Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek at what your friends and neighbors are doing behind doors left slightly ajar. Today, the Musician with Lots of Ones, But No One-and-Only: freelance musician, 24, male, Fort Greene, straight. Commenters, put on your thinking caps and get ready to give some heartfelt advice!
DAY ONE
11:30 a.m.: Wake up, hung-over. Headache, stomachache. Attended a loft party in Williamsburg last night. Got hammered, chatted up some good-looking kids, went up to the roof and stared at the traffic gliding over the Williamsburg Bridge. Pretty standard, enjoyable, uneventful.
12:30 p.m.: Thinking about the ex. I’ve been single since spring 2007, when we called it quits, primarily due to the fact that she was still in school and I wasn’t, and there was just a mounting disconnect. We’re still very much in each other’s lives, despite the fact that neither of us knows in what capacity. I’m not entirely sure what I want.
4:35 p.m.: Smoke a bowl and jerk off to a model from an American Apparel ad. I’ve been starting to find YouPorn slightly monotonous in recent weeks. Play guitar for an hour.
8:30 p.m.: Take a female friend out to dinner for her birthday. We used to hook up, and she’s hot, but just insufferable enough that I don’t feel like trying anything this evening.
10:00 p.m.: Get a text message to meet mutual friends at a midtown gay bar. I head up there with my dinner date.
11:00 p.m.: Arrive at gay bar. Dance with second girl on the dance floor in the midst of a sea of sweaty, gyrating dudes. She has an early morning and leaves a few moments later. I’m left with a big old boner in a room full of half-naked men.
1:30 a.m.: All riled up at this point, I cut my losses and cab it back to Brooklyn with the first girl, and proceed to make out with her in the cab, in the stairwell of my building, and finally, in my apartment. She’s hammered, and keeps talking about how good her tits look in the reflection of my window. I fall asleep mid-hookup, drunk and disinterested.
DAY TWO
10:15 a.m.: I want to keep sleeping, but my insufferable makeout partner insists we go to the neighborhood diner and get breakfast. I try to deflect her nagging by not responding, but she is persistent.
11:00 a.m.: I begrudgingly down a Western omelet, and vow to myself that I will never hook up with this girl again.
3:00 p.m.: Stroll around McCarren Park with a female friend from college and her impeccably groomed Pomeranian, Hans. A number of very sexy girls approach us and ask to pet the dog. I do nothing, assuming that they think my friend and I are a couple. My friend reveals her penchant for masturbating to Anais Nin’s Delta of Venus; I reveal mine for American Apparel.
7:45 p.m.: Call my ex and tell her the apartment she had me check out is worth taking. Talk to her for about ten minutes. Ride my bike home, wondering if I’m still in love with her.
11:00 p.m.: Smoke a bowl and watch Gandhi, which I’ve had out from Netflix for like two months. It’s quite long, so I take a break mid-movie to rub one out. I know. I’m terrible.
DAY THREE
9:20 a.m.: Wake up from a dream in which I was doing it with my tenth-grade girlfriend. Weird.
5:30 p.m.: Order Thai delivery and jerk off while watching Around the Horn on ESPN.
9:30 p.m.: Head to a local bar in Fort Greene with a buddy who just quit his job to be a full-time writer which means we’ll probably be getting hammered.
10:30 p.m.: My buddy starts a conversation with two girls sitting near us by saying something incoherent about the space program. It turns out that they’ve both just graduated from Wesleyan. They seem a little young, but hey, it’s one dollar PBR night.
12:40 a.m.: We invite the girls back to my place for some herb and Miller Lite tallboys. They accept.
2:00 a.m.: Several beers and bong rips later, my buddy and I somehow become engrossed in a conversation with each other about how Sex and the City, in its heyday, had the best thematic arcs on television. The girls seem mildly amused, although one of them keeps interjecting regurgitated philosophical arguments into the conversation that she probably picked up in her last semester at school.
3:45 a.m.: The girls leave. One of them allegedly has a shoot for some documentary film house internship she’s doing. My buddy and I eat hummus and play songs on my iPod until six in the morning.
DAY FOUR
9:20 a.m.: My alarm wakes me up. I roll over in bed and grab my laptop, field one or two emails from my boss, and promptly go back to sleep. The joys of working part-time from home.
11:40 a.m.: Get up, for real this time, feeling surprisingly better than anticipated. My buddy has crashed on the couch. We pick up coffee and bagels.
1:00 p.m.: Realizing that neither of us is going to get anything productive done today, I pack a bong and we proceed to watch Godfather II in its entirety, pausing after the first disc to have an impromptu guitar jam in the other room. Sweet.
8:00 p.m.: Badly needing to recharge, I sit in my room all night playing guitar and smoking cigarettes. I consider ‘bating several times, but rationalize that it’ll be better for my overall well-being if I sit today out.
DAY FIVE
10:00 a.m.: My bike has been stolen! I just had the goddamn thing fixed up, too. Well, shit.
10:20 a.m.: Convinced that I am too distraught to get any work done this morning, I angrily ‘bate two times in a row, and it’s wildly unsatisfying.
2:07 p.m.: Ride the Metro North. Sit across from sexy French sisters who are traveling. I steal glances, hoping that we’ll make eye contact and I’ll strike up a conversation and be surprised by how good her English is. Instead, I feel creepy when a businessman with a bulbous nose keeps looking at me and smiling, as if he knows what I’m thinking.
10:00 p.m.: Hit the bars in New Haven with my sister and two of her male roommates who are dating each other. They are both strikingly attractive, and I can’t help but imagine the blond-haired, blue-eyed man-romping that must go on behind closed doors.
12:30 a.m.: Head back to my sister’s apartment and have an iPod dance party with her gay roommates.
DAY SIX
12:57 p.m.: Hop back on the Metro North to return to the city. Alas, no hot chicks, so I read Philip Roth.
5:00 p.m.: Check my voicemail. The ex. She rambles on for a minute about how great Craig Finn’s voice is, and I can’t tell if I m upset because now I’ll inevitably think of her every time I put that record on, or because the way she’s able to dissect music so succinctly is one of the first things I was drawn to about her.
8:00 p.m.: Make dinner and stay in, content to take a night off. Refrain from jerking off, because I know, regardless of how much porn I might ingest, I’ll just think about my ex.
DAY SEVEN
8:00 p.m.: Go see the musical Hair in Central Park with a female friend. The show is nothing short of awesome, and the scene with full frontal nudity at the end of Act One is an added delight!
9:15 p.m.: My friend and I smoke a cigarette outside during intermission. A girl approaches us and, in the spirit of the musical we’re watching, offers us a joint. We graciously accept.
9:20 p.m.: Act Two is a markedly more psychedelic experience.
10:45 p.m.: My friend’s firm has hired a car service to transport all its employees, so we head back, completely free of charge. I contemplate looking for employment in the corporate sector.
Totals: Zero acts of intercourse; Zero acts of oral sex; One uninspired makeout session; Five acts of masturbation, one during Gandhi; One unintentional boner on a gay bar dance floor; One act of imagining sister’s gay roommates going at it.
