit, for goodness sake. He freaks out about breakage. We talk about it. No orgasm, possible ass bruising.
9:12 a.m.: Wake up to his hand on my ass.
10:17 a.m.: Walk of shame in East Village. Still emitting pussy glitter. 10:20 a.m.: Bacon, egg, cheese, and the morning-after pill. Drinks on him, anti-baby pill on me.
2 p.m.: Wake up from nap with many flashbacks from last night. Finish myself off.
7:03 p.m.: Drinks with Playwright, a guy I met at a friend’s birthday party. Not sure if this is business or pleasure, but I have a spring in my step from last night.
8:31 p.m.: Playwright goes in for a kiss under the umbrella. 10:42 p.m.: In an alcove away from the rain, playwright fiddles his way into my skinny jeans while still holding the umbrella. I like that he’s such a naughty boy.
9:20 a.m.: Having flashback about Beard-and-Glasses that makes me shudder.
11:20 a.m.: Playwright texts me and wants to know if I’m dating anyone else. As much as I would like to be in a relationship, I panic at the thought of having my single life curtailed.
6:11 p.m.: It’s pouring, I’m standing at light with umbrella and groceries, get splashed by car. A super-cute dude walks toward me and tries to say “Are you okay?” but can’t get the words out because he’s laughing so hard. I laugh too. I turn around and walk home looking like a drowned rat.
12:05 a.m.: Beard-and-Glasses texts me to see if I want to join him and his friends for karaoke. Yeah right. Sleep time.
1:20 p.m.: Driving to brunch with my dad while texting with Playwright. He’s sweet. I can’t believe that just days ago I desperately texted the ex. What a difference a week makes.
8:30 p.m.: Dinner with Playwright. He’s holding my hand and staring at me longingly. Shit, I could actually like this guy. He’s totally boyfriend material.
10:40 p.m.: Back at Playwright’s for a nightcap and some House episodes.
11:01 p.m.: No drinking, no Dr. House, just making out. He’s a superb kisser and fists my hair. Me like.
11:45 p.m.: We almost came together. Almost. Perfectly thick but non-cervix-busting penis. Excellent.
11:55 p.m.: Mother of God. I left a giant bloodstain on his white sheets. WTF. I feel like a Sicilian bride on her wedding night, except evidently I got my period early from the morning-after pill. I want to die.
12:06 a.m.: In the Playwright’s bathroom on hands and knees, removing bloodstain from his sheets. He’s super cool about it. I wish there were an “eject” button to my life.
TOTALS: One act of masturbation; one act of hipster sex; one act of playwright sex; one morning-after pill.