Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek behind doors left slightly ajar. This week, the Single Grad Student Doing More Drinking Than Screwing: Bartender/grad student with a university job, female, West Village, straight, 27, single.
9 a.m.:Wake up to poking. Oh, hi. It’s Note Guy. Dammit, I did it again. Reconnected with him after a recent drunken run-in. We dated briefly four years ago, and I broke up with him by leaving a note on his pillow. Shocked he even wanted to talk to me again, but I’ve concluded he’s still a total douche. He’s gone from being 27 to 31, and there’s not much of a difference except now he has no roommate and his ego has inflated. New York is too small.
9:30 a.m.: Have decent morning sex. Note Guy insists on listening to country music while we hook up. This depresses me and reminds me that despite being great on paper, Note Guy is just a filler, again. I don’t have an orgasm.
10:30 a.m.: Cab ride of shame from Murray Hill home to the Village. Not sure what’s more embarrassing: my disheveled post-sex look or the fact that I’m in Murray Hill.
11:30 a.m.: Large coffee. Meet friend at the movies. Seeing Black Swan. Despite my terrible hangover, I have to write an article on it this week.
1:20 p.m.: Hot lesbian scene. Wow. Still don’t think I could ever go there with another chick.
2:30 p.m.: Nap before work. Ponder who I will see tonight at the bar. It is Sunday Night Football, and lots of guys I know tend to show up to partake in the festivities.
5 p.m.: Walking to work, surprised I haven’t heard from ex’s BFF to see if I’m working tonight.
5:05 p.m.: Text from ex’s BFF : “You working tonight?” Convinced that I’m psychic.
7 p.m.: Stuck serving a bunch of drunk boys, can’t drink tonight. Wonder if Note Guy poisoned me …
8:15 p.m.: Ex’s BFF is wasted. Tells me ex and I are going to get married and make beautiful babies. This depresses me, and I fight back the urge to drink.
9 p.m.: Boys are leaving but invite me to watch the Jets game with them tomorrow night. Feel it’s a bad idea, politely decline.
8 a.m.: Wake up, can barely move. Decide my New Year’s resolution is to become celibate.
8:40 a.m.: It’s snowing!
9:15 a.m.: In my office, avoiding real work. Facebook stalk my Texas bf. His page is so lame. Maybe he’s just boring? He makes for a nice distraction when I go home. We fucked in his pickup truck last Christmas, but now he insists on using a bed. Lame.
11:18 a.m.: Ignore Gchat message from Columbia guy I dated three months ago. He sucked in bed, blamed the condom brands, but sucked as a person more. Why do guys never go away when you ignore them?
5:30 p.m.: Home from work. Swirl one out, clearly sex with Note Guy was unsatisfactory.
9 p.m.: Gym. Haven’t worked out in four days, and I feel gross.
11:45 a.m.: Text from Kurt Vampire. “Hey I just got back from Singapore. Are you going to ignore me or can we finally get those drinks you promised?” Ignore. He was a One Night Stand I had back in August … and he left me with rough bite marks and a bruised lip. Not fun. And why does he still care?
1 p.m.: Spot hot French Ph.D. student in my office. He is so sexy and makes for the only eye candy around this place.
5:30 p.m.: Screen All Good Things at the Angelika. Sometimes I wish I had a boyfriend to go to the movies with, then I remember that none of the guys I date know shit about film. Maybe that is the problem.
7:45 p.m.: Walk home from movie, terrified. Even though Ryan Gosling is super hot, the movie just confirms my reasoning on never wanting to get married.
8 p.m.: Hanging out with roommate, her bf, and guy roommate, a.k.a. my fake husband who I have no sexual relations with.
9 p.m.: Gym.
11 p.m.: Trying to fall asleep, but I think sex is happening on the other side of my wall.
11:04 p.m.: Someone totally just came next door.
12:17 p.m.: Text from fake husband: “Date tonight?” YES. Burgers at Bill’s, classy.
1:26 p.m.: Text from Michael Matthew: “Wanna get drinks tonight? I haven’t seen you in awhile.” I dated MM for a few months this fall. He is totally generic but also very persistent. He has two first names because he introduced himself to my roommate as the wrong name; he thought it was “funny.” Not so much. I tell him maybe after dinner with my roommate.
6:35 p.m.: Eating burgers and drinking beers at Bill’s with my fake husband. Start talking about relationships and why I hate them. Starting to think I’m a masochist? Fake husband tells me he hasn’t had sex in a month since his business trip to Minneapolis. I am shocked! Then he remembers he had sex last week on a business trip to L.A. Clearly, he enjoys the wide plains.
7:30 p.m.: Text from MM. After two beers, I agree to meet up with him as long as he comes to my hood.
