sex diaries

The Sexed-Up Student With Plenty of Surrogates But No Real Thing

Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek behind doors left slightly ajar. This week, the Sexed-Up Student With Plenty of Surrogates But No Real Thing: Female, student/writer, 21, East Village, single, straight.

5:30 p.m.: It’s New Year’s Eve, which means I’m frantically trying to groom myself to perfection; rushing to get a mani-pedi and hair blowout all to impress J tonight. J is my adorable best guy friend, and I’ve been harboring an (at times) seemingly pathetic crush on him for about a year. We’ve known each other since freshman year, and we even transferred to the same school together sophomore year. I know he’s into me; he’s said it before, but he’s also said I’m too good for him and he’s scared to be with me. It sounds suspect, but I really don’t feel like this is BS. We’ve hooked up before, but we’ve never had sex. And as cliché and bad eighties movie-ish as it is, I’m hoping that will be rectified tonight, on New Year’s Eve.

10:30 p.m.: Arrive at our mutual friend’s party at her Upper West Side apartment. J is already fairly hammered and failing at beer pong — not surprising, and kind of endearing. I try to catch up to him by chugging a Champagne bottle and whatever else I can get my hands on, which unfortunately includes Four Loko. J has his arm around me in front of all of our friends, and our usual routine of flirtatious banter and teasing commences.
12 a.m.: Receive a very sloppy midnight kiss from J on our friend’s balcony, but I’ll take it. Even when he’s all sweaty and squinty-eyed, he’s irresistible.
3 a.m.: J asks me to go back to his place, and I am almost embarrassed at how eager I am. We hold hands on the walk there and can barely get three steps without kissing. But when we get to his apartment, he’s so out of it and doesn’t even try to kiss me again or make a move, to my dismay.
3:15 a.m.: I’m discouraged, and even all boozed up I can’t be aggressive if he shows no initiative. We’re on his bed spooning, and he’s already passed out, as evidenced by his loud snoring. The room starts spinning, and I’m praying that I don’t get sick on his bed.
3:25 a.m.: There’s no question that I’m about to be sick. Since J is down for the count, I slip out of his apartment, break a heel on the stairs, and then gracefully puke neon green vomit on the street. Screw you, supposedly banned Four Loko! I’m only comforted by the fact that J didn’t witness this fine moment.

1 p.m.: Wake up vaguely disappointed, but mostly unsure of how to feel about last night. I text J and make up some lame excuse about why I left and insist we should have a redo later today. With my luck and his drinking habits, he probably doesn’t even remember any of last night.
5 p.m.: Still no reply from J. Time to call in the J Replacements, a string of hookup buddies I have in constant rotation to keep myself occupied and feel less pathetic. Who will it be today? Before I can decide, I get a text from Dancer, my friend from high school, asking if I want to go to a party with her at Ballerino’s house in Williamsburg. Ballerino is one of the few straight guys in Dancer’s program at Tisch. She’s been hooking up with Ballerino for a few months, but it’s not serious.
9 p.m.: Ballerino’s loft is covered in graffiti and doesn’t match his lanky, boyish frame and slicked-back hair. I’m amazed at the abuse my body can take after last night: drinking and doing lines of coke off Dancer’s tiny stomach.
10:30 p.m.: I now find myself in Ballerino’s room with Dancer. We’re chasing vodka shots with bites of a peach, and shit gets weird fast. Dancer and I rub the peach on Ballerino’s chest and joke about tying Ballerino up. The joke soon becomes a reality. We take ties from his closet to blindfold him and bind his hands. Dancer slaps him, and I duct tape his arm, then rip it off. Shockingly, I think he likes it as much as we do because he is not complaining. We torture him for a bit longer, and, honestly, I feel demonically cheerful.
11 p.m.: We figure we’ve put the guy through enough so we untie him. We’re triple kissing, and Ballerino guides my hand down to his pathetically small erection. Even though that turns me off, I’ll never leave a guy hard. Dancer and I take turns giving him a hand job and eventually head.
11:10 p.m.: There’s something scarily erotic about this; I don’t know how far I want to go. Ballerino cums on my chest, and disgust swiftly sets in. As I expected, Ballerino is a harmless, benign guy who doesn’t have the balls to push for a full-on threesome; he’s happy with what he got. I’m grateful for that. I know that J would be horrified by this escapade. What a way to start off 2011.

11 a.m.: J still hasn’t answered my text, and I’m debating whether or not to text him again. I don’t want him to think I’m clingy or that I care too much, so I muster up self-control and refrain.
11:30 a.m.: The residual joy I feel from emasculating Ballerino and mildly hurting him with the duct tape has me feeling guilty. I’d like to think that I found so much pleasure in torturing him because I was able to lose myself for a moment and forget about J.
2 p.m.: Text Professor: A thirtysomething film and history teacher I had last year. He was a fun professor and he’s geeky-cute. He’s in an open marriage and has hooked up with two of my friends, which I find amusing. I like hanging out with him because he always smokes me out and has excellent pot.
8 p.m.: Professor and I are smoking a spliff on his fire escape. I wonder where his wife is currently, but I don’t like to talk about that with him.
9 p.m.: He’s showing me some boring film, and I’m getting antsy. I didn’t come to be lectured on cinematography, I came to get off.
11 p.m.: After being annoyed for about two hours and wondering when he’d make his move, we finally have sex. He’s not a fantastic hookup, but the cuddling afterward is really sweet and affectionate. He spoons me all night, and in my mind I shamelessly pretend he’s J.

