sex diaries

The Soul Singer and Possible Sex Addict

Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek at what your friends and neighbors are doing behind doors left slightly ajar. Today, the Soul Singer and Possible Sex Addict, 31, male, straight, Greenpoint, single.

7:20 a.m.: Wake up in Greenpoint next to Mr. Bear (a teddy bear given to me by an ex-girlfriend). I have that horniness that is really just the absence of any other emotion. Series of random YouTube site porno searches. “Public” is a good place to start. “Kitchen” is better. “Santa” finally, despicably, yields results.
9 a.m.: Think about how I’ve been mostly single for three and a half years. Had a ton of flings and a couple of intense several-month things, but they always flame out pretty quickly. Still carry a torch for the ex from three-and-a-half years ago. And a tattoo with her name.
1:05 p.m.: Coffee with another ex, with whom I now share art space. My friends are constantly giving me shit, and I understand their concerns, as she’s beautiful. But our relationship is perfect right now — lots of hugging, affection, attention, and long, thoughtful conversations but no expectations that I can’t meet. We’re both lonely, though, and sometimes I think, “Well, maybe now that I’m not on drugs…” But the truth is, she brings her own darkness to the table.

6:51 p.m.: A girl from Pennsylvania who picked me up online sends me a slideshow of artsy nudie picture, but damn, not even a nip exposed! Still, it reminds me that I need to respond to the fan from California who occasionally sends me pot cookies and sent me X-rated pics yesterday. And the fan from Texas arrives in NYC on Friday!
10:10 p.m.: Election night. Wow, weird vibe in the air tonight. I grab a blonde outside Black Betty and plant one on her. It’s pretty clear that I could take her home now but I’m more interested in staying out.
10:21 p.m.: I make out with the blonde’s friend inside Black Betty just because I can … a chubby brunette wearing a foam Statue of Liberty — fuck, what is it, a headdress? A headband? A headpiece? This is getting comical.
11:08 p.m.: People are shooting off fireworks and guns. A girl runs up to me on the street and falls on me, openmouthed. Her lips are soft and full. Jesus, a blind, hairless nutria with leprosy could get laid tonight.
2:01 a.m.: Make out with another girl with zero preface on the corner of Metropolitan and Roebling. There’s instant chemistry and unexpectedly intense eye contact, before she’s swept up in the crowd. **If anyone sees a pretty, thin black-haired girl with dark-framed glasses in a glossy vintage brown leather jacket and Mary Janes in Williamsburg, please let me know.
4:16 a.m.: Wasted in the park, unable to tally how many girls I kissed. Stumble home. I’ve never been happier to not get laid.

11:07 a.m.: Arrgh. We can landslide a black man into the White House but still haven’t cured hangovers? Or loneliness. I’m told by my married friends that I’m living the dream, but man, I think I’m ready to wake up. Despite my horrid behavior, I do believe in love. And miss it desperately.
1:49 p.m.: In preparation for Tex’s visit — I’m starting to obsess about her — I bought fancy new high-thread-count sheets on Amazon (my old sheets look like the Shroud of Turin). I thought I was really smart by choosing a color that would conceal any stains left by the, um, juices of love, but it didn’t work. Whoops.
5:37 p.m.: Promising e-mail from Tex. Attached pic: Sleek midriff, narrow hips. I somehow manage to keep my hands off myself.
6:53 p.m.: On subway platform, I feel a soft touch on my shoulder. It’s another ex, a girl I resented and loved equally deeply. Things went horribly, horribly awry and we haven’t spoken in six months. She is smiling, waving, and already walking away.
11:30 p.m.: After an open bar at a magazine party, a cute publicist I know gets drunk enough that she lets me kiss her on the street. When I’m putting her in a cab back to Brooklyn, I’m tempted to hop in, but she is too sweet.
12:20 a.m.: After letting it slip to a pal that I hooked up with my second cousin this summer, he wonders aloud if I might be a sex addict considering that I’ve addicted myself to every other form of escape possible. I fail to convince either one of us.
2:25 a.m.: Slim pickings at an LES bar. Bleak. I feel like a pedophile circling a playground in a van with blacked-out windows with a shopping bag full of Sweet Tarts.
3 a.m.: Bringing girls home can be such a hassle. Their eyes widen in shock and dismay at the state of the sheets and you blurt out, “That’s not my blood! I mean, that is my blood. I mean, that’s not blood at all. It’s, um … hot sauce?” Looks like it’s me and you, Mr. Bear.

10:12 a.m.: A second girl I know from Pennsylvania writes. She’s going to be in town for a night this month, and am I available? She’s six feet tall and a total babe. Whaddya know, I think I just found room in my busy schedule.
11:49 a.m.: The first girl from Pennsylvania sends me more nekkid pics. Finally, nipple! God bless rock and roll: You give a failure a battered red guitar, and suddenly he’s a sex symbol for any girl with a sympathetic heart and an Internet connection.
11:02 p.m.: After a day of e-mailing/texting, this hilarious redhead entertainment writer I met while shilling for press for my record (who I could have sworn knew too much about me to be interested) cabs it over to the loveless squalor that is my crib. We throw in a movie and don’t make it past the opening scene. A friend told me once, “Dude, I am telling you, man, the asshole, it’s the pussy of the future!” Apparently the future is here. Red wakes me up at two and I call her a Metroline car and she goes home … to her husband. Yikes.