9 p.m.: MM meets me at a “date” bar.
10 p.m.: We try to guess who is on Match.com dates and who is in legitimate relationships. Maybe MM isn’t so awful after all.
10:15 p.m.: MM tells me he destroyed his ex-girlfriend’s life when they broke up, so badly that she had to move home to Colorado. I knew he had crazy eyes … Looking for an escape.
11 p.m.: MM and I take a cab back to my apartment. Why am I making out with him? I don’t know.
11:05 p.m.: Making out, about to have sex, and suddenly I roll over. Mission aborted. MM is confused and asks me what’s wrong. I say he sucks and I just can’t do it. Tell him that he fucks like a jackrabbit and it’s not fun. He says most girls like it; I confirm that they don’t and that I’m sure they fake their orgasms. This is only partially true, but I think I want to destroy his ego. He tells me I’m too dominant and unlike any other girl he’s ever been with. I ask if it’s because they are generic? He asks if I’m calling him generic. Yes.
11:30 p.m.: MM, please just leave.
11:35 p.m.: MM finally leaves.
8 a.m.: Wake up. See missed text message from MM at 2 a.m. “I’m sorry about tonight. You’re such a great person and so much fun to be around. I understand why all of these guys want to be with you.” Yuck.
11 a.m.: Text from MM: “Are you okay?” Delete. How does he not get it? Amazing.
1 p.m.: Edit essay on All Good Things. Force myself to stay away from Facebook.
10 a.m.: Block ex on Facebook. We aren’t even friends, but I keep finding myself looking at his page and driving myself crazy. Again, I am a masochist.
3 p.m.: Prepping for work holiday party. I’m making the booze. Taste test, yum.
3:45 p.m.: Check my Gchat. IM from College Dude. Nothing happened as an undergrad; five years later still nothing has happened. Just lots of annoying sexual tension and 2 a.m. pseudo booty calls, with no booty. Maybe the most sexually frustrating nonrelationship of my life. He wants to know if I’m going to Santacon. Of course I am.
4:40 p.m.: Party just started, and I’m already drunk. Oh no.
6 p.m.: Text from Texas bf. He misses me. Aw … I respond with a drunken “awwwWwW. See you SOOOoon xo”
6:30 p.m.: The drunken text rampage begins. Text ex’s BFF: “Let’s party!!!” Text College Dude: “Santacon WOHOOO”
9 p.m.: I’m at home. How did I get here?
11:30 p.m.: Wake up from drunk nap. See texts. SHIT. What is wrong with me? And where is my fake husband?
11:45 p.m.: Go to Corner Bistro to meet up with fake husband and real married friends. I am shitcanned. Screaming about my excellent taste in film for all the world to hear.
12:30 a.m.: Early to bed, Santacon tomorrow.
7:30 a.m.: SANTACON!!!!!!!
9:30 a.m.: Crack open my first beer of the day.
10 a.m.: Meet up with fellow Santas in Stuyvesant Square. I have mistletoe on my head and cops are everywhere! Ahhhh.
10:30 a.m.: East Village bars. It’s a little weird to get hit on this early in the morning, but I’ll take it. Santa asks if I’d like to sit on his lap. Need more booze.
12 p.m.: Santas head to Central Park for reindeer games. Must take bathroom detour.
1 p.m.: Make friends with bartender. She gives me several shots. I’m officially drunk.
2 p.m.: Santa asks if we can make out since I’m wearing mistletoe. I give him a peck on the cheek. I can’t see what he looks like under that beard!
2:45 p.m.: Santa asks me if we can get married and make beautiful babies. What’s up with this line?!
2:50 p.m.: Guess it works. Drunken make-out session. My friends say it’s time to leave. Santas on the move! Exchange numbers with Santa.
3:45 p.m.:Back to the Village. Receive text from MM. “Hey, you at Santacon?” Delete.
4 p.m.: Kiss four boys under my mistletoe. This mistletoe is dangerous.
4:15 p.m.: SHOTS! Ho! Ho! Ho!
7 p.m.: I’m at my bar, how’d I get here? I’m the only Santa in this joint.
7:15 p.m.: OMG. Run into former forbidden fruit. He knows just what to say to me.
7:35 p.m.: In the employee bathroom making out hardcore. This is almost as bad as when I hooked up with him after my book club two years ago. He unzips his pants but with a blink of consciousness, I realize I’m at work. Mission aborted.
8 p.m.: Seeing double. Must. Go. Home.
8:30 p.m.: Black out …
TOTALS: One act of intercourse; three drunken make-out sessions; four mistletoe kisses on Santas’ laps; one aborted bathroom hookup; one mid-hookup breakup.
Related: Photos from this year’s Santacon [NYM]