Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek at what your friends and neighbors are doing behind doors left slightly ajar. Today, the Cheated-On, Out-of-Work Actor: 24, male, Hell’s Kitchen, straight, single.
9:35 a.m.: Woke up early to beat roommate into shower. Use extra time for a much-needed release of sexual energy. Feels good at first, but upon orgasm I just feel pathetic and empty.
10:30 a.m.: I head to my waiter job. I just ended a relationship with Becky, a girlfriend from college of two years. Almost two weeks ago, I discovered she had slept with/was actively sleeping with two Wall Street jerks from her office, probably while I was serving people their appetizers. I found out, flipped out, and curtly ended things. We haven’t spoken since.
11:45 a.m.: I ask a woman with enormous breasts and a shameless sense of personal style if she’s saved room for dessert today. I walk away wondering if my apron hides my excitement beneath it. This is a family restaurant.
2:38 p.m.: The image of my ex sharing brunch with someone else is taunting me. Getting cheated on is the worst, because it makes you feel so worthless that part of you actually gets convinced that you deserved it. If you were better, why would she need someone else? I end up texting her something nasty that I only half mean and immediately regret sending.
4:05 p.m.: Still no response. Slut.
9 p.m.: While showering after my shift, I’m tempted to do the deed again, but resist the urge because I’m running late. This is why I always have a girlfriend — otherwise I’d never stop.
9:45 p.m.: Arrive to a testosterone festival at the Black Finn. The place is packed with aging guys in bad suits and polo shirts who seem hell-bent on either fucking or fighting tonight. I’m here for cheap rebound sex with the guest bartender, who’s known me for a while, and clearly dug me while I was spoken for.
10:35 p.m.: I sit at the bar watching my friend-prey pour me a rum and Coke. Erection again, but no apron.
1:35 a.m.: Her ludicrous guest-bartending experience is over, and we’re in a real bar in Hell’s Kitchen doing shots and drinks to make up for all her lost time. She drinks too quickly for a girl her size and touches me a lot at the bar. God, she’s hot. And, looks wise, the total opposite of my ex.
2:40 a.m.: Sex. Brief, but very satisfying and much-needed sex. It’s my first sex since the breakup, and I feel like a 15-year-old in bed — functioning as if a boob touch would warrant a fresh slap across the face. She’s more clumsy than sexy, but she’s hot. I don’t last long at all, but she doesn’t seem upset, and it definitely beats masturbating in the shower.
10:30 a.m.: This is why I can’t do one-night stands. My head hurts, and this is awkward. I just want it to be over. I invite her to get breakfast. Smooth move, Tim.
11:15 a.m.: We go to the Galaxy Diner down the block, and my delicious cheeseburger is the only thing keeping me from putting a fork through my own eye. The last movie she saw had Dane Cook in it.
1:30 p.m.: I should probably feel good about myself, but really the whole thing just made me miss my girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend. Another snag with the cheating thing is that you’re also the one who’s stuck with the mess: calling it off. It was my choice, not hers, but it isn’t empowering at all. I miss her, and I look at my phone hoping it’ll be her begging for forgiveness. Nope, it’s just 1:32 p.m., and I feel like an idiot.
7:30 p.m.: Guest bartender texts. Asks if she left her earrings. I say no (which is true), but lie and say I’m busy all week.
11:33 p.m.: I’m no pothead, but at times like this it’s the only substance that keeps me asexual. I think about masturbating before bed, but after a packed bong, at least three hours of Dexter, and a toxic combination of Chips Ahoy and vanilla-bean ice cream, I’m pretty much useless sexually. Good night, penis.
9:35 a.m.: I refuse to masturbate in the shower.
1:15 p.m.: I wait on a couple from Spain who sits on the same side of the table. As much as I love Europeans, this is a single waiter’s ultimate pet peeve, and I find it very difficult to mask my contempt. I try to finish my shift like a professional (prostitute) by denying myself all thought and emotion.
3:15 p.m.: I tell my manager (a fellow “actor” who’s given up and taken a real job in the only other field he knows anything about) that I have an audition and have to go. I go home, masturbate, and e-mail my ex-girlfriend. I hate myself. I really do.
4:45 p.m.: She writes back. She misses me, too, and she regrets everything. I say yes, I’d like to see her sometime and talk. I rip a bong hit to kill my own self-loathing. The Legend of Zelda is too complicated when you’re high.
5:15 p.m.: Go to MySpace and end up enjoying myself with pictures of Tila Tequila, who’s more trashy than hot.
5:21 p.m.: I go through over two hundred MySpace Internet friends and marvel at how I met this many reasonably hot chicks in the first place. Out of spite, I start messaging aspiring model-actresses who are still finishing up their degrees at Hunter, NYU, or whatever other colleges that hot 20-year-old chicks with rich parents get their bachelor’s degrees at these days.