9:41 a.m.: Tex is coming in less than twelve hours! Gotta clean.
1:54 p.m.: Aw crap. Tex’s friend picking her up at airport. No “alone time” with her before my door shift at an LES bar from eleven to four. Good thing I haven’t cleaned up at all.
5:41 p.m.: A regular squeeze texts. Would I like to come over? She’s already started drinking. It took me a little while to cajole her into taking it up the ass but since then, she’s became a major, um, enthusi-ass-t? It seems the longer you hold out, the harder you fall.
6:48 p.m.: She doesn’t just let me hit all the bases, she demands it.
9:17 p.m.: Once more, with feeling. I come in her pussy, which makes me feel like a straight white heterosexual American patriot, like I’m actually a contributing member of society. It’s hard to explain and creepy, I know, but it’s true.
12:12 p.m.: Working. Well, if it isn’t The Ex To End All Exes and her new boyfriend. She smells exactly how I remember. I wave them and their party graciously into the club. I want to kill and die.
3:30 a.m.: Tex shows up. She looks like an angel. A wasted, stumbling angel. An hour later, I am carrying her limp body from a cab. She is painfully beautiful and I wake up throughout the night to stare at her, willing her to wake up. No dice.

12:45 p.m.: Tex wakes with a start and stares at me with alarm, then throws herself on me and gives me a huge, full-body hug. Heart soars.
2:14 p.m.: Drinking tequila in some shitty Flatiron District version of Chili’s, I lean over and kiss her. She lets herself be kissed, barely. I can’t tell how this is going.
5:49 p.m.: Hanging with Tex and an ex of hers; another ex on the way. Isn’t she supposed to be the big fan, romancing me and not the other way around? When we part ways, I am drunk, dispirited, and almost ready to give up.
12:13 a.m.: Wonder of wonders, Tex texts me that she’s in a car on her way to Brooklyn. We drink beers in a comfortable local shithole, free from the watchful eyes of Tex’s exes. One on one, she is a different person, totally sweet, and she lets me kiss her and hold her hand. I can’t even pretend to understand this girl.
4:15 a.m.: Tex takes my shirt off as we climb into bed and immediately notices a scar that could only be self-inflicted. I confess to having been a cutter; she reveals that she’s just three days off probation from a felony drug charge from when she was 19. A dark, serious conversation ensues.
6:30 a.m.: After hours of wrestling and talking in my bed, Tex finally peels off the dress and bra I’ve been worrying away at for the last three hours. Her body is amazing, her skin appears to glow. She won’t fuck — it appears that she’s either more genteel or more wary of physical intimacy than I am — but when she goes down on me, it’s oddly emotionally stirring. And slightly toothy. Love hurts.

11:40 a.m.: Watching Tex climb into a black Metroline car. I’m kinda crushed.
1:21 p.m.: No word from Tex.
2:43 p.m.: No word from Tex.
4:45 p.m.: No word from Tex. Okay, now I’m definitely in love.
6:21 p.m.: Tex finally calls. She has just been laying around her ex’s place all day blowing me off while I’ve been spinning these elaborate fantasies about our future lives together. She is leaving tonight … but she is on her way to Greenpoint to say good-bye.
8:08 p.m.: After some fervent huggin’ and kissin’, Tex gets in yet another Metroline car. Fishhook in heart. We plan to meet in Texas in two weeks.
10:40 p.m.: Internet porn and alcohol; such a balm for lonesome lovers. Twice.

10:31 a.m.: An e-mail from Tex! She’s back at work, missing me and wants to buy me a ticket to come and visit her! I’ve never been so ready to change my life so much for someone I haven’t even slept with.
1:01 p.m.: God bless the Internet. I mean, seriously, how did we ever whack off without it? I’ve heard there’s other stuff on it, too, like information and shit. Sounds unlikely.
4:35 p.m.: A friend-with-benefits needs help moving a dresser. In exchange for me locating a van and helping her out, she’s willing to compensate me with beer, food, weed, or the preferred currency. I have a van lined up within ten minutes. Ah, the Tyranny of the Crotch.
9:40 p.m.: The dresser moved, my reward turns into full-on penetrative sex. My friend is loud and I’m convinced her roommates can hear us. I tell myself that’s what makes me take a minute to come and not my horsewhipped conscience.

TOTALS: One Election Night kissing bonanza; two platonic run-ins with exes; one act of masturbation; one act of oral sex with Texan fan; two acts of vaginal intercourse; two acts of anal intercourse, for a total of four sexual partners.

The Soul Singer and Possible Sex Addict