Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek at what your friends and neighbors are doing behind doors left slightly ajar. Today, the Non-Orgasmic Sex Bunny With Mild Body-Image Issues: 22, female, caterer, East Village, straight, live-in boyfriend.
9:30 a.m.: Wake up to boyfriend’s flaccid schlong. Try to be discreet about pushing a blanket to cover him up. He grunts, wakes up, gives me a stinky morning kiss.
9:45 a.m.: Shower. I scrub at my thighs, trying not to think about the last eight hours I’ve been sleeping with dried semen crusted onto them. Gross.
10:30 a.m.: I notice a fresh used condom, folded into itself, unwrapped on the corner of East 14th Street and Second Avenue. People step over it like it’s just another discarded gum wrapper or cigarette butt. Did someone do the dirty in a taxi? Throw the condom out the window? Who knows? I step over it to the L stop.
10:30 p.m.: Boyfriend is obviously in the mood. He plies me with Merlot and a box of Godiva he picked up on his way home. It works. Routine sex, both of us asleep by 11:30. I don’t cum, I never have.
10:15 a.m.: Condom still there. Does street sweeping make an exception for used condoms?
11 a.m.: New boss leers at my boobs as I bend over to fix a window display. Promise myself to wear loose turtlenecks whenever he works.
1 p.m.: African sandwich maker throws in some Wise chips with the avocado. I blush. He smiles. I wonder why I act like an adolescent whenever I am attracted to a stranger. Maybe because I’ve been with boyfriend for three years; I’m out of practice.
8:30 p.m.: Boyfriend ignores mysterious phone call while we’re out to Thai. I feel like a sneak, but later I check his incoming calls. It was his mom. Damn, I’m an idiot.
10:30 p.m.: Feel guilty for being suspicious and make it up to him in bed. Stupid loft bed squeaks loudly, and the roommates can hear every move, so we try it standing up on the ladder. Feel like little kids in a bunk bed. Awkward but fun-awkward.
11:30 p.m.: Run to the shower. Fall asleep clean and happy and safe-feeling.
10:20 a.m.: Condom absent from corner of 14th and Second.
10:20:02 a.m.: I see that the condom was kicked down to the gutter.
10:24 a.m.: Shit! Thinking about the condom made me realize I forgot my pill last night. Shit, shit, shit.
10:25 a.m.: I’m on the L and can’t wait for a bathroom to take it. I try to be discreet, but the woman with the stroller across from me definitely notices as I take the pill. I pretend it was a mint and check my breath. She looks at me like I’m an idiot.
5 p.m.: Take off work early today. Go to gym, run absentmindedly on the elliptical for three miles, watching guys lift weights. What is it about men’s shoulders that is just so hot?
5:35 p.m.: Weigh myself in the locker room. 122 pounds. I don’t know if I like my body or not.
11:15 p.m.: Boyfriend obviously does. Tires me out with sex. Definitely not in the mood and don’t let him cum in me, too worried about the pill. He pulls out and jacks off onto my stomach. The least sexy/romantic thing ever. He flops onto me, sweaty as a pig, and wipes it off my belly with his old boxers. Great.
10:15 a.m.: Grumpy toward gross boyfriend. Eat my Special K in silence. Don’t offer him any coffee. Don’t smile. He doesn’t notice.
10:30 a.m.: Condom still there, barely visible under a heap of cigarette butts.
11:45 a.m.: New boss insists on standing behind me to “help” me with the register. Pressed up against the counter, I step my heel back onto his toes. Hard. I smile politely. He definitely gets the point.
1 p.m.: African sandwich guy says he missed me yesterday. I say I missed him, too. Asks if I like milk or dark chocolate. Definitely dark. He throws in a Midnight bar, rich with innuendo.
4:45 p.m.: I remind my boss that I’m pre-law. He lets me off early, and I meet up with a friend to go shopping in the East Village.
5:30 p.m. Ha. If he’s gross, then I can be gross too. So there! I can be very immature.
Midnight.: Boyfriend is off with friends, bar-hopping. I’m pissed. I go out for cocktails with friends, flirt for free drinks. Think about the possibilities but go home instead and fall asleep with passed-out boyfriend.
10:45 a.m.: Stuffy, sticky, sweaty room. Pull on strapless sundress and leave sleeping boyfriend.
11 a.m.: I buy a blueberry muffin in rebellion; if I can’t ever like my body, I might as well like the muffin. Eat it and feel guilty and fat.
4 p.m.: Make up and out with boyfriend in Tompkins Square Park, sunbathing happily. Boyfriend apologizes for being pissy; we kiss, and he tells me how beautiful I am.
6 p.m.: Sweaty Saturday-afternoon sex is great, isn’t it? Roommates finally both MIA, and we squeak that lofted Ikea frame to the point of collapse.
12:30 p.m.: It hurts me to have sex twice in one day and as soon as he enters, I tell him to stop. I go down on him and wait until he’s almost there. Then he jacks off onto his own belly. If I’m going to give him a blow job, the least he can do is take care of the cum. We go to sleep happy.
11 a.m.: Boyfriend feels up my thigh during brunch at Flea Market Café. It feels wonderfully naughty.
1 p.m.: Bikini wax.
2:30 p.m.: We take the L to Eighth Avenue, and I point out the condom, forlorn and shriveled, persistent in the gutter.
10:45 p.m.: Cuddling is enough as we watch Happy Gilmore for the 100th time. We kiss gently, and I fall asleep on his chest.
7 a.m.: I wake up with boyfriend’s shrieking alarm to make us breakfast. Strawberry smoothies and scrambled eggs. Feel content like an old married couple; he kisses my cheek good-bye as I wash dishes.
10 a.m.: Where did it go? My persistent condom is missing from the gutter! It abandoned me! Maybe it will be reborn to usefulness to a great heavenly orgy.
12:30 p.m.: African sandwich guy compliments me on my top. I thank him, and he winks as he throws in a Snapple with my tuna salad. I feel objectified kindly.
2 p.m.: Boss actually asks my opinion about a sale and follows the advice. Amazing!
10:45 p.m.: More Merlot. I take boyfriend to bed. Being sexy climbing up to a loft is tough, but I have it down pat. I start out on top, bouncing like a little kid on a pogo stick. I don’t cum, but it feels great and he tells me, with true awe in his voice, how much he loves my body. He moves his hands over me like a sculptor.
11:30 p.m.: We horse around, I tickle him, try to kiss his nipples (which, I discovered, are his tickle-zone hot spot). We talk until midnight and fall asleep with sweet exhaustion of a worthwhile day.
Total: Five acts of intercourse, four flirtations with sandwich maker, two acts of sexual harassment from boss, one blow job, one forgotten birth control pill, one bikini wax, one spying on mom phone call.