Once a week, Daily Intel peeks behind doors left slightly ajar. This week, the Very Busy Consultant: male, 24, East Village, management consultant, gay.
DAY ONE
8:30 a.m.: Wake up slightly late for work, but not late enough to rub one out before rushing to the L. What else will get me out of bed on a Monday?
12:45 p.m.: Shoot a quick e-mail to Popper, a guy I hooked up with for the first time two weeks ago, telling him I don’t want to hang out anymore. He’s just too intense (which is why I have to e-mail about it in the first place).
7:10 p.m.: Receive a four-paragraph response from Popper calling me presumptuous and closing with a poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay. (“My candle burns at both ends / It will not last the night
“) I feel vindicated.
11:15 p.m.: A sleazy-looking chick with big tits and a tight waist glares knowingly at me on the subway home from work. I stare back and play along; I love the attention. If only it were that easy.
DAY TWO
10 a.m.: Text Roberto, an ex-fling who’s now a friend’s boss (unbeknownst to her) and a friend. We resolve to go to Beige, B Bar’s weekly gay bash.
4:45 p.m.: Receive text from Sam (partner in gay crime) asking about Beige. Looks like a big night ahead.
11:15 p.m: Wander around B Bar, dividing time equally between avoiding guys I’ve hooked up with, stalking guys I want to hit on, and pushing guys out of the way at the bar in an attempt to lay my hands on an $11 G&T.
11:30 p.m.: Flirt with and eye-fuck Roberto’s friend, a strapping, graying, former COO of something or other. Fantasize about him operating me.
1:55 a.m.: Bored of Beige, flee for the Box with friends et al. Immediately lose them while waiting for a $19 Negroni, attempt to find them, cross paths on the way with Ben, a handsome 20-year-old assistant sommelier (does that even exist?).
1:57 a.m.: Ben accidentally burns me with his cigarette; I tell him he’ll have to make up for it.
2:06 a.m.: Making out with Ben in a taxi en route to my apartment.
3:30 a.m.: Utterly exhausted, pass out naked next to Ben having fooled around and pushed him around a bit in the sack but failed to get off owing to intoxication.
DAY THREE
7:30 a.m.: Awaken to the sound of Ben leaving my apartment. He’s left the bathroom light on; I contemplate hunting him down later and sending him my August Con Ed bill before drifting back to sleep.
8:15 a.m.: Awaken to the sound of my alarm (fuck my life) and notice a note Ben had left with his phone number and e-mail address, expressing how fun it was “to meet [me].” Cute. Knowing I won’t ever use it, I tuck the note into my box of souvenirs under my bed.
1:23 p.m.: Shoot a casual message to Brian, a guy I met at Barracuda on Saturday and suspect to be a dud, but my date pipeline is looking thin these days so I suggest a get-together.
2:15 p.m.: Brian responds proposing we go out tomorrow. I guess I’m fine with that.
8:30 p.m.: Receive a text message from my friend asking for the number of a pot dealer.
8:31 p.m.: I provide a solution.
11 p.m.: Drink cocktails at Louis 649 with two straight friends from college. One expounds upon her theory of why it’s impossible to meet anyone quality in NYC: the sheer volume of people gives us all an upgrade complex, such that we’re chronically finding people who don’t quite pass muster. Her theory sounds spot-on after a few gin rickeys.
DAY 4
8:15 a.m.: Jack off to my favorite fifteen-minutes-of-free-porn site, which I’ve topped up over ten times by creating new e-mail addresses. I should know better given tonight’s date. Add these guys to the list of reasons why I can’t meet anyone quality.
9:45 a.m.: Receive a text message from Brian firming up plans for tonight. I confirm.
5:30 p.m.: Brian suggests we go to Piano’s (what is it, 2007?); I’m too apathetic to suggest something else.
10:30 p.m.: Brian and I meet at Piano’s. He’s hotter than I remember.
11:45 p.m.: It turns out Brian has a brain; I’m enjoying getting to know him and my third drink despite the din. We kiss. Some wasted woman who sells vitamins wholesale talks to us (“talking” being a loose term). This is a great first date.
12:25 a.m.: Brian receives a text message from a friend suggesting we meet up at BEast. Wanting to demonstrate my ability to be cool and hang with his pals, I willingly oblige him even though I’d rather go home.
1:25 a.m.: Thirty minutes of searching later, Brian finally locates the friend across the room. It’s Popper. When did my life turn into a bad sitcom?
1:27 a.m.: Brian and I flee BEast, pausing for me to explain why we had to run away.
