sex diaries

The East Village Woman Bed-Surfing After Hurricane Sandy

Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek behind doors left slightly ajar. This week, the East Village Woman Bed-Surfing After Hurricane Sandy: Female, 26, East Village, brand strategist, straight, single.


7:30 a.m. Wake up bleary-eyed in the Lower East Side. A distant friend from grad school is in bed next to me. We ran into each other at a Hurricane Sandy–themed bar crawl yesterday and were all over each other by the end of the night. I’ve always had a thing for him — he had a seen-a-million-wars arrogance long before he actually became a successful photojournalist. He’s that way in the bedroom, too: The sex last night was rough and self-serving. Exactly the way I like it.

8 a.m. We both have lives to attend to, so we get up. I’ve got my clothes on halfway when he pushes me over the edge of the bed and pulls down my underwear. We start having sex immediately.

8:10 a.m. He comes quickly, and I feel an acute, multi-pronged sense of loss. I love the taste of come; I wish he’d finished in my mouth. Also, he came before I could. I think about Big Ex, who’d have sex for hours and make me come six or seven times, leaving me in a grateful puddle of post-orgasmic bliss. I miss him.

8:30 a.m. Photojournalist has a hurricane to cover, and I need to be home before Sandy really hits. I collect my stuff and he gets his gear. We share a cab uptown and he drops me off at my place in the East Village.

10:30 a.m. Contemplate texting Big Ex to see if he’d be up for weathering the storm with me, but restrain myself. I broke up with him in August. For the most part, I think it’s a good thing we broke up, but on days like today, when I want nothing more than to watch bad TV and eat snacks and screw, rinse, repeat, I question whether I made the right decision.

8 p.m. Think of Photojournalist; he’s probably out shooting in the worst of the storm. I send him a text as well: “Be safe tonight!” He doesn’t reply.

8:11 p.m. I lose power, Internet, and phone reception. Take half a Xanax and spend the night listening to the wail of the emergency siren in the distance.


1 p.m. Go out to survey the damage. Uptown, I get a flurry of text messages, including several from the guy I’ve been dating casually, a producer who lives in Greenpoint. He knows I’m on the border of the evacuation area and asks if I want to come stay with him.

4 p.m. Producer and I have been dating casually for a few weeks. He checks all the boxes of someone I should be with — smart, good-looking, successful, great apartment, adorable dog — but his kisses are slow and gentle, and when I tell him I’m not ready to sleep with him yet he gives me back rubs. I’m working off the theory that he has a small penis, but I’m too bored by him to find out.

7 p.m. At Producer’s place, I take a long, hot shower. When I come out of the bathroom, he grabs me, pulls me down on the couch, and peppers me with light, soft kisses. I pull away, telling him I feel “unsexy” after a day spent looking at Sandy aftermath.

11:45 p.m. He’s been drinking all day, so by the time we finish dinner he’s pretty drunk. I, however, am just tired. He tries hooking up with me when we get into bed, but thankfully he’s so hammered that he doesn’t give it that much effort. He passes out quickly.

12:15 a.m. Lying awake, I realize with bitchy glee that I can totally get off while Producer’s asleep. I think about Big Ex, who was hung beautifully. I fantasize about how he used to wrap my hair around my neck and choke me with it. I remember how he’d insist on taking photos of my come-covered face before letting me wash up. The strength of my orgasm surprises me.


2:30 p.m. No amount of heat or electricity is enough for me to continue feigning interest in Producer. I tell him I’m headed back to Manhattan, give him a soft, gentle kiss good-bye, and direct the driver to Park Slope, where another friend has proffered her couch to me.

8:30 p.m. Park Slope is especially enticing because a director I met last weekend lives here. He’s not really my type, but he has a great apartment — his bathroom is bigger than my whole studio — and his kisses are nice and rough. He texts asking if I want to get a drink; I tell him I’m going out with some friends, but suggest we meet up a little later.

10:45 p.m. I text Director to see if he’s still up for getting a drink. No reply.

11:45 p.m. Director says he’s just finished dinner and is too tired to do a drink. I’m horny and disappointed. Text an architect I used to date; I’m in his neighborhood, for once, and he’s been holding on to a pair of shoes I left at his place for almost a year.

12:14 p.m. Show up at Architect’s place. We make out and he tries to have sex with me, but I decline politely. I’m exhausted and drunker than I realized, and as much as it’s great to see Architect, I’ve got no interest in going down this road again. He realizes it’s a dead-end and suggests we watch Moonrise Kingdom; I agree, and fall asleep midway through.


3:35 p.m. Director texts me to apologize for flaking last night, and we agree to try to meet up tonight.

8:30 p.m. Decide to get Tiki drinks with a few friends at Zombie Hut on Smith Street. They’re surprisingly strong, and I haven’t had a proper dinner … or lunch, for that matter.

9:30 p.m. Director wants to know where I am. I tell him I’m embarrassingly tipsy and might need to reschedule.

9:36 p.m. A text back: “You f—ing slut.” I’m offended, and turned on. He tells me our kiss made him hard and that I need to do something about that. Polishing off my third Hurricane, I text back: “I’m sure that can be arranged.”

