Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek behind doors left slightly ajar. This week, the Single Writer Who Can’t Keep It Simple: female, freelance writer/editor, 33, East Village, straight, single.
Sometime between 3 and 4 a.m.: I’m in Swede’s bed again. It’s Saturday night/Sunday morning, so it makes sense. We went out for too many drinks to celebrate my new job, and after making the rounds in Bushwick, we go back to his place. We’ve been friends for a few years; I actually made the mistake of falling in love with him in the beginning, but I’ve since come to my senses.
Our clothes come off and we slide over each other. I’m more attracted to him than usual; the need to have him inside is more intense than it has been in a while. I blame the dull lighting of his bedroom; it makes everything too dreamy. He goes down on me, and it feels amazing, near perfect, and I gasp. It’s only the third time in my life I’ve had a multiple orgasm; it’s also the first multiple with him. I want to tell him this, but don’t. I come both before and after the multiple orgasm. He has magic fingers.
8:15 a.m.: I wake up and jump out of Swede’s bed. I remember that my alarm is still set on my phone, which is in his kitchen, and I don’t want to wake his roommates. I grab a blanket from the floor and leave his bedroom. I run into his new roommate who’s making breakfast. I apologize for my lack of clothes, introduce myself, and explain that while I’ll be one of many she might see come out of his room in such a state, I’m the only one who matters. I’m trying to prove something to myself; a permanence that will outweigh the others, I guess.
8:45 a.m.: Back in bed, Swede rolls over and pulls himself into me. I push him away and go down on him. I want to tell him about the multiple orgasm from the night before, but my mouth is full — literally and metaphorically — and he’s cocky enough as it is.
12:11 p.m.: We head into the city to meet my friend for brunch. We go to Urban Outfitters; I buy a dress and buy him a disposable camera. I’m not hungry; Swede had made us breakfast, but I feel I need to be social with my girlfriend. He makes a perfect omelet; I think of this while he plays with his camera half a block behind me. I also think about how pretty he is with his bedhead.
12:50 p.m.: Friend cancels because her husband is being needy. Swede and I go for more omelets and wine. We laugh the whole way through our second brunch. I realize when I start dating someone, I’ll never let them see me with Swede. No one will ever understand this, whatever this is.
9:17 a.m.: Text from Annoying Guy. He wants to know if I’m home. Of course, I’m home — it’s a Monday before 10 a.m. I don’t respond. We both know I’m home, so there’s no need to answer. Annoying Guy is someone I made the mistake of sleeping with as an attempt at revenge sex when Swede and I weren’t talking for a couple months. It sucked, and because I’m weird, I wouldn’t even let him in my bed, so we did it on the floor.
9:32 a.m.: Second text from Annoying Guy. He says he’s coming by.
9:35 a.m.: Third text from Annoying Guy. He says he’s horny, as if I couldn’t read between the lines of the first two texts.
10:09 a.m.: The knocks at my door start; I ignore them. I have my TV on and am watching the Today show. As the knocks get louder, I turn up the volume and go to the fridge for another yogurt.
10:31 a.m.: Fourth text from Annoying Guy. He says he knows I’m in there and wants to “be bad.” I want to tell him I don’t care what he wants to do, he’s not doing it with me. I turn on the shower and hope he’ll be gone by the time I head out in a half hour.
4:39 p.m.: Text from Last Summer, who I slept with back in July while in Colorado. Last Summer is an NYC transplant, and we met through friends. He’s cute but didn’t get the memo that hipsters are over. He’s coming into town the following night for a couple days and wants to meet up. I wait until the next day to respond.
11:11 a.m.: I wake up late. I check the comments on an article I wrote the week before about my affair with a married man — I’ve been keeping a mental note of how many times I’m called a slut and how many times a reader has quoted Jerry Springer at me. I only know it’s Jerry Springer because the commenter said so.
11:49 a.m.: I can’t decide if I want to eat or masturbate. This is an ongoing conflict for me. There’s the same level of hunger in each action, but in completely different parts of my body. I opt for masturbation. I grab my vibrator and look at some online porn. I’m going through this phase where watching anal sex is turning me on, but I don’t know why. I watch a few scenes, come, and decide to go get lunch with my actress friend.
2:21 p.m.: Text back Last Summer. I tell him I’m busy until about 10 p.m. but will be available after that. The truth is that I’m not busy; I just don’t feel like playing the game, although we both know where the result will end. I’m not particularly fond of his personality; I just like his tall body and blue eyes — and that’s all I’m looking for at the moment.
10:30 p.m.: At a bar on my block with Last Summer, drinking a Sierra Nevada.
10:47 p.m.: We’re making out at the bar. I pull back for a minute and look into his blue eyes. He’s not as pretty as Swede; and the comfort level is missing, but I move forward. I just want to get laid and not have to see him the next day, or ever again if I don’t want. I know I’m not being myself. I’m putting on airs, and it’s exhausting. We make out some more and when he reaches between my legs, I suggest he come over.
11:09 p.m.: We walk through my apartment door, and the clothes start to come off. He slides his hand down my stomach and into my underwear. I have flashbacks to last summer: He has no idea where the clit is. I try to help him along subtly. I’m pretty sure he thinks my clitoris is two inches below where it actually is. I suggest we play with my vibrator.
