sex diaries

The Guy in a Smoking-Hot, Not-Quite-in-Love Relationship

Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek at what your friends and neighbors are doing behind doors left slightly ajar. Today, the Guy in a Smoking-Hot, Not-Quite-in-Love Relationship: 26, male, straight, UES, advertising manager.

9 a.m.: Koreatown hangover. To alleviate the nausea, I watch a saved-until-manually-erased DVR’d OnDemand porn. It features co-eds and/or teens.
Midnight: Wasted in Brooklyn. I’ve been in a relationship for the past six months despite my rampant self-involvement and immaturity. I’m constantly pushing my luck. Luckily, she’s not out tonight to see the drunkenness.
1 a.m.: Still wasted, and en route to Manhattan-bound subway. I walk past an attractive girl smoking and crying in an apartment doorway. We talk. She’s French and still crying. I tell her a joke about two peanuts walking into a bar. I walk her to her doorstep and decide not to lean in.

2 a.m.: Pick up a (not the) girlfriend outside of a bar in cab on the way back to my apartment to go hang out. I’m all types of wasted. Her earrings jangle and slap against her long pale neck. I love/hate that this turns me on.
2:30 a.m.: She is not wearing a bra under her form-fitting white shirt. I remember when we used to fuck without condoms. She is talking too much. I drop her off.
3 a.m.: I masturbate furiously.
4 a.m.: I masturbate again and open the window.

4:30 p.m.: My cock hurts from masturbating (I have sensitive skin). I rub some cortisone on it in anticipation of having sex with my girlfriend later.
8 p.m.: Dinner with the girlfriend. She says she enjoys the consistency of our sex lately. I realize I care less and less about the actual act of sex. Then I realize that I never think this during the actual act of sex.
10 p.m.: We’re healthy with Scotch and happy with company, and our walk home is punctuated by impromptu make-out sessions on the busy streets of New York. In jeans with no underwear, this latest erection is proving painful. Then I almost tell her I love her.
10:30 p.m.: I throw her on my bed face down. With a handful of her hair wrapped tight in my fist I explore the low of her back with my tongue. Her skin even tastes soft. I fuck her from behind, but I realize she’s not going to come that way and I absolutely love it when she does. With me now on top (our turnkey position), she comes quickly. I hold her tight as I can to me and continue in the same motion until her mind resurfaces from its post-come stupor so she can come again. She does this with little effort on my part. She pushes me off panting and awesome and puts me in her mouth.

8 a.m.: Girlfriend offers morning head before she leaves. I oblige. The grass can simply not be any greener.
3 p.m.: Picking up some shit I got framed, I see a beautiful ass in white pants. From the black hair and taut frame, I assume the girl is Asian. I am reminded of a rant I read long ago from a man who claimed he would give up the fork utensil if it meant all attractive women were forced to wear white pants year-round.
9 p.m.: Girlfriend comes over. We get high and watch television. When we don’t have sex, I always hear about it. Compare all-consuming state of indolence to inevitable comment. Indolence wins.

1:30 p.m.: See the slightly more attractive one of my two office-building crushes. I tell myself that I would give it all up just to wake beside her on a Sunday morning and brush aside the bangs from her face. We talk about who-the-fuck-knows-what. I try to remember if she is the one with the boyfriend or if it’s the other one.
7 p.m.: At the gym. Erect on the stationary bike with nowhere to go.
8:30 p.m.: Girlfriend comes over.
9 p.m.: We have amazing sex. At least for me. Sometimes we try to find all the various ways in which she can come. This go-around proves futile. I can tell her heart’s not in it, the sexy li’l quitter.
11 p.m.: Fall asleep together naked while the TV mumbles in the other room.

1 p.m.: On the salad line at Hale & Hearty, wondering if Beth Ditto gives good hetero head.
7 p.m.: Take my team out to a nice dinner to thank them for a good first quarter. Can’t stop staring at an Israeli Keira Knightley at other table. Sharp eyes, turquoise heels, blah blah blah. Despite her forehead-slapping beauty, I imagine she would not like having sex up against the various surfaces my apartment offers. Realize I have the dumbest thoughts.
11 p.m.: Four gin martinis into the eve, I meet up with my girlfriend at a bar by my apartment. She went to the Elton John concert and is just as many sheets to the wind as I am. She looks striking, and I can’t stop telling her so. She’s wearing a trim dress the color of weather-worn brick with black tights and the highest heels she owns. I tell her that I’m happy.
11:15 p.m.: She’s been feeling a little insecure lately (despite my perma-hard disposition when I’m around her) and starts talking about not being a good girlfriend. First I think this is a mood killer, then tell myself that I’m a guy and who gives a shit about moods. I take off my shirt and her tights and press my tongue against her with her dress pulled up above her hips. She comes on my couch. I pass out in three minutes beached-whale style.

8:30 a.m.: Walking to the L train, I spot a gorgeous six-foot Amazon black punk girl with studded leather jacket dripping with shine. Cro-Mags and Voidoids pins. Probably the coolest, sexiest woman I have ever seen in my entire life. I wonder if I would be too intimidated to have sex with her when the time came.
11 a.m.: Still thinking about that girl from the subway platform.
2 p.m.: On the street. Chelsea gallerina in ankle boots makes me wish I were an artist.
9 p.m.: Girlfriend comes over after she gets home from work. Lying against one another on my couch, I stand to take off my pants and put on shorts. She asks me why I would do that. “Just take them off and I’ll give you a blow job.” Living the dream, but wanting to be inside her, we run to the bedroom (cliché clothes-tearing, against-the-wall humping) and fuck like teenagers. She comes. Then I come while I’m on top. I’ve only come this way with her a handful of times. She reminds me of this with a big smile on her face.
10 p.m.: Still naked in bed. Tickle fighting. Other lame naked pillow activities ensue. Like saying how much we adore each other. I care about her deeply. Am I in love? I don’t think so. I’m far too mired in my own bullshit and twentysomething trappings at the moment. I want to love her. And I should. I just, well, don’t. She’s the best girlfriend anyone could ever hope to have. I wish that were enough to love her.
11 p.m.: Leave her to sleep her sleep and go watch the Lakers game.

10 a.m.: Receive text from my good ol’ lesbian friend about her newest girlfriend: “Sometimes having a gf sucks.” Strangely can’t find myself agreeing.
11 a.m.: Exchange texts with girlfriend about our great sex the previous night. Hard now. Can’t stand up to walk to the printer. Inconvenient erection. Will have to wait this puppy out.
8 p.m.: Dinner with friend who’s in town for the weekend. He tells me that he got stuck on a roof earlier in the day and fingered a girl he met a few days prior while he was up there. I wonder which happened first. The fingering or getting stuck. Turns out it was the fingering.

Totals: Three acts of intercourse; three acts of masturbation; three acts of fellatio; three acts of cunnilingus; three inconveniently public erections; two almost-mentions of the L word.

The Guy in a Smoking-Hot, Not-Quite-in-Love Relationship