10:45 p.m. I want to go over to Director’s, but my friends convince me that diner food is a better idea. I eat a chicken club the size of my forearm, suck down a massive strawberry milkshake, and top the whole thing off with a brownie sundae. Feeling too moribund for sex, I pass out on my friend’s couch.


9:15 a.m. So. Hung-over.

3:20 p.m. Text Director to apologize for last night. He doesn’t reply.

7:15 p.m. I do a double-take when I see a text from Big Ex. “Hey, you doing ok?” He must have heard that I’ve been exiled to Brooklyn. We trade stories about the hurricane, then drop off. I’ve never been happier to exchange small talk via text in my life.

9:30 p.m. My hangover mostly gone, I agree to go out to my favorite local Williamsburg bar, K & M, with couch-friend and a few others.

10:30 p.m. Run into Model, a ridiculously good-looking guy I’ve hooked up with several times. I’ve held off on sleeping with him, mostly because I know he can sleep with anyone he wants. I have a hunch not doing so is probably the only real way to keep his interest.

2:15 a.m. Model asks me to come home with him. I agree.

2:45 a.m. I deep-throat him with ease. He comes a ton, which gives him bonus points in my book.


9:15 a.m. One of the things I like about Model is that, like me, his libido’s even higher in the morning.

9:20 a.m. I hardly ever let guys go down on me — I much prefer penetration to clitoral stimulation — but when Model “forces” me to sit on his face, I allow it. The loss of control turns me on. When he adds a finger at the same time, I lose it completely.

9:30 a.m. Enjoy two solid orgasms. He covers my face with a pillow when I come the second time, and that turns me on more.

10 a.m. Model’s lesbian roommate and I are friendly acquaintances, since I’ve met her on several other morning-after occasions.

10:10 a.m. Model’s roommate: “You were so loud this morning.

Model: “I tried to get her to be quiet!”

Roommate: “It’s okay, it sounded like you were having a good time.”

Me: “Yeah, I came really hard.” 

Roommate: “I know.”

I find this conversation more arousing than anything Model and I have ever done.

11:15 a.m. Walking back to my couch-crashing friend’s apartment, I unconsciously manage to pick a route past Director’s apartment. As I realize this, I see him coming out of his apartment with a pretty blonde. Between her tiny skirt, stiletto heels, and disheveled hair, it seems safe to assume she spent the night. I’m less annoyed that Director slept with someone else and more irked that the girl he chose looks like a refugee from the meatpacking district.

2:45 p.m. A neighbor in the East Village texts to say I have power back. I buy brunch for my couch-surfing friend and her roommates as a thank-you for their hospitality.

3:30 p.m. Another text from Big Ex. He’s doing errands in Williamsburg and wants to know if I need a ride back into the city. Excited to see him — and avoid a ridiculous cab fare — I tell him I’d love a ride.

4:45 p.m. He drives me into the city, and on seeing my apartment in one piece we decide to celebrate by making mimosas on my stoop.

11 p.m. Bubbly has turned into beer and bacon burgers. I ask Big Ex if he wants to stay over, and he says yes.

11:30 p.m. I’ve had countless orgasms thinking about Big Ex, but now that he’s actually in my bed I remember the reasons we broke up — namely, his lack of motivation when it comes to anything other than eating, smoking, and sex.

11:45 p.m. The burger and booze and relief at finally sleeping in my own bed again overtake me. I fall asleep in Big Ex’s arms.


4:30 a.m. It feels so natural to wake up next to Big Ex. I feel his massive erection against my backside and react naturally, rubbing enthusiastically against it.

4:40 a.m. There is no discussion. He grabs a condom and I spread my legs. He’s by far the biggest guy I’ve ever had sex with, and our months not sleeping together show. I’m turned on, but it’s still painful when he enters me.

5:10 a.m. We’ve had sex in a half-dozen positions, and I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve come. I squirt almost immediately when he fingers my butt during sex. He’s the only one who can make me do that.

5:30 a.m. He comes and we collapse again. I wonder if maybe we should give things another shot. Decide to discuss this in the morning.

11:30 a.m. We forgo another round of morning sex in favor of nourishment. Big Ex out for coffee and bagels. We eat them in bed, watching Trailer Park Boys. I missed this.

12:15 p.m. I always had trouble talking to Big Ex about our relationship, and today’s no exception. I freeze trying to bring up last night, so I decide not to mention anything, for now.

10:45 p.m. I’ve spent the day catching up on work. We’re all back in the office tomorrow, and this week I’ve let a lot of things slide. I get into bed with the intention of getting off, but discover I’m still too sore for it to be pleasurable. Horny, but unable to do anything about it, I fall into a restless sleep.

TOTALS: 1 act of casual sex; 1 act of marathon ex-sex; 2 acts of fellatio; 1 act of reluctant cunnilingus; 1 thwarted attempt at masturbation; 1 successful stealth masturbatory session; 1 heated sext exchange; 6 beds; 2 boroughs; 1 couch.

Hurricane Sandy Sex Diary