sex diaries

The Sorority Girl With Breast Implants Making the Most of Her Open Relationship

Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek behind doors left slightly ajar. This week, the Sorority Girl With Breast Implants Making the Most of Her Open Relationship: female, college student/”sorority princess,” Morningside Heights, 22, straight, in an open relationship.

12:15 a.m.: At random Japanese restaurant in Vermont, on my fourth round of sake bombs after dropping out of the tennis tournament I drove up for. Playing Kings using my iPad and exchanging “Never Have I Ever …” foreplay texts with the Tennis Player. I had my first threesome with him at camp when I was 16, and he was 22. We reconnected while rolling on African ecstasy after running into each other in South Africa on New Year’s Eve.
12:20 a.m.: My partner pulls a Jack and decrees that we need to steal as much shit from this restaurant as possible.

12:30 a.m.: There’s a miso soup bowl on each side of my bra, and a wooden sushi plank tucked into the waistband of my leggings. Inform Tennis Player of my cunning. “How do you fit that much in your dress? You don’t look like you have a lot of room.”
12:31 a.m.: Me: “It’s terribly loose. The dress, that is.”
1:42 a.m.: On a bench in the hotel hallway, Tennis Player grabbing fistfuls of my hair as he pounds into me. I love it rough, bordering on sadistic, and he’s got the build and strength to give it to me. His hand tightens around my neck as I gasp out that I’m coming. He bites my breast roughly as I’m floating down. Ouch. Wonder if it’s possible to bite through silicone; envision a Jell-O orb with teeth marks through it.
2:30 a.m.: Drive him back to his hotel. He hasn’t finished yet, and I hate to leave a guy hanging. He does me from behind as I hold onto the passenger seat. He’s nicely thick, and the pain mixes with pleasure as I dry up from the alcohol. He pinches my nipples hard as he pulls out and sprays all over my back.
2:45 a.m.: Back in my room, take a surprisingly lucid shower, and cringe when the hot water hits the small tears around my vaginal opening. Pass out.
11 a.m.: Shaken awake by my partner insisting we need to get on the road. So tired. Notice a purple bruise on my breast where Tennis Player bit me last night, snap a quick pic, and send it along his way. “Nicely done.”
3 p.m.: So fucking hung over, this car ride is pure hell.
5:30 p.m.: Back home. Order in Thai and call it a day.

9:30 a.m.: Wake up to a text from Tennis Player: “Miss me yet?” Too tired to think of anything enticing, blearily type: “Not as much as you miss me,” and fall back asleep.
12 p.m.: Call boyfriend to tell him about last night. We started dating while he worked in consulting in the city and practically cohabitated until he moved to London to work at a hedge fund. We agreed to be open because of the distance, but I know he’s not happy about it. Boyfriend sounds upset and asks me to give him a play-by-play of what happened. I leave out the part about the bruise. What he can’t see can’t hurt him.
9 p.m.: At Chapter. Get text from my little (sorority) sister, “I heard someone had fun this weekend. Hahaha!” Everyone knows the “hahaha” is the sorority girl way of making a pointed statement glib.
9:01 p.m.: Text back: “SAE :)”. I catch her glance across the room. She rolls her eyes but gives me an approving look. Fraternity affiliation makes up for my non-Ivy transgression, especially for this southern girl.
10 p.m.: Am called out for sober sister duties at a party downtown this Thursday. No drinking and taking wasted girls home? No one tells you about this when you rush.