11:23 p.m.: I’m lying next to Last Summer as he apologizes for coming too quickly. My skirt is around my waist, and my underwear is still on, but his come is on the inside of my thigh — yes, my underwear hadn’t even come off yet. He apologizes and makes excuses; I assure him it happens to the best of us. Standard line/lie. He’s obviously awkward and tells me he has to leave. I think, Good riddance. I masturbate, have three orgasms in a row over ten minutes or so, and go to sleep.
1:03 p.m.: I’m staring at my computer trying to be creative. Swede pops up on Gchat to throw a barrage of insults at me about the red wine I’ve spilled on his carpet the past weekend. I complain to a friend about him, she tells me he sucks. I immediately defend him. I wonder why I even bother complaining if I’m always the first to run to his aid and point out all the good stuff. I’m blind. I prefer ignorance when it comes to him. I think about texting Annoying Guy to prove a point that I won’t be able to admit to after the fact. I decide against it and go for a run instead.
9:39 p.m.: Text from a male college friend, Metal Guy, to tell me he just got laid for the first time in six months. I tell him great. He tells me the girl complained that his pillows smelled the whole time. I gag at the thought. Fall asleep on the couch.
5:36 p.m.: Text from Last Summer. He leaves the next morning and wants to meet up again. I have a slight sore throat and am somewhat disenchanted with too many things to drag my baggage out my apartment door and into the open. I tell him I’m sick. I know this means I probably won’t hear from him the next time he’s in town. I don’t really care. His jeans are too tight anyway.
10:04 p.m.: Another text from Metal Guy. He thinks he’s going to get laid again. I congratulate him. He asks why women don’t deep throat after the age of 30; I tell him it’s the women he chooses. We get into a chat about blow jobs. I admit I love them when I’m smitten. He asks me to come over. I remind him he lives five states away.
10:21 p.m.: I flip through the menus in my folder; I’m hungry but mostly bored. I decide on Mexican and stream old Law and Order episodes through Netflix until bed.
11:16 a.m.: Knock at the door. It’s Annoying Guy. I wonder when it officially becomes stalking. I wonder how long I can chase down Billy Crudup with the same vigor before I’ll be locked up. I ignore the knocks and roll over to sleep more.
4:34 p.m.: A girlfriend wants to go out for drinks, but I know if I drink, I’m done for. I have work to do, and although it’s Friday, I’m going to stay in and do it.
2:21 a.m.: Finish 20,000 words of writing. I celebrate with the Champagne in the fridge. I drink it all and listen to Beach Fossils until 4 a.m. Masturbate, then fall asleep.
9:09 a.m.: Wake up craving sex but have no one to call upon. If I didn’t fear for my safety or pride, I’d scrounge up someone on Craigslist. I’m too picky, though — that’s why I’m single. I try to masturbate, but I’m thinking about what I should have said differently to Last Summer. I wonder if I was too harsh; I wonder if I should call him … an orgasm isn’t happening. I turn off my vibrator.
9:58 a.m.: I’m determined to come. I focus on dirty thoughts, kinky things I’ve done or want to do. I get distracted and wonder why I can never find someone who is willing to spank me and be comfortable with it. Again, I lose it. If I were a guy, I’d have blue balls for sure by this point.
5:33 p.m.: I text Swede to see where he is; we have plans to see a show at Glasslands, and I want to meet up before for drinks.
8:15 p.m.: Swede meets me at a bar in Williamsburg. We’re both wearing denim jackets, and I laugh. We do shots, I talk to the blonde next to me and don’t mean to ignore Swede, but do. Sometimes he’s too pretty to look at it is how I justify it to myself.
9:20 p.m.: Our wrists are stamped at Glasslands, and we take a place by the bar. He orders us Champagne and tells the bartender about my new job.
10:16 p.m.: We’re approached by a tall, skinny blonde who has a thing for Swede. She says hello and introduces her friend. I look down at my less-than-perfect self, and a part of me dies. He may not be my boyfriend, but I don’t want to lose him to something like that, and more important, I’m pained that I’ll never be pretty enough.
10:25 p.m.: I’m sulking. I’m convinced he only wanted to go to the show to see this bimbo and her ugly dimpled chin. I’m livid.
11:17 p.m.: I’m on a street fighting with Swede about how he would obviously rather be with her than me. I’m accused of acting like a jealous girlfriend for the 500th time since we first met. I know I’ve had too much to drink and I’m not making sense. I also know that this has all been coming for months. I want to tell him so much but don’t. I want to tell him, if I could, I’d sacrifice whatever successes that might be in my future and give them to him. I’m being a girl and can’t stop.
11:37 p.m.: We’re still fighting. He tries to get away from me; I’m unsure of where I am. I wonder if this is the final fight that will seal the chapter on him and me, or if we have a few more rounds in us. I rip his shirt by accident. He tells me to leave him alone and walks in one direction; I, in the other.
12:57 a.m.: I’m on a friend’s living-room floor crying. I get a text from Annoying Guy, and am infuriated. I wish I knew how to keep things simple. I wish I wasn’t so attached to the pain of needing Swede. I pick myself up and head home. I have a lump in my throat as I try to sleep. I should have seen Last Summer before he left, if only to tell him where a clit is for future women everywhere. I regret being jealous of the skinny blonde, of wearing my heart on my sleeve again, and of feeling a bit too deeply. I reach for a sleeping pill and pass out mid-thought.
TOTALS: one multiple orgasm, eight orgasms, three sexing, one almost-sexing, two failed masturbation attempts, five successful masturbation attempts, one annoying guy who can’t get the hint, one mildly conflicted heart.