10:30 p.m.: Masturbate for the third goddamned time in one day, to “Bikini Pirates.” I wonder why all my choices in self-loving material are never hard-core porn, but instead are always more funny than sexy. I’m a weird guy.
1:15 a.m.: MySpace love. Do I want to catch up with “Jess,” an old friend, philosophy student, and fake actress from NYU? Yes. Yes I do.
2:45 a.m.: If I had the strength or coordination to masturbate a fourth time today, I’d probably do it. Instead, I pass out ass-naked in bed and drunkenly leave it to the gods if my poor roommates barge in tomorrow.
10:30 a.m.: My phone wakes me up, which means I’m late for work. No time for the “Will I masturbate in the shower today?” moral dilemma. Also, my penis hurts.
6:30 p.m.: I’m so angry that my ex STILL hasn’t responded. I’ve got “Jess” bloodlust.
9:05 p.m.: I meet the girl. I hate this girl.
9:45 p.m.: Say what you want about cheating ex-girlfriends, but at least mine doesn’t talk for the sake of talking. Maybe it’s a philosophy-major thing or an NYU thing. Before I have an aneurism, I look at her breasts and remember why I’m here. Deep breaths.
11:10 p.m.: I wish I was here with my ex.
11:45 p.m.: I say let’s go to my place. Denied. Counteroffer of her place. I’m afraid if I go home alone that I’ll end up calling the ex for the first time since we split, so I say okay.
11:54 p.m.: God, do I love making out in cabs. I know it’s gross. We keep it clean, but paw at each other about as aggressively as you can without risking imprisonment.
12:35 a.m.: She’s aggressive. She takes her shirt off and suddenly I don’t care that much. Nice boobs, but she’s not as hot as she is with her trendy wardrobe on.
12:45 a.m.: I don’t have a condom, but she does. And it weirds me out. I tell her that I don’t want to have sex because it’s “just moving too fast” for me, which is never true if a guy says it.
1 a.m.: A blow job. Awesome. I’m so drunk that my ears are fever-hot. This is tremendous. I look down at her working — a true master at her craft — and wonder if this act would be labeled deep throating or if I’ve just got a really small penis. I’m 50-50 on the issue, but it doesn’t change the result. I go to sleep happy.
8:40 a.m.: I lie there thinking about how much hotter my ex was. I wonder if she responded to my e-mail.
12:35 p.m.: Home. Nap. Wake to early-afternoon wood. It’s twisted, but I masturbate to the visual of my ex and another dude.
1:30 p.m.: Still no response from the ex, and it’s driving me insane.
5:15 p.m.: No more mind games. I call her for the first time since I found out she was cheating. She answers on the first ring, I think because she’s shocked I actually called. I tell her that I don’t know why she needed to mess around, but that we’re lucky it happened now and not ten years from now. I say that I don’t like myself anymore, and that if I don’t stop thinking about her, then I’ll never be able to look myself in the mirror again. Before she can say anything, I tell her that she’s really smart and very pretty and that I hope she finds what she’s looking for. I sound like a John Cusack movie, but before she can figure out what’s going on I wish her the best of luck and hang up. It doesn’t feel good, but it feels complete.
6:45 p.m.: I’ve got four e-mails from her — no joke. And for the first time, I can laugh at her. I masturbate to a video of a Brazilian girl dancing to a Jock Jams song.
10:30 p.m.: The people I’m waiting on are getting drunker and drunker, and the couples are more and more in love with each other. Either it doesn’t bother me, or I’m in too much denial. Whatever.
2:30 a.m.: Six missed texts, five of them from ex-girlfriend and one from NYU girl. I erase the ex’s texts, while doing my best to not read a single word of them.
2:35 a.m.: Feels so good. Celebrate with Brazilian Jock Jams chick.
12:35 p.m.: Wake up alone, and I like it. I always take Fridays off.
1:35 p.m.: Friend asks how things are with Becky. I say it’s over, and move on. I’ve been a rather large weenie about this whole thing.
4:30 p.m.: The plus side of seeing movies solo is that you can see Never Back Down. The film is straight out of Mystery Science Theater 3000. Who needs sex when you’re having a comedic orgasm for 106 straight minutes?
7 p.m: I eat my second burrito of the day at Burritoville.
10:30 p.m.: I watch two episodes of Dexter, the writers’ strike episode of South Park (genius), and I self-medicate with a light dose of that marijuana stuff. I decide that I think about chicks too much. Good night, flaccid wang.
Totals: Seven acts of masturbation, two rebound dates, one act of intercourse, one blow job, two aborted acts of shower masturbation, and one act of taxi petting.