Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek at what your friends and neighbors are doing behind doors left slightly ajar. Today, the Middle-School Teacher in an Open Relationship: Female, 25, Upper East Side, Straight.
DAY ONE
11:00 a.m.: Set dinner out with boyfriend for tomorrow. Though we’ve been dating for two years, cohabitation and marriage are still a ways off. I am enjoying weekends together, and amazing sex. And separate apartments.
1:07 p.m.: Quickly shut down middle schoolers’ discussion on ass slapping. Funny, but inappropriate for classroom. I had a similar ass-based conversation with own friends two weeks ago. Push aside feeling of hypocrisy.
3:40 p.m.: Meet friend, ostensibly for coffee, but in actuality, for monthly discussion of her boyfriend. Current problem: boyfriend’s proposal to move in together is unpalatable until boyfriend’s proposal of marriage occurs. Not being in the same place, relationship-wise, I inquire as to the non-tax, non-visa benefits of marriage.
11:50 p.m.: See Made of Honor. Totally lame, in a predictably funny way — in other words, a very satisfactory girls’ night out. Retract all earlier statements. Decide to have a beach ceremony in a tastefully revealing white Calvin Klein dress. Will carry lilacs. Will look super-hot.
DAY TWO
5:43 a.m.: Wake up clutching pillow as if it were boyfriend. Have nasty pattern of insomnia that sex and cuddling seem to cure. Briefly consider getting off on own, but cannot summon energy and consider it a poor substitute anyway. Catnap until 7a.m.
8:00 a.m.: Meet fellow teacher in subway, who shares that when her boyfriend makes bulldog faces and loud grunting noises in bed, the sex is never better. We eventually decide that lowered inhibitions about own appearance during sex heighten chances of orgasm.
11:00 a.m.: Receive e-mail from younger sister, asking for ways to convince live-in boyfriend to do housework. Respond, “Blow jobs.” Younger sister replies, stating need for more extreme convincing action. Cringe inwardly, but write back with racy striptease advice. This sort of thing is never included in those, “So You’re Going to be a Big Sister!” books.
3:14 p.m.: Take last active birth control pill for month and sigh inwardly as realize that it is That Week. Should really mark this on calendar — boyfriend does, although in his, it’s labeled, “Blow Job Week.”
7:00 p.m.: Begin getting ready for date night. Realize all good clothes at boyfriend’s apartment. Dammit.
7:16 p.m.: Stand in underwear in front of closet, debating pros and cons of wearing summery white skirt. Decide is pro.
12:00 a.m.: Dinner great, sex beyond great — delicious boyfriend has lovely magic thumbs that cause lovely multiple orgasms. Yippee!
DAY THREE
6:12 a.m.: Wake up, wired. Dive under covers to usher in Blow Job Week, but am swatted away by boyfriend. Feel rejected.
6:13 a.m.: Feel less so when spooned. Maybe he is sleepy.
11 a.m.: Bored in staff meeting. Re-live last night’s activities: Who knew orgasm possible when watching John Adams? Moved upstairs after credits rolled, but very impatient — didn’t take off skirt. Love, love, love that he picks me up for standing sex. Many positions explored, topless and still wearing skirt. Sweet.
6:43 p.m.: Meeting friend at documentary about child trafficking in Thailand. Have glass of wine, but realize not enough wine in world to make looking at prostituted children a comfortable experience.
11:50 p.m.: Meet roommate and friend uptown for drinks. Roommate receives several very explicitly naughty texts from ex. Read over her shoulder. Formulate theory that there are two types of people in this world: those who can read the words “cock,” “shaft,” and “pussy” with a straight face, and those who cannot. Fall into latter category in lame theory.
1:30 a.m.: Wonder if boyfriend hooked up with anyone tonight. We have an open relationship in which hook-ups are allowed, but emotional attachment, i.e., dating, is not.
1:33 a.m.: Have mild anxiety, imagining boyfriend hooking up with other girl. I am usually confident about security of relationship, but have intermittent freak-outs when I worry that my boyfriend will leave me for a leggy Asian math major.
1:35 a.m.: Comforted with thought that leggy Asian math majors probably do not celebrate Blow Job Week with enthusiasm of self.
1:36 a.m.: Nor do they cook. Probably.
1:40 a.m.: Need to sleep!
DAY FOUR
6:00 a.m.: Freak-out over. Stupid to lose sleep over nighttime insecurities.
7:46 a.m.: Accidentally cut guy off on subway platform getting onto train. Guy huffs loudly and grabs my ass when train doors close. Stand on guy’s foot. Hand removed.
2:37 p.m.: Last bell rings. Weekend has begun. Yes!
7:15 p.m.: Smoking joint with boyfriend on balcony. Get a little high and play Blokus with boyfriend and friends, which seems a more strategic and competitive version of Tetris. Am missing a strategy, but hope no one notices. They do.
DAY FIVE
9:30 a.m.: Wake up from horrible dream in which was going down on boyfriend with no success. Unacceptable.
9:31 a.m.: Go down on boyfriend to prove subconscious wrong.
11:05 a.m.: Boyfriend wakes up and puts magical thumbs to great use. Yippee!
11:15 a.m.: Demonstrate appreciation of magical thumbs, hands, etc., by giving second BJ of the morning. More success. Boyfriend demonstrates appreciation of multiple successes with bear hug and lots of kisses. Feel awesome and sweaty and happy.
1:13 a.m.: On dance floor with friends, random guy grinds up behind me and attaches himself to my leg. Shimmy away.
4:30 a.m.: Meet boyfriend back at apartment. Am tipsy. Boyfriend high. Go to bed and start landing sequence for fooling around, but am told that while he still likes me, all activity will have to wait for morning and sobriety, as room is spinning. Consider retaliation. Hear him murmur that he loves me. Response now satisfactory. Sleep.
DAY SIX
9:00 a.m.: Wide awake. It’s morning!
9:02 a.m.: Boyfriend not aware of morning’s arrival and subsequent friskiness of bed partner.
11:00 a.m.: Surely have waited long enough. Tickle boyfriend’s stomach. He grunts and rolls away. Hmph.
3:30 p.m.: Finally! He’s up — in both ways. Yippie.
9:00 p.m.: Too tired to fathom idea of work tomorrow. Kids always far too energetic on Monday mornings. Curl up on sofa, next to boyfriend. Am rendered comatose by his playing with my hair.
11:00 p.m.: Wake up just long enough to change locations, but not activities. Curl up in his bed and drift to sleep, feeling sleepy and sweet and loved.
DAY SEVEN
6:12 a.m.: Crap. It’s Monday.
1:00 p.m.: Hear roommate’s date story from Saturday night. Date very interested in roommate, but feelings unfortunately not reciprocated. Had awkward, “No, not tonight,” conversation after date walked her home. Must find roommate next orgasm ASAP.
1:30 p.m.: Bored in meeting again. Doodle trees. Thinking about next weekend’s camping trip. Idly wonder about logistics of sex in a tent…
1:33 p.m.: Sex in a sleeping bag?
1:35 p.m.: Got it — backseat of car! Will feel like return to high-school years. Begin to plan vehicular seduction. Happy camper.
TOTALS: Two acts of intercourse; Three acts of fellatio; One act of manual assistance; Two e-mails with sex advice to younger sister; One late-night panic over open relationship; One triumphant celebration of Blow Job Week.
