Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek behind doors left slightly ajar. This week, the Married Bisexual Porn Lover Trying to Keep Himself From Straying Again: male, freelance writer/photographer, Astoria, married, bisexual, 40.
DAY ONE
11:30 a.m.: Woke up from sick dream of almost-sex in fantastic, impossible hotel/theme park with former employer who always used to flirt with me and once made out drunkenly with me but later acted like nothing happened. Was frustrating then, is frustrating now. Recognize, as usual, that sex dream is only result of needing to piss badly, hence the nearly unknown rigidity of cock. Sit to pee. Make coffee, hit e-mail. Then, job listings on Mediabistro, Craigslist, etc.
5:45 p.m.: Bored of this shit. Hit Craigslist to see if any decent new job listings have been posted in the hour since I last checked. Resist urge to troll Casual Encounters. Barely. Trying really hard to stay focused and productive. Besides, after hellish year of admitting infidelity on wife and all the repair and pain that followed, have self on serious mental leash. All too easy to slide into harm’s way. No, self. Bad!
DAY TWO
2:30 p.m.: I have a nonerotic project that needs toned, flexible bodies. Spend hours looking on networking site for models who are local, seem intelligent, and are willing to pose nude for the love of art and use of images. Find several fitting the bill, send contact info and samples of work. Find it easy to discern who would be fun to work with and who would be insipid prima donnas based on their profiles. Ratio of attractive to not-so-much is same as educated to dumb-as-bag-of–Wonder Bread; pleased that both better aspects are often found in same people.
11:30 p.m.: Wife reviews daily photo edits over shoulder. Lots of great, supportive feedback. Keep wanting to have her model for me. She’s got a spectacular figure, including gravity-defying natural breasts that knock me out and I’m not even a breast man. After nine years together my appreciation of her is more aesthetic than carnal. Depressing, but unavoidable with the passage of time. Caress them nevertheless. Lay cheek between them, evolves into a nuzzle. So comforting. Boner-inducing? Sometimes. Not tonight. Just sweet. Kisses and tokens of affection follow. Still sleeping on couch these days, though.
DAY THREE
3:30 p.m.: Porn break from editing photos. Hit bookmarks of smut, choose one with previews of videos with cheesy premises for BBW southern tramp who clearly loves what she does. Authenticity of performers’ enthusiasm is key in porn, and she delivers. I think she edits her own material and has a hysterical sense of humor. Cum, clean, make lunch, continue editing.
6:15 p.m.: Ugh. Watched more porn. Some random tube with a Latin MTF pre-op with an alarmingly thick pinga fucking a blond dude’s ass. Totally raunchy. Surprised that it was bareback fucking. Don’t see that level of risk in that genre much anymore. Self-destructive behavior is sexy, but bad, bad, bad. Feel mildly unclean.
DAY FOUR
11:30 a.m.: Woke up from dream of hooking up with Hugh Jackman, in Chicago (I think). He was sweaty and needed a shower; he smelled awesome. Upon waking am acutely aware that I dreamed of odor; arguably more interesting than dream itself. Yep, have to pee. Maybe I drink too much seltzer before bed?
4:15 p.m.: Porn break. Nothing exceptional. Need to clear mind and blow load. Purely routine, functionary. Back to work.
7:30 p.m.: Call from friend who is performing at wild event on coming weekend, will list me if I like. Ask if I should bring camera, told “Of course!” Been a long time since I’ve been out. Clubbing is for younger people these days. Almost reluctantly agree, but already start thinking about what to wear.
DAY FIVE
8:45 a.m.: Wake suddenly to knock on door from exterminator. Am late to answer, he’s knocked on neighbor’s door, who opens hers moments after mine. She is wearing old pink fuzzy robe and probably nothing underneath. I’m groggy but not dead, and just perv enough to use this as fodder for early morning J.O. fantasy before starting my day.
12 p.m.: Slow day after waking up again from mid-morning nap. Count number of Facebook contacts that I’ve screwed around with over the years. Just over 14 percent. Once again realize I need new method of making friends. Take shower, make lunch, hit job listings again. Apply to dozens. Feeling old and useless and stupid.
DAY SIX
8 p.m.: Start getting ready for night out at friend’s glam rock event. Somehow still fit into old leather pants. Smear on guyliner nice and thick. Haven’t done this in forever. Looks better than expected. Feeling saucy and excited for the night. Packing up gear, kissing wife who works in the morning goodnight, and heading out.
9:30 p.m.: Ignore furtive, bemused glances from fellow passengers on train. Arrive at club, long line of ticket holders and guest-listers waiting for doors to open. Approach doorman carefully, respectfully, without attitude, willing to accept denial. Inform doorman I’m on list but as photographer, need to get in and set up. Let in after a minute. Pays to know the system and how to work it. Snap!
11:30 p.m.: Boozed up enough to lose nerves, am loose and lithe, chatty. Snap camera away at fun crowd of all ages. Hardly oldest person in house, but old enough to move with authority through it. Still, looking at what must be those barely of legal age, I feel like I was never that young. Show starts. Great show, photo ops galore. Friend’s performance is amazing, get great pictures.
2:30 a.m.: Definitely haven’t had that much to drink in ages. Attitude becomes: “Fuck these bitches, they weren’t born when I was kicking it better than they ever will.” Feel talented, charming, sexy as fuck. Wind up in bathroom stall with beautiful skinny boy in heavy, excellent makeup, but he kisses like a shark; nothing but teeth and tongue in a mouth wider than my face. He drops to the floor. I expect head, but instead get my boots licked clean and then abandoned. God bless NYC freaks, they’re full of surprises. Pissed, I make a beeline to the bar.
4 a.m.: Hang out with friend and crew, always a blast. Invited to an afterbar, think, “Why not?” Join them for nice car ride out to far Queens. Smoke pot stronger than Popeye’s spinach upon arrival. Relax into the couch listening to Portishead or something. People are talking about astrology and Asian drag queens and fisting.
DAY SEVEN
8:30 a.m.: Wake with a start, my neck in a pinch and stink on my breath. Still on couch, light streaming into room. Bottles all over living room table. Not only person dozing. Don’t know who everyone is. Check phone. Several messages from wife wondering where the fuck I am and why didn’t I at least text her? Am not dead in a ditch but suddenly wish I was. Flip out, get car service home. Face music, apologize. Apologize. Apologize. Feel like an asshole. Wife leaves for work, glad I’m alive but pissed off. Peel off leathers that seem suddenly way too tight for my 40-year-old ass. Eat fistful of ibuprofen, chase it with seltzer, flop on couch, turn on tube to NY1 morning newscast. Pass out to comforting tones of droll Canadian anchor. Spend rest of waking hours feeling like a useless old bastard.
Totals: one breast fondling, two horny dreams, three viewings of Internet porn, four acts of masturbation, one torrid make-out session in bathroom with sissyboy resulting in clean footwear, one serious ass-chewing.
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