Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek at what your friends and neighbors are doing behind doors left slightly ajar. Today, the Ivy Leaguer Who Has Orgasms in Her Sleep: 19, Manhattan, female, straight, single.
DAY ONE
10 p.m.: Banker Guy, a friend I sporadically spoon with, calls me. He’s just left work, which I find ridiculous. Inform him that I’m going to picket his company headquarters in a “Free Banker Guy” T-shirt. Make vague plans to hang out.
11 p.m.: Turns out Banker Guy and I are headed to the same NYU dorm. Hug hello awkwardly in front of ten of his friends. Before splitting up, we make tentative late-night plans. I get the feeling he’s going to flake.
12:30 a.m.: Cute friend comes over to my place. Hangs with my gay roomie and me. I’m tipsy after one glass of Champagne. Make a joke about sleeping with cute friend. He kindly rejects me: “That would be letting the rumor mill win.” Apparently, people already think he’s a notch on my bedpost.
3 a.m.: Cute friend leaves. Sadly, our friendship will not be heading toward the bedroom anytime soon.
3:15 a.m.: Banker Guy texts, “Sorry babe.” Knew it.
DAY TWO
11 a.m.: Wake up after coming from a hot dream. Nice surprise. Started having orgasms in my sleep last year. Been loving the new development.
11:01 a.m.: See gay roomie at the foot of my bed using my laptop. Shit.
11:02 a.m.: Ask roomie casually, “Do I talk in my sleep?” He doesn’t say anything.
9 p.m.: A model I met on Houston a few days ago calls me to invite me clubbing. He and his twin brother are incredibly good-looking. Can’t believe he’s interested.
2 a.m.: Turned away from the club because my college I.D. doesn’t fly with the bouncer. Chat with Model outside. Completely in awe of his hair. He kisses me on the cheek, puts me in a cab, and I am done for.
DAY THREE
9 a.m.: Wake up after a dream about seducing my good girlfriend. Good Lord. Do other people have these dreams?
10 p.m.: Model calls “because said would.” Can’t understand most of what he’s saying because he’s using double negatives and slang I’m unfamiliar with.
10:15 p.m.: Gay Roomie (like Model, also black) asks about the Model. I respond, “I know this sounds really racist, but he speaks what Wikipedia calls African American Vernacular English.”
10:30 p.m.: Gay Roomie is still cracking up from this disclosure.
DAY FOUR
2:30 p.m.: Model invites me to an album party at Runway. Still underage and don’t feel like giving it a shot on a work night. Can’t believe I’m passing on this.
8 p.m.: Inform friends over dinner that communicating with Model is like “speaking to a Frenchman while possessing a limited knowledge of French.”
8:30 p.m.: High-school ex-boyfriend calls to ask about my best friend, whom he had been dating. She’s in Long Island with her new beau. I make up something about her whereabouts. Feel conflicted about taking sides.
DAY FIVE
9:30 a.m.: Find out via the blogosphere that bouncers didn’t even let Rihanna or Cassie into the party. Feel slightly better about not going.
12:45 p.m.: Model calls. He’s hanging out in Soho and wants to meet up. Um, I have a day job, buddy.
6 p.m.: Semi-successful coffee date. The guy is normal! Hallelujah!
9 p.m.: At café with Gay Roomie. Order sandwich from obviously gay waiter.
10 p.m.: Attempt to set up rapport between Gay Roomie and waiter. Fail.
10:15 p.m.: Gay Roomie asks, “Wait, do you think maybe you and I look like a couple?” Think this could come in handy when it comes to finding a sublet.
11 p.m.: Model calls. Still completely incoherent.
DAY SIX
Noon: Spend afternoon asking college kids about their views on abstinence as a field reporter for a mtvU pilot. Conclusion? Abstinence doesn’t work in college. Could’ve told you that without the survey.
4 p.m.: E-mail Craigslist sublets as an “Ivy League couple.”
7 p.m.: Ask Gay Roomie in elevator, “Can I press my body against yours?” “No!” he says. “You’re no fun,” I respond.
10 p.m.: Text guy from yesterday’s coffee date: “Thanks for coffee yesterday! Weekend plans?”
10:02 p.m.: No response.
10:05 p.m.: No response.
10:06 p.m.: Question his interest.
Midnight: Go to bed reassuring myself that he’s 26. Old people don’t believe in instant text-backs.
DAY SEVEN
10 a.m.: Boss says, “Nice dress” and asks who designed it. “Cynthia Rowley,” I respond. “Charlotte York wears Cynthia Rowley!” He’s straight, and I’m weirded out.
5 p.m.: Realize I have spent all day at work e-flirting. Try to look busy.
9 p.m.: Am in Times Square hell with friends. Ask cute waiter at dinner, “So how does it feel to work at a place called Spanky’s?”
9:15 p.m.: Something about the way he stands piques my gaydar. Gay Roomie takes dibs.
9:30 p.m.: Remind Gay Roomie that we have to pretend to be a couple tomorrow when we interview for a studio sublet.
11:45 p.m. Head to bed early. Pseudo romance with Gay Roomie starts bright and early at 11:30 a.m.
Total: Zero acts of intercourse; zero acts of oral sex; two hot dreams; one hot dream resulting in orgasm; one direct rejection from cute friend; one indirect rejection from guy on coffee date; one attempt to sublet by pretending to be “Ivy League couple” with gay guy.