1:40 a.m.: Brian and I talk on my balcony. He tells me he’s bisexual. I don’t believe in male bisexuality. We make out and he asks me to take my pants off; I oblige.
3 a.m.: Brian and I roll around naked on my bed. His muscular body feels incredible. I guess I could believe in male bisexuality?
3:45 a.m.: Utterly exhausted, pass out naked next to Brian having fooled around and been pushed around by him a bit in the sack but failed to get off owing to intoxication. Remind me to drink less.
DAY FIVE
9:05 a.m.: Brian and I lie in bed staring at each other and make out some more. I pop a boner; he starts going down on me but then realizes he’s late for work and heads out. We plan to hang out again soon.
9:30 a.m.: Working from home today, I remain in bed on a conference call feeling incredibly horny.
10:29 a.m.: Anticipating the end of my call, I log on to my fifteen-minutes-of-glory site.
10:35 a.m.: Masturbate frantically while inserting Brian’s face into the video in my head.
8:30 p.m.: Meet friends, including a token bi girl, for dinner at Otto. I regale everyone with my tale from last night.
Midnight: Wander around drunkenly at Rockit. There are lots of guys here I’d like to fuck, and lots I wouldn’t. Chat with some cute kid, but my motivation is low and I’m exhausted from having shared a bed with strangers two of the past three nights.
1:45 a.m.: One friend is a drunken mess, one is nowhere to be found, and one has coupled up with some guy he went to college with. I leverage the opportunity to sneak out.
2:05 a.m.: Annie’s instant macaroni and cheese, which I eat while staring emptily at photos of shirtless Aussie Rules football players online. I’m too tired to beat off or even brush my teeth, so I collapse in bed.
DAY SIX
10:30 a.m.: Awaken to the sound of my phone ringing. It’s my friend wanting to debrief; how did I forget to turn my phone off before going to bed?
10:35 a.m.: Realize the Aussies are still open in a window on my computer, so I jerk off to them before showering and starting my day.
3:30 p.m.: Receive e-mail message from Brian and make loose plans to hang out next week. Score.
5 p.m.: Head to yoga with my gal pal Janet. We ogle the (few) men in the room; we’re both intrigued by a cutie in a muscle shirt and Syosset lacrosse shorts. We fight over whose team he’s on; Janet claims hers, given the lacrosse shorts.
6:05 p.m.: Change our mind about the laxer after watching the way he moves for an hour.
11:30 p.m.: On a much-needed awaycation from permanent gaycation, arrive at my college friend’s house party in Soho, a decidedly straight gathering (the numerous closet cases notwithstanding, whom I attempt to weed out via some rigorous eye-fucking to gauge responses).
2:30 a.m.: Janet’s paired off with a hot friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend, but I think he’s gay and I swear he’s been cutting me the eye. I decide to let Janet have this one.
4:30 a.m.: Grab a taxi for a party in outer Bushwick with three friends.
5:15 a.m.: Arrive at the Bushwick party, which has ended and looks like an artsy commune of filthy hipsters living in their own squalor. I light the joint I’ve been saving in my pocket to trip out to a painting and share it with my friend, who can barely stand.
5:30 a.m.: My two straight friends are in a backyard kiddie pool filled with fetid water littered with empty beer cans and a floating plastic bag; he’s taken his shirt off and she looks ready to do the same. Gays wouldn’t do this.
DAY SEVEN
5:30 p.m.: Chill at BKLYN Yard with a high-school buddy and two girls. My eyes wander, but you can never tell who’s gay with hipsters since even the straight ones wear girls’ jeans. Bastards.
5:55 p.m.: Friend Ashley announces that she and her girlfriends will attend a blow-job-instruction class taught by a gay couple this week. I secretly long to attend.
5:57 p.m.: Ashley asks me if I’d ever give her and the girls instruction on how to please men; I sneer derisively for the sake of my buddy. I secretly long to instruct.
8:30 p.m.: The four of us sit for a lengthy dinner at Prime Meats. Hordes of handsome thirtysomethings traipse through the restaurant with their adorable girlfriends or wives; I fantasize about being with them, eating burgers and throwing back some beers before going back to our lovely Carroll Gardens one-and-a-half bedroom with a sleeping baby and having soft Sunday-night sex.
11:45 p.m.: Return home and contemplate loading the Aussies again, but think better of it and choose to wait until tomorrow. I’ll need something to get me out of bed in the morning.
TOTALS: Four acts of morning masturbation; two acts of heavy petting with no climax owing to intoxication; approximately 23 gin-based cocktails