9 a.m.: Up bright and early for Bikram yoga. I’ve been avoiding this class because of my creepy instructor and his hands-on modifications, but nothing is better after a weekend of sin.
9:50 a.m.: Yogi reminds me of his private lessons on the weekends. Try not to visibly grimace as I walk out as quickly as I can.
12 p.m.: Check my e-mail. I’m supposed to interview a writer who wrote a piece on my thesis subject. He wants to meet late after work at a bar on the Upper West Side. Really? Google him for sketch factor, note he’s surprisingly cute.
7:45 p.m.: Getting ready to leave. Change into lacy underwear just in case.
8:30 p.m.: The Journalist walks into the bar. He looks older than his LinkedIn but is easy on the eyes all the same. Order drinks and food. It’s dark, the music is loud, and no one else can even pretend to be doing academic research. Why is this beginning to feel like a date? Vodka tonic with lime, please.
1 a.m.: Fourth round of drinks, decide to head to a beer bar down the street. There’s only two other people, and they quickly leave. Awk.
1:30 a.m.: Return from the bathroom and see the bartender has poured me a new drink. Take a sip. What the fuck is this?
1:31 a.m.: Barleywine? I might be a skinny materialist, but I happen to be a beer geek and know this has an ABV higher than wine. Wonder if this is a conspiracy to get me drunk. I decided to go home with this guy a few hours ago, it’s just unnecessary.
2:30 a.m.: Back at my apartment, fairly sloshed. The Journalist finally makes the first move and takes my face in his hand and starts making out with me.
2:35 a.m.: Take his shirt off, find a stereotypically nineties tribal arm band. He notices my look and explains he grew up in Jersey. Right.
2:48 a.m.: Moan as he pushes into me. The first thrust is always the most satisfying. We’re tipsily clumsy, I’m not really sure what is going on. My body seems to register though, because my orgasm creeps up nicely, and he blows his load on my stomach.
3 a.m.: He gets hard again, and I orgasm a second time. Pleasantly surprised by his stamina for being in his thirties.
3:20 a.m.: Fucking barleywine. I’m getting dry, and I reach for the lube. Inadvertently slop half the bottle over his dick. It feels like I’m kneading bread dough covered in olive oil. This needs to end.
3:33 a.m.: He goes down on me, and it’s the perfect lulling pleasure that makes me want to fall asleep. Dig my fingernails into my hands so I won’t be that rude.
5 a.m.: Kiss goodnight, manage to shower and even change my sheets before going to bed. I am always so impressed by my drunken capabilities.

12:20 p.m.: Cancel appointment with my shrink. We’ve been talking a lot about my sex life recently, and his silent-but-judgy looks are becoming grating.
3 p.m.: Office hours with my favorite professor. Turn around as I’m taking my coat off to give him a full look at my ass in favorite jeggings.
3:10 p.m.: He definitely knows why I’m here. Mentions his wife’s birthday in passing, holds my eyes longer than necessary to gauge my reaction. I keep his glance and give him a small grin. I’ll be paying him a visit as soon as I graduate.
11 p.m.: Text from the Journalist. Make plans to meet tomorrow so I can get out of my sorority party.

9 a.m.: Up early for another interview. Growing anxiety sets in as I think about how much I have left to do before my thesis deadline next week. Reach for my electric toothbrush, and give myself a lazy clitoral orgasm while thinking of making love with the boyfriend on top of pages of my completed paper.
9:15 a.m: Skype boyfriend to tell him about this. He looks mildly alarmed. Suggests we do it on a pile of money instead. Is this normal Wharton behavior?
4:15 p.m.: Stop by sex shop in the Village. I’ve been avoiding vibrators since I have a history of addiction, but I fear permanent damage every time I use my Sonicare instead. The butch pink-dreaded clerk gives me surprisingly helpful suggestions. I leave with a ruby red We-Vibe, wallet $110 lighter.
10 p.m.: Pregame for the party tonight, Pepcid AC passed around like candy. Girls who normally wear leggings and Toms are flaunting Louboutins and Hervé Léger, a veritable mating call. The sorority chants begin.
12 a.m.: Bored out of my mind. Seize the first casualty of the night and take her home.
12:30 a.m.: Walk to a wine bar in midtown with the Journalist. Relieved to find my beer goggles weren’t too strong.
1:30 a.m.: At my apartment. Ask him if he wants to break in my new vibrator. It’s flexible and has two heads, one for the G-spot and the other for the clitoris. Supposedly, it can be used during intercourse.
1:35 a.m.: Mmm yes, yes it can. It’s pure heaven buzzing against and inside of me, with the Journalist pressing my pelvis against his to keep the vibrations directly on my clit. He slips a finger into my ass, and I come, seeing stars.
2:05 a.m.: I want more. I walk into my closet and put on a teal babydoll that I purchased before I had my boobs done. They strain tightly against the fabric. I make a mental note to go through my lingerie drawer and throw out everything that no longer fits.
2:12 a.m.: He asks if he can finish inside of me. It’s one of my open-relationship laws, so I decline. He pulls out and covers the slip instead.
2:30 a.m.: Pillow talk. I mention that I have a boyfriend, and he asks about how our open relationship works. Dozens of people have asked us this, and I don’t know that we have a definitive answer, except that true commitment doesn’t necessarily have to entail physical monogamy. I could also say that monogamy is an oppressive social construct perpetuated by special interest groups, but then I’d sound like a Democrat.

