sex diaries

The Artist in Love With the Un-Boyfriend

Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek at what your friends and neighbors are doing behind doors left slightly ajar. Today, The Artist in Love With the Un-Boyfriend, 23, female, Bensonhurst, heterosexual, single.

3 a.m.: A call from my Un-Boyfriend. He’s not my boyfriend and probably never will be, due to the long distances, transient lifestyles, and aversion to labels and commitment on both ends. And yet we talk for hours, we write letters, and when we see each other, we spend all day in bed, and I’m terribly afraid that I might be in love with him, though I’d never say that out loud. I date other people, hoping to find someone to divert my attention. But most boys only reinforce the reasons why Un-Boyfriend is different and special.
3:30 a.m. Conversation leaves me pensive and annoyed, reminded of all the reasons the “un” prefix will never go away. Sometimes I wish my heart weren’t so in his claws. Restless sleeping.

10:15 a.m.: Dream. Last weekend I made out with a stranger in the hallway of my building during a party, which was nice until he started jousting me in the leg with his penis. In the dream, he jumped out at me from behind a dark corner, wide-eyed and not letting me pass. I realize I have unresolved issues with men who are pushy.
2:30 p.m.: I meet my male friend Ben for burritos and coffee. We bitch about being in the throes of love and unemployment. Waitress gives me the gaydar scan. I cut my hair pixie-short last week, and ever since, I’ve been getting more attention from girls and boys alike.
7 p.m.: Ben comes to my art studio, slowly realizes that every beautiful naked boy and girl I have painted thus far are portraits of people he knows. Awkward tension ensues.
10:35 p.m.: Un-Boyfriend calls to tell me that he just befriended someone who knows me. Does that mean he talks about me to other people? I pine.
11 p.m.: Beer and TV in the basement with building friends. Conversation inevitably turns to “Which celebrities would you fuck?”

5 a.m.: Beer run with Jen. The cute young bodega guy, Adnan, is our buddy, and is totally in love with Jen, so the beer is free. Adnan goes into the basement to bring us his four-week-old kittens.
7:50 a.m.: I finally crawl into bed, and muster the strength for an immensely satisfying drunken masturbation before I sleep. I fantasize about having good, sleepy morning sex with Un-Boyfriend.
4 p.m.: Phone interview for a new day job. The fact that my potential employer called at 4 p.m. regarding an education position and I was still lying in bed in my underwear, totally hung-over, reading erotic fiction, makes me wonder if I am suited to be a role model for children.
6:20 p.m.: I IM with a guy I dated last month. It sort of fell off when we both got busy, and he asks me where I’ve been. I consider inviting him out to the party tonight, but I’d rather hang out with a guy who might come, so I refrain. Another one bites the dust.
8 p.m.: Help set up for the party. The first few bands play and I am bored, compulsively checking my phone.
9:50 p.m.: I dance like a motherfucker.
11:30 p.m.: On my way to the bathroom, a very beautiful man named Shea asks me my name. After I tell him, he says, “I love that name, but would you mind if I just called you Beautiful instead?” Normally this sort of line would irritate me, but somehow he pulls it off.

3:20 a.m.: I finally sit and have a conversation with this Shea character. He’s real cute, but I am quickly bored.
5 a.m.: Still talking to Shea. The party is petering out. Out of nowhere, he tells me he has never seen a White Girl “with such a black girl’s booty” (it’s true, I get that a lot). He doesn’t try to kiss me, he doesn’t even touch me, he just leans in and asks me to feel his pulse on his neck, so I can see exactly how turned on he is. This creeps me out a bit, but I do it. I’ve had a beer or six, and while this isn’t exactly what I was hoping for as far as things getting more interesting, it’s certainly different.
5:15 a.m.: He starts asking me very personal questions about what I’m like in bed. I politely dodge the questions. Not getting the hint, he asks if I would mind if he touched himself while he talked to me. That’s way over the line. I say good night.
6 a.m.: I fall asleep wondering how I let that go so far. I am too creeped out to masturbate.
10 a.m.: Shea calls. (SHIT! I forgot that I gave him my number early on.) He asks if I still want him to pose for a painting. He even offers to pay me to let him pose for me. (SHIT. I forgot that I had asked him to pose!) The thought crosses my mind that he may still be in my building hanging out, but I try not to think about it.
3:30 p.m.: Wake up for real, feel like shit.
6:30 p.m.: Me, my friend B, and Mel, one of my best friends from home, have dinner with my roommate, with whom Mel is romantically involved. Mel kisses me on the mouth, as per usual. Mel and roommate are holding hands under the table. I shoot Bea a “Thank you for inviting me to sleep over at your new place so I don’t have to listen to them have sex” glance and she nods.
9:30 p.m.: Back at the house, I catch up with Mel for a few minutes, grab some things, and leave to go sleep at B’s. I’m such a good friend.
9:36 p.m.: I call B to tell her I’m on my way. Says she’s actually kind of enjoying having the big empty place to herself (read: she wants to jerk off). Awkward.
10 p.m.: I hear roommate sex above, quarantine myself in the basement and figure I will hang out there until Mel and roommate fall asleep. It shouldn’t be too long, as Mel is jet-lagged. I call the Un-Boyfriend and he tells me he will visit at the end of the month. Mmmmm.
10:30 p.m.: Obsessive thinking about Un-Boyfriend. I met him when I was on tour with a band, and he was on his way to Mexico and caught a ride with us. We were immediately drawn to one another and had a lovely romantic few days together, and I went home. He’s always on the move, and we maneuver our paths to cross whenever we can. When we do, it’s magical, and when we can’t, we stay in close contact. Our friendship only grows more intense, but it’s hard to imagine our affair ever being more than what it is. Despite my best efforts, he is the one I really think about.