10 a.m.: Wake up to Professor fingering me, and I orgasm, which makes up for me faking it last night. We smoke again, have pretty good morning sex, and then he makes me breakfast; a good start to the day. If he was taller and wasn’t married, Professor might be relationship material.
12 p.m.: On the way home from Professor’s I see something that reminds me of an inside joke J and I have. I cave and text J. Our friendship has gotten really strained since we’ve been hooking up, or whatever this would classify as, and that’s not what I wanted.
12:05 p.m.: I’m so happy J answered, even though it’s a very short response and no conversation is sparked.
8:30 p.m.: Get crepes for dinner with my best friend, L, in the East Village.
8:40 p.m.: Notice that the creepy, beastly waiter grazes my hand a bit too long after putting my silverware down. Ignore it. L is telling me about her latest rendezvous with a handsome ibanker who is eerily reminiscent of Patrick Bateman from American Psycho. After they had sex, he felt guilty he didn’t have the usual American Express gift card to pay for her cab home, so he offered her a Dunkin Donuts gift card worth $250 that he’d bought for himself. L asked why he had so much money on it, and he sneeringly replied, “Well, have you had their coffee?” I say if he likes that watered-down crap, then clearly he’s a psycho. No further proof needed.
8:50 p.m.: I tell L about my almost-threesome because that’s easier to talk about than my NYE failure with J. Creepy waiter brings us free sangria, then seductively tugs L’s hair and makes no apologies. That’s it, we’re out of here.
1 a.m.: Fantasize about J proposing to me at our graduation and actually get teary. I can really see this happening; it feels so real.
1:20 a.m.: After my elaborate fantasy, I get a bit nauseated with myself, and on the heels of L’s story about her psycho hookup, I wonder what my own psycho hookup is up to. I text him and we plan to meet tomorrow.

6:30 p.m.: My hot Psycho is not an ibanker, but rather an aspiring novelist and ex-rugby player. I’m pissed that he wants to meet at a café near Soho for dessert, instead of taking me out to dinner, but I don’t object.
9:30 p.m.: There he is, waiting outside, tall and muscular and on mescaline. He scares me a little, but that’s what I like about him. He tells me that he’s now living in a monastery near Gramercy Park, so he can’t bring girls there. Shockingly, this is not the weirdest thing he’s ever told me. I picture him smoking a blunt in a red velvet robe, staring out of stained-glass windows, so absurdly perfect for Psycho.
9:30 p.m.: Psycho asks me if I’d have anal sex with him. I grimace. He tries to entice me with mint-flavored lube. I don’t know why he thinks that will change my mind. Despite this stupid conversation, Psycho’s still looking really good to me.
9:45 p.m.: Public bathroom sex at the café. It’s exciting but I’m also paranoid, and he wants to film it on his phone, but I refuse. The sex lasts only for about five minutes. SO not worth it, but to him it was amazing; must be the mescaline, or the fact that he’s just a psycho.
10:15 p.m.: Psycho makes me split the check. Is he kidding?! I need to get new replacements for my Replacements.

3 p.m.: L texts me to say she heard that J is seriously dating a Muppet look-alike. I’m crushed and confused, but I guess that explains why he didn’t try to sleep with me on New Year’s. I text J saying we need to talk; he owes me that.
5 p.m.: So depressed about J. I get high in my room and pull out my vibrator and get off to the bondage threesome I almost experienced for real a few days ago. Three amazing orgasms later and I feel a little better.

2 p.m.: Ex-bf from high school, Wannabe Rockstar, texts me saying he’s back for a few days and wants to meet for dinner. He’s been on tour in Europe for a few months with his hipster band. We haven’t been official since high school, but we still hook up whenever he’s around.
7:30 p.m.: Not sure if I want to have sex with Wannabe Rockstar, since he always gets mushy and talks about old times, but I’ll put on my sexy lace boyshorts anyway.
8:15 p.m.: Dinner is boring. Even with his slight success, Wannabe Rockstar’s still dull and vain. His compliments boost my deflated ego, but not enough to turn me on.
9 p.m.: I decide not to have sex with him just to fill a void. Feel mature, but also lonely. I still say yes to getting drinks after dinner, but just for free booze.
11 p.m.: How have I put up with him for so long? He keeps saying how drunk he is. He then says his parents are home but we can still “hang out” in his room. Not enticing at all. I don’t even want to kiss Wannabe Rockstar.
11:05 p.m.: I decline, and on the brisk walk home, I can’t stop thinking about J and wondering what I could’ve done differently. Still haven’t heard from J; don’t think our friendship will recover from this mess. I’m pissed we never even got to have sex; what a disgrace.

TOTALS: Three acts of intercourse, one aborted threesome, one act of masturbation, and one sloppy NYE kiss.

The Sexed-Up Student With Plenty of Surrogates But No Real Thing