sex diaries

The Jewish Violinist Tying Up Her Med-School Boyfriend

Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek behind doors left slightly ajar. This week, the Jewish Violinist Tying Up Her Med-School Boyfriend: musician, female, Harlem, straight, 22, in a relationship.

7:30 a.m.: Med Student wakes up to the sound of his iPhone quacking in my bed. I’ve been dating the well-hung MS for a few months. He’s green to sex/relationships, but no wimp, and I like that he doesn’t take any crap. Sometimes I worry that he’s not effusive or sexually deviant enough for me, but I love how patient and rational and sane he is. He’s sweet and funny — and did I mention well hung? I want to slowly pry him open and see where this goes. I’m so accustomed to relationships with insane but impassioned musicians; it’s both comforting and slightly depressing seeing how people in the “real world” act.

7:35 a.m.: Jesus, he hates mornings more than anyone I know. I’ve never encountered someone who has absolutely no morning wood. This may be a blessing, though — who really wants pre-8 a.m. morning sex? I offer him coffee, but he’s out the door.
1 p.m.: Bump into Sax-School Crush in the library. We have this cutely witty rapport. I’m fairly certain he knows I’m seeing Med Student. We make fun of the busty soprano by the Xerox machine who just asked me if I could help her make a “back and forth.” What she meant to say was, “How do you make a double-sided copy?”
6 p.m.: My friend Harvard Bassoonist meets me after rehearsal; he’s in town from Boston playing a concert. We dated briefly and disastrously but now adore each other platonically as if nothing ever happened. Rebound much?
6:25 p.m.: We’re sitting on my bed reviewing Bassoonist’s new OkCupid profile. I’m telling him that he needs to seem more interested in women and less interested in reeds.
9 p.m.: We head out to meet up with Bassoonist’s Harvard friend. I’ve been told that if I have one fetish, it’s for Ivy League graduates. I would say I’m drawn to the glaring red flag of narcissism that inevitably drives every twentysomething male with a modicum of intelligence. The Bassoonist set me up with said friend several months ago, and we went on one spectacular date; I was positive that it was love at first sight and then never heard from him again. He referred to himself as the “Hin-Jew” at the time — Hindu and Jewish. Woody Allen would have written a great movie about us.
9:30 p.m.: This is the first time I’ve seen the Hin-Jew since our fruitless date. Why does he have to be so spectacularly exotic and ambiguously flirtatious?
10 p.m.: Am subtly trying to convince Bassoonist to find out whether Hin-Jew is currently dating anyone, but they are more interested in Harvard gossip.
10:30 p.m.: After a glass and a half of wine, it’s clear that the Bassoonist and I are friend-flirting too much to leave the Hin-Jew much room to clarify anything.
12 a.m.: Bassoonist and I arrive home and watch 30 Rock, both drooling over Alec Baldwin. We fall asleep.
3 a.m.: Missed call from Park Avenue Political Junkie. He loves calling me in the middle of the night and leaving me dirty messages, and I love not answering. We went to high school together and had a dangerously passionate affair toward the end of this past post-college summer. Thank goodness he lives in D.C., though — he would have broken my heart and/or driven me completely insane in a way I just can’t handle right now. He’s a half-Jew — effectively, my mother would have “half-liked” him.

8:30 a.m.: Maybe I do hate mornings just as much as Med Student. Hope he’ll want to come over later tonight, already anticipating my horniness.
7 p.m.: Bump into Sax Player again in the library and we high-five. What is this, an episode of Clarissa Explains It All? He calls me Shuke Ellington and I call him Chad Baker. This is trouble.
12 a.m.: Med Student arrives just as HB is falling asleep on my couch. He insists on building a fort in my room out of sheets and blankets: How cute and Boy Scouty is that? We proceed to hump quietly in the fort as a Philip Glass quartet ideally drowns us out.
12:30 a.m.: Med Student is well over six feet tall and I am hardly above five foot one. Sometimes this makes me feel awkward, but mostly I love feeling so itty-bitty next to him. The boy can really work some wonders orally. Fall asleep in a great post-cunnilingus haze.
2:30 a.m.: Miss a barrage of dirty texts from Park Avenue. He’s coming to New York this weekend.

