Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek at what your friends and neighbors are doing behind doors left slightly ajar. Today, the sexually satisfied student: female, 21, Brooklyn, straight, NYU student, in a four-month relationship
9 p.m.: Preparing for house party at my apartment. It is nice to actually be spending a ridiculous amount of time (45 minutes) on my appearance instead of my usual smudged eyeliner and tussled hair rushing out of the door.
10:52 p.m.: Boyfriend arrives at the party and definitely appreciates the effort, stealing kisses and whispering “I can’t wait to maul you later” into my ear.
3:45 a.m.: Exhausted. Everyone needs to leave. Beer bottles, cigarettes everywhere. Floor sticky and gross. Crawl into bed to be promptly stripped and jumped.
1:36 p.m.: OVERSLEPT. Panic. Frantically call friend who I was supposed to meet at the Greenmarket in Union Square at noon, trying to talk softly as not to wake the sleeping ball besides me.
1:45 p.m. Plan pleasantly backfires as he finds his way between my legs. Fuck the Greenmarket. He deserves an award for technique.
1:51 p.m.: Gold medal.
3:30 p.m.: Finally meet up with gal pal at the Greenmarket. I smell like sex. Spend too much on organic spinach.
2:30 p.m.: Overslept again. Late lunch with the boyfriend in Williamsburg. Settling into the long-silences-are-okay phase. Also, surprisingly okay is unbrushed post-sex hair.
4:57 p.m.: Slaving over a hot oven, roasting brisket and potatoes. Sweating. I hope I look exotic. Sadly, no one is home yet to confirm or deny this possibility.
8:10 p.m.: Best friend–roommate comments about our loud bedroom antics. Gay friend clarifies: “I really wouldn’t say it’s his fault.”
1:23 a.m.: I am loud in bed. Afterward he curls up besides me, wraps me up in his arms, and kisses my forehead. I can’t help but think the weekend has ended perfectly.
8:45 a.m.: Panic on the F en route to my internship. I am going to be fifteen minutes late yet again. I console myself with the fact I am unpaid — the joys of the manipulatively cheap and disposable black market of white-collar labor.
12:10 p.m.: Wish I could count the days till graduation. Sadly it’s too early.
5:55 p.m. Class is boring me to death. Dirty text message arrives unexpectedly from the boyfriend. I like him a hell of a lot. Instantly want to demonstrate my affections with an unsolicited blow job.
1:46 p.m.: Make small talk at Bluestockings with a guy I had a short fling with ages ago. Surprised at how awkward this isn’t. He has a nice smile and a relaxing personality. Remember why I was attracted to him.
1:53 p.m.: Also remember our horribly awkward sex. Thank God for not having to relive it, and count my blessings for the mind-blowing sex I am having with a guy I adore.
Midnight: Date night ends with me on top of my guy. Despite having a weekend full of sex, we are going at it like we haven’t done it in ages. After 45 minutes of earth-shattering penetration in which we both cum, we turn on the fan and prepare to drift off to sleep. He nudges me. “Can I do something I have never done before?” He promptly lights a cigarette. YES. I AM A SEX GOD.
1:07 p.m.: I overwhelm my therapist with my constant analysis of race, class, and gender power relations in all situations.
8:12 p.m.: Exhausted after long day of mind-numbing classes. Sitting in an endless activist-club meeting. Consensus-based decision-making is for people much more patient than I am on a Wednesday night. The revolution won’t come due to my laziness.
8:14 p.m.: I amuse myself by envisioning everyone in the group having sex. Quickly realize how awkward and disturbing this game is and abandon it. Vow to never mix business with pleasure. Surveying the room, so far, so good.
8:03 a.m.: Last day of classes before the weekend. Snooze for twenty minutes. Bliss.
9:15 a.m.: Walking up Broadway I wonder if the “I’m home safe” text messages my boy and I send each other after solo nights are sweet or co-dependent. Also wonder when we will go on another bike ride together.
6:15 p.m.: Dinner at an East Village sushi restaurant with a girlfriend. Play around with the idea of living together. Not ready for a live-in boyfriend yet.
6:24 p.m.: After brief status updates on our respective relationships, I realize I am not co-dependent but actually in a stable and healthy relationship. She comments I am making better life choices. Agreed.
Total: 4 acts of intercourse; one dirty text message; one group-sex fantasy; one less-awkward-than-planned discussion with ex.