9 a.m.: Call Student Health to see if I can reschedule my STD test. Am told there are no appointments available until next week.
9:40 p.m.: Aussie friend meets me at the subway station, blond hair perfectly tousled. He’s not my type at all — college dropout, writes music for a living, plays in a band — but I couldn’t resist his swarthy good looks and cocky grin.
12 a.m.: At hipster bar with Aussie’s roommates; bartenders are wearing retro period costumes. Am feeling conspicuously out of place. A mustachioed androgyne looks me up and down and asks if I’m here because it went out on some sort of listserv. Furiously tell him that just because I’m wearing Burberry doesn’t mean I can’t be here. He tries to say he doesn’t even know what Burberry is. Shove the rest of his drink into his chest and leave.
12:05 a.m.: Sitting on the sidewalk, text Aussie that I want to go home. He comes out immediately.
12:20 a.m.: Back at his house, smoking a joint.
12:45 a.m.: He stretches me out over his bed, wrists and ankles bound by the Velcro straps at each corner. I’m being fingered in both holes as he devours my clit. I strain so hard my calf begins to cramp, but the firm and constant pressure against my G-spot brings me to a blissful climax, hips rocking against his face.
1:03 a.m.: He pushes a pillow under my ass and enters me while he’s on his knees. Come explosively, eyes rolling into the back of my head. Colors flash behind my eyelids. Vaguely register applause from the living room.

9 a.m.: In Aussie’s shower, admiring the organic bath products.
11 a.m.: Train back to Manhattan. Boyfriend is flying in from London today, and we booked a hotel so we could focus on each other. There is nothing I love more than eating room service on high-thread-count sheets.
3 p.m.: Doorman calls and says I have a flower delivery. Interesting. Go downstairs and find a beautiful arrangement of pink tulips. The card has nothing on it but a smiley face. Pray these aren’t from who I think they are, the newest resident of Clinger City, USA.
5 p.m.: Knock on the door. It’s the boyfriend! So ridiculously happy to see him. Bury my face in his neck and breathe in the smell of his skin. I know it sounds creepy, but I knew I loved him when I missed that smell.
5:15 p.m.: Amazing, intimate sex, with our bodies pressed tight against each other. I’ve never met anyone who fucks me the way he does, where every single thrust is immensely pleasurable. My whole body stiffens and shudders with the waves of a two-minute orgasm. He comes inside of me, and I can feel it drip down my thighs.
8 p.m.: Lying side-by-side reading The Economist. When we’re apart, I forget how easily we fit each other. For the past few months. I’ve been fluctuating between congressional aspirations and wanting to be his Westchester wife. It scares me how willing I am to be the latter.
9 p.m.: Start playing with his balls. He’s got the nicest penis I’ve ever seen, perfectly shaped, uncut, and smooth. Start giving him head and stop, gazing up at him. He pushes me onto the bed and starts thrusting into my mouth. I try to breathe deeply and not panic so I don’t gag.
9:23 p.m.: He takes me from behind. I try to hold myself up as long as I can, but I’m dizzy with how good it feels, and I tell him I need to turn around. He pushes his hand against my trachea, and I nearly black out as I come, calling his name. I think someone’s banging against the wall. Too sated to care.

TOTALS: nine acts of intercourse, two acts of oral sex (receiving), one act of oral sex (giving), one act of masturbating while fantasizing about completed thesis, one possibly fissured silicone implant.

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The Sorority Girl With Breast Implants Making the Most of Her Open Relationship