7:40 a.m.: Sometimes I wish Med Student weren’t so curt in his farewells, but I know if I ask him to dote, he will. He actually listens! How strange is that?
10 a.m.: Sexting Med Student during aural skills class (seriously), but he’s probably sitting in a lecture about diarrhea right now.
2 p.m.: Sitting in the park eating lunch when Park Avenue calls. He wants to tell me all about what he accomplished in therapy today while simultaneously dropping some magnificently dirty thoughts. Innuendo and out the other. Maybe I’m sympathetic only because my dad is a shrink — rachmones, Freud might say: love out of pity …
11 p.m.: I try to booty-call Med Student, but he has too much reading to do. Break out my ancient vibrator during a practice break. Thinking about Med Student’s glorious cock when I’m interrupted by a text from my ex that says, “Big concert tomorrow. Miss you. ” Fuck my life.
12 a.m.: Attempt masturbation again, but am interrupted by a text from Park Avenue requesting that I let him do a laundry list of things to my pussy. Seriously? Refuse to fuel this fire. Read the week’s New Yorker fiction.
12:30 a.m.: Text Med Student and ask him what he’d do to me if he were in bed with me. He gives me plenty of ammunition. Orgasm accomplished! Thanks, Doctor.

10 a.m.: Rehearsal ad infinitum. Do I have a small infatuation with one of the girls in my quartet? Would I enjoy going down on a girl? Sometimes I think I deserve an opportunity to answer these questions.
11:30 p.m.: Head to Med Student’s itty-bitty room. He fucks me dutifully but seems to have forgotten about me immediately after his own orgasm. He rolls over and proceeds to say something about leukemia as he drifts off to sleep.
1:40 a.m.: Lying awake, mildly furious, on his twin bed as he dreams about cirrhosis, most likely. I am (1) a female and (2) a neurotic musician. I need a little more direct attention.

8 a.m.: Med Student can tell I’m miffed but cannot intuit why. I remind him it’s not a party if only one person comes. He tells me that he “owes me one,” and I half expect him to call me “champ” as I head out the door. I can kind of be a bitch, no doubt.
10 a.m.: Improvising with another violinist as a warm-up for quartet. This girl is seriously sexy. She tells me I ought to take hip-hop dance classes because it really enabled her to hone her badass stage presence. I’d take a class with her if I got to see her in Spandex, absolutely.
2 p.m.: Spending the rest of the day with my visiting parents. A Jewish mother and a shrink will ask you a lot more questions about your sex life than you’d think appropriate. They ask me if Med Student is good in bed and/or circumcised.
9 p.m.: Village Vanguard. Even with my parents, I cannot help but find jazz maybe the best turn-on. Text Med Student and tell him I’ll take him up on that owed orgasm later.
11 p.m.: Say hello to the bass player at the bar and tell him I really enjoyed his performance. He asks for my number and I give him my card. Maybe he’ll want violin lessons one day …
1 a.m.: Med Student arrives and promptly gives me a solid G-spot orgasm. I want to tell him all about the amazing show I saw, but he’s already asleep. We’ve really got to work on this nonexistent pre-midnight sex regimen. We’ve gotten truly great at the “quick late-night fuck” but we need to get down to the serious sex sometime. I’m starting to think people in New York are just too busy to have sex the way I used to in my undergrad days.

