sex diaries

The Rehabbing Mailroom Worker

Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek at what your friends and neighbors are doing behind doors left slightly ajar. Today, the Rehabbing Mailroom Worker in an Open Relationship: 35, male, Upper West Side, straight, in relationship.

1 p.m. Obsessing about on-and-off girlfriend, Vanessa, who broke up with me a couple of days ago at an event with her sister. She’s a single mom that I fell in love with at outpatient rehab, after leaving my music-industry job to get a handle on crack and Ecstasy. The drugs are no longer an issue, but the sex and rock and roll are in full swing.
8 p.m. I spent the entire day wondering how it all went so wrong. I love her, love her baby, and her family wants to kill her for seeing me. The baby’s father is older than her own father, and she can’t keep the straw out of her nose.

10 a.m.: Never the one to shy away from a confrontation, I visit rehab (I’ve already graduated successfully) to see Vanessa. I’m looking good but feeling weird. I’d like to know what really made Vanessa wig out on me.
12:05 p.m.: I pour my heart out to an older Puerto Rican mommy. She just got dumped too! We might mend our broken hearts together (she’s got an awesome ass), though the bunions might keep me away. Yes, I’m that vain.
4:10 p.m.: I’m at work now. I work with a bleached-blonde Irish girl dripping with sex appeal. We sit across a table from each other at work. I stare at her feet under the table and scope her booty whenever she gets up to leave the room. If she had a little more junk in her trunk, working with her would be agonizing.

3:20 p.m.: It’s pay day, and I really want to treat myself to a rub-and-tug. Train fare, $2. Prostate massage orgasm for 30 minutes, priceless. (Well, $60.) The last time I got to tongue kiss and return the massage. Korean girls love the brothas.
5 p.m.: I’ve forgotten that I volunteered to go to an overnight vigil for housing justice. It means that I’m going to sleep in the park tonight. Hooking up with a socially conscience chick could be equally grand.
7 p.m.: I can’t possibly make this up. I’m on my way to the vigil to get my civil disobedience on and who do I see on the train? Vanessa’s best friend, a hot ghetto-fab female. She’s all like, “You need to call her — she really misses you.” I’m like, “She just spazzed out on me. Whatever.” I was looking forward to taking my mind off of the whole deal.
10 p.m.: The housing vigil is a total bore. Socially conscience women are not the easiest to look at. There are plenty of jokes, though. Sprinklers turning on; liberals scurrying about; me downloading porn on the park’s Wi-Fi signal.

6 a.m.: I get back home after not sleeping all night in the park. I pop my “get my six-pack back” pills and go to take a nap. There was not even a chick hot enough to masturbate to at the vigil.
10 a.m.: I wake up from my nap to find out that my masturbation sleeve just arrived in the mail (’s three-day 40 percent sale). I check out the “mega butt” porn I downloaded last night. Wow, I’m too big for the sleeve! There is a God.
Noon: I’ve been thinking of asking Vanessa for our vibrator back. I bought a Rub My Duckie for her from Babeland, and a Pocket Rocket for the two of us as a Mother’s Day gift. We never used it and I’m feeling spiteful.
1 p.m.: On my way to do some laundry I pick up a way-too-expensive laptop bag and a killer wool hat that fits over my dreadlocks. I am a chick magnet.
4:30 p.m.: After watching some fine women walk past me while I washed my clothes, I’m worked up enough for some “me” time. Belladonna in an all-girl orgy. It’s a lot of salad tossing, foot licking, and toe sucking — brilliant! I needed a release. Vanessa had been taking medications that made it impossible for her to orgasm. I told her that I would go on an orgasm strike in solidarity. Boy, is that over.
5:45 p.m.: Vanessa texts my roommate. He says I should call her. I do. She tells me that we need to talk. I consent. Okay, the truth? Here’s a beautiful women with a nice booty. A woman that loves me and would love to take it up the bum while using a vibrator on herself. I’m a simple man. I have to give her a chance.
7 p.m.: Meet with Vanessa. She has the baby with her. I’ve missed them both dearly. She tells me that she acted immaturely, that her sister acted like an ass, and above all that she loves me. I voice some concerns, but mostly I’m glad to be with her. When I’m around her, I feel all goofy, I feel powerful, I feel loved, I feel content, and I feel special. I’m a simple man…
8:30 p.m.: Between my roommates and the baby, sex won’t happen. Vanessa leaves. I’m okay with how things went. I’ve really missed her.

10 a.m.: I woke up today with major wood. I dreamed about casinos, gangsters, and a winning Superfecta ticket. My neighbor is an OTB junkie.
11 a.m.: I Google Vanessa’s dad out of curiosity. Scary! He thinks I’m a street kid. Another in a long list of people for whom my prep-school education is of no consequence.
Noon: Riding the subway to Soho, to walk and think. I love New York when the weather is warm. The legs and the toes are out in full force. I’m feeling the dark nail polish. I chose a blonde in her early twenties to stare at on my trip downtown.
4 p.m.: I decide to pick out a card and pour my heart out to Vanessa. I write about how I feel and decide that at least if I’ve communicated I can’t go wrong. I spend the rest of my day watching sports and laying back.

10 a.m.: I volunteer at a drug-crisis center on Monday mornings. It’s time for me to leave for work. I ask a Latin pre-op (there for therapy) to help me match a tie to my shirt. My mother didn’t raise a homophobe.
10:30 a.m.: After choosing the red tie, I leave for work. I stop first to drop off my love note to Vanessa’s counselor. She promises to deliver it. I’m a little scared.
5 p.m.: I’ve spent the day nervous and jittery. I’ve never poured my heart out to a woman like I did with that card. I hope I did the right thing.

9 a.m.: I’m a nervous wreck! I haven’t heard from Vanessa. I hustle to the rehab to see if I can run into her.
11 a.m.: Vanessa finally shows up. She tells me that no one has ever written anything that special to her. We don’t cry together, but it gets close a couple of times. I am relieved. I can’t lie on my heart.
Noon: I’m late for work so Vanessa walks me to the subway. We make out. My knees turn to jelly. I think she’s one of the “great ones” — we only come across a few in life. The make-up sex from this one will be the stuff of legends.

Totals: Zero acts of intercourse or oral sex; one act of masturbation to Belladonna all-girl orgy; one rekindling with girlfriend following emotional outpouring into a card to on-and-off girlfriend; one aborted trip to the rub-and-tug; one racy make-out session near the subway platform.

The Rehabbing Mailroom Worker