Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek at what your friends and neighbors are doing behind doors left slightly ajar. Today, the Rebounding Divorcé Lawyer: 36, male, straight, recently divorced, financial district.
DAY ONE
6:15 a.m.: Alarm goes off. Morning wood is pronounced, as if it knows about Sex Diary project. Kiss sleeping sweet, loving, sexy Rebound Girl. I use capital “R” and capital “G” because your first (and second, and third…) post-divorce relationships are quintessential rebounds. Take silent pride in the fact that Rebound Girl is hotter and kinder than ex-wife.
7:25 a.m.: Check morning e-mails on BlackBerry. They include a message from a regular swingers party that my ex-wife and I used to frequent. She apparently still goes, but now with my former best man/best friend, whom I discovered she was sleeping with six months ago, leading to my divorce after two and a half years of marriage. We all thought he was closeted. Guess not.
12:29 p.m.: Shower. After going down on her (so fresh and clean!), then her on me, and then slow grinding that eventually leads aggressive thrusting sex with me on top, we are both back in the shower, where she washes me and tells me that she loves my penis. My penis loves her.
1:15 p.m.: We leave together. I like her, but I am not ready and we both know she is not going to be my next wife. She also typically prefers grinding sex to thrusting sex, which is basically doing yoga, your penis’ subtle movements timed to her breathing. To her credit, she gives me free rein after she comes.
1:29 a.m.: At home. Light a joint and turn to reliable “lesbian ass licking” search on YouPorn to masturbate.
DAY TWO
11:15 a.m.: Wake up and take care of morning wood while replaying last night’s YouPorn find. Wonder if I can bookmark this video.
12:15 p.m.: Arrive at favorite soccer bar, typically a wasteland of drunken men. Amazingly find a seat next to two reasonably attractive Brazilian women. Attempt to impress them by ordering caipirinha. English bartender looks like he wants to punch me. Realize that feeble efforts have gone unnoticed.
1:40 p.m.: Work. Thoughts of a former colleague give me raging erection. Better close my office door.
3:18 p.m.: I am thinking about how, despite the clusterf*ck that was my marriage, my reward is the exquisite pleasure of first kisses and, to quote Chris Rock, “new p*ssy”. Seriously, what is better?
11:11 p.m.: Friend and I head to a bar with a U2 cover band. We meet two women. One of them tells us that they would be happy to hit another bar after the show, but only if they can’t get the drummer and bass player to go home with them. C*ckblocked by a cover band! Impressed by their candor.
12:15 a.m.: Band ends its set. Friend and I plot to follow bandmates into bathroom and offer to trade the girls for beer.
12:27 a.m.: In the men’s room the drummer tells me he is married but wants to see the girls before he agrees.
12:30 a.m.: He sees the girls and says no deal.
12:35 a.m.: As we leave, I whisper “he’s married” to the girl chatting with the drummer. Being cheated on has made me reasonably honorable.
DAY THREE
1 p.m.: At a baby shower and realize how hot pregnant women can be.
1:05 p.m.: Notice the number of single women secretly hating the mom-to-be.
1:06 p.m.: Plot to “console” one of them at brunch after the baby shower.
2:25 p.m.: Drinking caipirinha at my absolute favorite brunch spot with a group from the shower, at a French-Brazilian bistro in Soho. This is going well, particularly with a 26-year-old actress.
3:03 p.m.: A French waiter who has waited on me a million times, but was traveling for most of the last year, stops at the table and says, “Remind me, which one of these beautiful girls in your wife?”
3:05 p.m.: Indescribably awkward and painful attempt to explain to girls that I am separated and only technically married under New York’s arcane divorce laws. Confused French waiter utters the word “wife” 60 times, all in the certain French way.
3:06 p.m.: Friend is nearly rolling on the floor laughing.
4:20 p.m.: We leave holding hands anyway. At her place, making out and grinding against on her couch. She takes a breath and asks if I want a beer. Would prefer a blow job but take the beer.
6:30 p.m.: Not sure how to end mid-Sunday make-out session. I need to masturbate.
7:22 p.m.: Home. Old faithful does the trick.
10:24 p.m.: Text her, “You are amazing.”
DAY FOUR
6:55 a.m.: Board flight to London
8:07 a.m.: Go to bathroom and renew my Solo Mile High Club membership.
DAY FIVE
7:30 p.m.: Land on return from London. Text Rebound Girl. As requested, she is waiting for me at my apartment.
7:31 p.m.: Text my sweet, worrying mom “Just landed. I love you..”
7:33 p.m.: Text actress: “Dinner Thursday?”
8:45 p.m.: Through Immigration and Customs.
9:35 p.m.: In shower. Rebound Girl climbs in and washes my tired bones. Then face-down on bed getting a great massage from loving and awesome woman.
9:59 p.m.: Rebound Girl rolls me over and begins to make me happy.
10:03 p.m.: Very, very happy. Rebound Girl beams with pride.
DAY SIX
6:15 a.m.: Alarm goes off. Rebound Girl is gone.
6:35 a.m.: After two snoozes, get out of bed. See note on my wallet. “I took $80 and £60!” I wonder if I somehow committed a crime.
8:14 a.m.: Text “Can I have a receipt?” to Rebound Girl
6:45 p.m.: Home from work early. Need sleep.
6:51 p.m.: On my way toward Old Reliable, stop on Yahoo to check non-work (i.e. this is where all the porn goes) e-mail.
6:57 p.m.: Am watching something called “Four Girls Finger Paint”. [Ed. note: Readers, do not watch this.]
6:58 p.m.: What the f**********************ck!
7:02 p.m.: Somehow I have not had enough. Clink another link and watch “Four Girls Finger Paint Reaction Video”.
7:04 p.m.: Just watched a 14-year old-vomit. No way will I get an erection tonight. Sometimes porn goes so wrong.
DAY SEVEN
12:15 p.m.: Text actress and confirm dinner for tonight. Make a note to take flowers.
2:36 p.m.: Walk into office. My too-old-for-me-but-wonderful assistant spots me and the flowers. The look on her face is so sweet and hopeful. I tell her “These are for you.” She beams.
4 p.m.: Spend an hour talking about sex and relationships and who I am shagging with my lovely, sexiest-woman-over-50-I-ever-met therapist.
6:11 p.m.: Buy another dozen flowers.
8:34 p.m.: Am seated across from actress but move over to her side of the table. She smells great. Waiter who knows me brings my regular drink: vodka, diet coke.
9:30 p.m.: Move to bar. Bartender looks at actress and contemplates whether she is Rebound Girl. Actress asks how I know I’m ready to date post marital catastrophe. Bartender says, “I think he’s ready. I see it in how he looks at you.” This guy is getting a massive, massive tip.
11:04 p.m.: Reach her place. She kisses me, just about perfectly, and tells me she would invite me up, but she wants to be the thing that I think of first thing in the morning, but not because she’s lying next to me.
11:30 p.m.: Home from a great date with a great woman. My life is no way like I expected, but it’s not half bad. Time for Old Reliable.
TOTALS: One act of intercourse; two acts of fellatio, one of which involved an exchange of cash; one act of cunnilingus; three acts of masturbation; one act of intercourse botched by unfortunately non-arousing choice of porn; one erection at work; one Sunday make-out section.