12 p.m.: Awake, blissfully late. Even now, though, Med Student insists it’s too early for intercourse. Is he a sexual vampire or something? Try to explain that a little “coitus never hoitus,” but all he wants to do is make an omelet and drink all my orange juice.
4:45 p.m.: I’m sitting by the fountain at Lincoln Center waiting for a luthier to finish some work on my violin; I am always slightly on edge here because this location is really a vort-“ex” — a whirlpool where all my ex-boyfriends collide.
4:50 p.m.: Park Avenue calls me and says he’s coming to see me. Sometimes I like it when a boy doesn’t give me an option.
5:15 p.m.: He gets out of a cab looking comically strapping. He loves tweed and snug trousers. He gives me a kiss on the cheek and pants in my face like a puppy dog. No. I am attracted to all of his worst qualities — it’s like I view every glaring red flag as a personal challenge. I need to grow up and stop talking to this preppy douche.
5:40 p.m.: He pulls me onto his lap on a park bench and asks if I remember the time he fingered me in the ass while we were fucking. I slap him in the face and immediately realize that was not the right thing to do if I wanted to get myself out of this situation. I’d walk around black and blue for days after we’d spend a night together — he’s into a little violence, and somewhat to my chagrin, so am I. He loves to dirty-talk. I give him a disapproving glare, but he’s got his arms around me and won’t let me up. Maybe he likes the fact that I never say anything back. He gave me a lot of crap for putting out too soon, and I regret it to this day. Screw him and his double standards.
6 p.m.: He tells me he wants to be with me — that everything has changed — and I tell him I’ll think about reassessing after my first divorce, should he decide to grow a modicum of decency and learn some respect. He can tell I’m serious about leaving at this point. He pays for my cab home (always) and shoves the merlot cashmere sweater he was wearing at me as I leave — “I want you to have this!” he asserts, desperately. Too little, too late.
11 p.m.: After waiting for the better part of an hour, Med Student and I are seated at Ippudo downtown. This ramen broth may be better than sex. Good sex. Seriously. He is particularly affectionate. I wonder if he can sense I’ve been a little bit naughty earlier and finds that somehow sexy. Doubtful.
1 a.m.: At Little Branch having cocktails. I am edging past tipsy into blurry territory. Med Student is waiting at the bar for an eternity and we’re sexting. He wants me to tie him up. I know he’s never tried this before, and I can’t wait. Simultaneously begin receiving a bombardment of equally dirty messages from Park Avenue mixed with some intensely sentimental, and likely inebriated, declarations. He says he wants to come to Little Branch and schmooze with me. I tell him that if he shows up, I will pretend I don’t know him.
2:35 a.m.: We’re heading back uptown in a cab. Med Student requests a backseat blow job. I decline. I give him some shit because he simply does not like kissing enough — he always pulls away after just a few seconds. I tell him I consider it the most fundamental aspect of foreplay. He says he wants to give me a really long kiss. I’m excited, but three seconds in he stops and says he started thinking about Tetris and got distracted. Sometimes I hate his sense of humor, but most of the time I love that he’s unabashedly goofy.
3 a.m.: In my apartment, I tie him up, as requested, but am still miffed about the whole kissing dialogue. I am naked and on top of Med Student when he sneezes with impeccably comical timing. I’ve just lost the urge completely.
3:05 a.m.: I untie him, and we attempt dirty talk, but I can’t help but think about Bubba reciting shrimp recipes in Forrest Gump as he lists the things he wants to do to my pussy. We are both laughing, which is nice, though sometimes I miss having the kind of really serious sex during which you gaze meaningfully into each others’ eyes because you love each other. We engage in our usual sleepy-sex routine and pass out.

10 a.m.: Again, no morning sex. Laundry! New York Times wedding announcements! Baking muffins! I am such a yenta.
4:30 p.m.: At Hungarian Pastry Shop with Sax Player. Friends can have coffee, right?
6:30 p.m.: Oh, shit, we’ve been talking for two hours — this is officially a de facto date. He invites me over to his house to listen to some records, but I tell him I have to go home to get ready for a date with my boyfriend. Yes, that’s right — my boyfriend. He tries to pay for my coffee, and I absolutely do not let him. I am really smitten with the Med Student and would never cheat on him, but sometimes I wonder if I fell into this relationship too fast. I just moved to New York, after all.
11 p.m.: Med Student comes over pleasantly early! We pretend we are going to watch Pierrot le Fou but immediately get to some serious intercourse.
11:30 p.m.: Tying him up, take two — things are going so much better this time. I get an ice cube from the freezer and alternate it with some candle wax. Sometimes he’s so doctorly it’s hard to know if what I’m doing is working, but I think I’m on the right track.
12:15 a.m.: Untie him and he really kisses me for several minutes. He listens! I love it. He gets me off not once, but twice! Once sweetly by going down on me, and once rough, fucking me over the edge of the bed. He must have gotten the memo, because we’ve been having sex for a solid hour and a half now and he hasn’t mentioned heart failure once! I give him a blow job and let him finish up on my face, which isn’t my favorite thing on the menu, but at this point, I’d do anything to make him happy. Moreover, this is something I only permit when I feel really close to someone.
2:30 a.m.: I tell him I can’t wait to go through my whole Monday with some of his cum in my hair, and he spoons me to sleep. I can tell this will be a good week.

TOTALS: Five acts of intercourse, zero backseat blow jobs, one failed attempt at bondage, one successful attempt at bondage, one bedroom blow job plus facial, one de facto date and several unkosher flirtations, one successful masturbatory orgasm, kvetching ad infinitum.

The Jewish Violinist Tying Up Her Med-School Boyfriend