Noon Finally wake up. Realize that it’s only noon. Since getting laid off (six months now), life has been a cycle of drinking, boys, hangovers, and Seamless Web food delivery.
4 p.m. Attempts to go to the gym prove futile.
8 p.m. Friend comes over to pre-game with my bottles from Trader Joe’s (hey, I’m laid off), and we thank God for unemployment insurance because it pays us to live in our luxury apartments.
Midnight We head to Greenhouse, where I know the door guy.
4 a.m. I black out. You would think by 24 I would know the fine line between sober and blackout, but I haven’t figured that out yet.
1 p.m. Wake up. I think I brought someone home though not really sure because he’s not here. I almost want to ask my doorman if I came home alone last night, but I make the executive decision not to.
8 p.m. Dinner with one of my old men. I am currently dating a few to finance my Manhattan meal plan. I promised myself the liquid diet, but not when you are having a free fabulous dinner at Del Posto. After dinner, mumble an excuse about not feeling well.
1 a.m. With friends at Marquee, where I catch the eye of a handsome boy in an Hermès tie and immediately start eye-B.J.-ing him. He is a 28-year-old M.D. who graduated from Yale. He buys me SoCo-lime shots and I tell him that 28 years old is too young to be an M.D. He responds that he’s just that good.
4 a.m. He asks me to come back to his place and I’m skeptical, but he says he lives on Park Avenue with his older brothers. He has me at “Park Avenue.”
5:30 a.m. Sitting in his penthouse apartment, he opens a bottle of Dom and we watch South Park—that should have been the first sign. We pass out in his room. I think we hook up.
8 a.m. He freaks out and asks me to leave. When I get home, I look him up on Facebook and see that he graduated HIGH SCHOOL in 2009. He is 17 YEARS OLD and it was his parents’ penthouse.
9 p.m. As I leave building, the doorman tells me to come home alone this time. I don’t know whether to be embarrassed or creeped out.
11 p.m. Head to Dorrian’s, where I am immediately greeted by everyone from my New England boarding school, fist-pumping to “Glory Days.” Bliss. I chat with a cute guy and we drunkenly make dinner plans for the next day. He’s in my phone as clubdshottall.
1 a.m. Run into an ex-hookup who introduces me to his two best friends. I realize that I have hooked up with both of his friends at previous times.
3:30 a.m. They are all buying me shots and I make the decision to re–hook-up with the nice one. I try to get all of my shots from him to show that I care.
9 a.m. Not sure where I am but recognize the apartment. With a sinking feeling, realize it’s the apartment of the douchebag friend that I DID NOT want to hook up with.
4 p.m. Get a text from clubdshottall asking if we were still on for dinner. I don’t remember what he looks like, but he must be hot and tall, so I agree.
9 p.m. I head to Mercer Kitchen where I see a semi-cute guy waiting. I apologize for being late. He asks if he can help. I realize he’s the host and I have the wrong restaurant.
9:20 p.m. I have about seven glasses of wine during the date, spill the eighth on my lap, and he so graciously gives me his Brooks Brothers blazer to tie around my waist. I am loving him.
1 a.m. He mentions something about his apartment and how it forces him to keep in shape because it’s a sixth-floor walk-up. I don’t do walk-ups, and I say I have to go home.
8 p.m. My friend drags me along to dinner at Masa with her old-man boyfriend because she can’t bear the thought of being alone with him, and he doesn’t seem to mind. He gets two show ponies.
3 a.m. Exhausted, I head back to my apartment with a friend to watch The Office, when my old-banker-intern friend turned hook-up calls.
4 a.m. He comes over and immediately pulls out his favorite bag of white. A few lines later, he starts to kiss me, and he’s just so damn cute that I do, but then he leans over and starts kissing my friend. And then he wants us to kiss each other. Because obviously watching The Office means coke and a threesome.
5 a.m. He starts telling us kinky stories about his ex, but he says he knew she wasn’t a girl he could marry and that I was. He looks me in the eye and asks if he can masturbate. Seriously? I acquiesce because I am too tired to argue.
5 p.m. A guy invites us over for a dance party on this yacht, the biggest one I’ve ever seen up close. We are poured Champagne by a man who I assume owns it, so shameless flirtation ensues. Put him in my phone as Imonaboat.
7 a.m. Wake up in one of the seven bedrooms on the yacht. Proceed to pleasure the owner. Then he explains he is just on the crew and calls himself a glorified bus driver. Ugh. When did I become like this?
8 a.m. Do the Walk of Shame. Remember that I actually used to be smart and care about other things in my life. Make a mental note to read the newspaper today, and perhaps even try to find a job.
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Ex-Banker received 895 comments
COMMENTS ON THIS DIARY:
“I just don’t understand taking a guy home if you aren’t willing to commit and go all the way. I think that creates awkward situations, bad oral, and sinking self-esteem.”
“Girlfriend needs to find herself some standards.”
“All you judgers out there whose criticism began and ended at “Slut! Whooore!” should wonder what it is about your own lives that bothers you so much about someone else’s mere promiscuity. Let us CELEBRATE sluttines, my brothers and sisters.”
“I won’t slut shame you baby girl, but you really do need to be enjoying all this hooking up. It sounds like you give blowjobs out of obligation, not because you like it.”
“@diarist: ignore the hurtful comments, but don’t ignore the underlying message. It’s time for some help. Put down the bottle. Put down the penis. Pick up your dignity and attempt to make something of your life.”