3:30 a.m.: Still in the basement, waiting for the roommate sex to subside. Finally, I decide it’s safe to go back inside. It is dark and quiet, but I can’t sleep … I toss and turn. I’ve been too nocturnal in my unemployment.
6 a.m.: Finally, as I am on the verge of sleep, I hear them wake up. Thinking they have the house to themselves, they fool around quite vocally (note that there is only drywall between us, and sound-wise we might as well be in the same room). This is going to be awkward tomorrow.
11:15 a.m.: I wake up and check my e-mail. I got the job!
2 p.m.: Upon hearing my voice, my roommate worriedly asks how long I’ve been home.
5 p.m.: Painting at my art studio. That is one way to ease sexual tension. Despite all the men in my life, I haven’t had sex in a really long time. I can’t bring myself to fuck somebody unless I really like and trust them. Casual sex is theoretically appealing, but rarely works for me. Deep down I know that if Un-Boyfriend wasn’t so impossible to have, I wouldn’t be so enamored with him.
10 p.m.: WOW. I am probably 88 percent heterosexual, but for some reason ALL of the waitresses at the little Dominican diner we eat at are incredibly attractive to me. Full lips, big eyes, nice curves.

2 a.m.: Home again. In an attempt to break this whole semi-nocturnal lifestyle, I masturbate to fantasies of seducing a sexy Hemingway-type English professor.
10 a.m.: Wake up, work out, clean up.
1 p.m.: First day at the new job. It’s trial-by-fire teaching. Relieved that goofing off with first-graders is totally fun.
9 p.m.: We head back to Brooklyn for a hilarious low-budget, oversexualized theatrical adaptation of Jurassic Park in a crazy little space above a grocery store. We drink forties and afterward run through the streets imitating raptors.
11:58 p.m.: I decide to sleep over at Mel’s new place. This is our ritual. We stay up all night spooning and talking crudely about boys.

2 a.m.: Mel is new to sex, and we talk about the ins and outs of it (wink), and I explain, in detail, my theories on how to give good head. She literally takes notes.
9 a.m.: Wake up spooning Mel. I forget how nice it is to have windows; my loft space has none.
11 a.m.: We go to my art studio. We muse about what a good place to have sex in it would be. I fantasize about all of the things I plan to do to the Un-Boyfriend.
9 p.m.: My neighbors have loud sex very, very often. At first I tried to ignore them, but now I tend to enjoy it. Tonight was one of those nights.
11:26 p.m.: I step outside for a minute and a car slows as it passes me: “Hey mami, come here! Get in!” This happens a lot. Sometimes it doesn’t faze me, and other times it makes me feel vulnerable and angry. Tonight was the latter.

7 a.m.: I’ve taken to sleeping naked the past few days, as my loft-cave gets dreadfully warm with the surpassed-capacity of roommates all emitting sweaty young body heat. Too lazy to search for p.j.’s in the dark, I wrap myself in a too-small towel and hop down the stairs. It was pitch dark downstairs, and I bumped strait into my boxer-clad male roommate, whom I barely know, at the bottom of the staircase. Lots of awkward, accidental skin-touching ensues as we try to maneuver around each other. In spite of myself, I get turned on.
11:30 a.m.: I run errands and shop for booty pants. I invest in a hair straightener and some new eyeliner. Lately I’ve been wanting to put more effort into my appearance. Maybe I’m ovulating.
2 p.m.: Work with the kids. One little girl nicknames herself Mr. Butt.
7:30 p.m.: Meet for tea with a friend who works for a well-known sex blog. We read some sexy writing.

Totals: Zero acts of intercourse, fellatio, or cunnilingus; two acts of masturbation; one feeling of pulse upon request of very sketchy guy at party; three long phone chats with Un-Boyfriend; one dream of attack by bad make-out partner from previous week.

The Artist in Love With the Un-Boyfriend