Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek behind doors left slightly ajar. This week, the Bitter, Sadistic Unemployed Journalist: Male, 44, Manhattan, straight, single.
DAY ONE
9 a.m.: As usual, I’m having trouble waking up. Last night had two very strange dreams. In the first, I bend Kristy McNichol over a desk, lift up her miniskirt, and give her pantyless butt a savage beating with my belt. I’m a sadist, but I rarely have BDSM dreams, much less sex ones. In the dream, after much weeping and wailing, I push into Kristy. Delightful! Next, I’m a teenager again and bring home about a dozen porno magazines. I make no attempt to hide them from my parents, yet I’m terrified they’ll find them. They’re not Playboy or Penthouse but really explicit, violent numbers with titles like Pain and Sex and Linda Learns to Serve. Odder still, one is filled not with photos but brightly colored pictures, reminiscent of comic books.
10 a.m.: In the shower I wonder if I’m growing fatter, and hence less fuckable. I’m not exercising so it stands to reason I am. Why is that? It’s like my apartment: If I were to get it in shape, I might fare better. Regardless, I’ve resolved not to date this year. Too many false starts and bad experiences.
11 a.m.: Obsessing over ex-girlfriends. Hard to say whom among them I hate more.
9 p.m.: Decide that at some point I’m going to have to get a “full-body massage with sensual release.” It’s been months since the last one, and nearly a year since I had real sex, i.e., coitus. But I’m unemployed and cheap, so going for one is a kind of defeat: my penis’s triumph over my budget. Still, at least there’s a wide selection. I normally go to a place in Midtown with charming Suicide Girl types. It’s billed as a massage salon, and while the staff don’t put out, they provide a lot more entertainment there than just rubdowns. There’s one in particular, an actress (or so she tells me) who really enjoys the spankings and nipple-torture I administer (or so she tells me). But on a whim I called a number at the back of the Voice: the woman there said it’s only a couple of blocks from my apartment and staffed by Russian chicks. Very appealing, both for its proximity and ethnicity.
DAY TWO
9:30 a.m.: Interview for a city job. How far I’ve sunk! The women here are vile, sad, lumpen proletarians. Beggars can’t be choosers, I know, but not even in my sad condition would I slip inside one of them. Even I have my standards, and that’s coming from a man who recently courted a short, fat dysfunctional troll devoid of libido.
2:30 p.m.: The Eastern European waitress at the deli was adorable. Maybe I’ll pay my Russian neighbors a visit.
6 p.m.: A friend is shocked by my retreat from the dating field. I should’ve clarified that I’m not abstaining from carnal knowledge per se. Masseuses, one-night stands, and fuck-buddies are all perfectly fine, just no relationships. But who’s kidding whom? No women are pounding at the door, pleading for my Vienna sausage.
10 p.m.: Jerking off to pictures from a nearly 20-year-old bondage magazine. The photos of a naked Asian woman on all fours never fail to excite. If I were rich, selfish, and cruel enough, I’d love to have a sex slave. Young. Beautiful. Vulnerable. Bought and paid for. Against her will, every day a new lesson in submission and degradation. Of course I wouldn’t do that because A) I’m a nice person, B) my psyche is eradicated with humanism, and C) I don’t have that kind of bread. Mostly C.
DAY THREE
11:30 a.m.: Listening to a radio personality talk about how men just want “poon,” and everything else — flowers, poetry, etc. — is just a way to get it. I’m no prude, but I was a little shocked. Even that word — poon — there’s something so insulting about it. His words bothered me … precisely because there’s more than a bit of truth to them. Dating, romance, love letters all come down to the pursuit of and competition for sex. But I don’t think that’s all. I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to always come home and have no one to speak with. That might be my fate, but I’m not enthused about it. Of course I want to fornicate. I want to fornicate constantly. But that’s not the only thing. Maybe I’m a sap, but I honestly want to start a family with a woman and grow old with her. And I know that the older I get, the less likely it’s going to happen.
1 p.m.: Constantly eating almonds will make me fat. Getting fat decreases my chances of getting laid. I must desist from consuming almonds.
11 p.m.: My ancient bondage mag always cheers me, or more accurately, elicits an erection. Tonight I turned to a photo essay of a young white, woman with long hazel hair, shackled to a post. She doesn’t smile; in fact she looks bewildered, lost, frightened. In most BDSM porn, the agony appears phony, but her expression looks genuinely pained in the shots of a whip hitting her. Very exciting. I imagine meeting her at a boring party filled with politically correct manginas and empowered womyn. No one’s talking to her because she’s too demure, dressed too conservatively, and doesn’t respond to the Fight the Patriarchy, People of Color Unite, or Heroic Transsexual cant. I make a beeline across the room and begin the chat up. At one point I tell her to go get me a beer. I don’t say “Please,” just “Get me a beer.” She smiles, a little taken aback, but gets it. When she returns, I ask her how she felt about getting me the beer — she says that she was all right with it and in fact enjoyed doing it. She tells me she likes being told what to do. “I know you do,” I reply. I finish my drink and we go back to my place to act out the horrors in the magazine’s pages.
DAY FOUR
2 p.m.: Just masturbated. Thought about a girlfriend from long ago who’d go down on me constantly. A happy memory, but my orgasm, like others lately, was pretty unspectacular. When I was younger I’d sometimes come so hard it was like a religious experience. Masturbation now isn’t as fun. It’s almost like brushing my teeth or shaving, just personal maintenance. I’ll tell you what else — the last few times I’ve copulated haven’t been very satisfying. Maybe it’s because the condom inhibits sensation or maybe the women I’ve been with don’t know how to screw. Maybe it turns out that sex is a tedious sport.
6 p.m.: A friend wants to set me up with a mutual acquaintance. I said, thanks but no thanks. No dating this year. The girl she has in mind seems nice but I can smell trouble. Initially she’ll be fun, but just as the most delicious curry quickly brings on a spell of diarrhea, soon comes the carping, the passive aggression, the complaining, the ridicule, the games, the hypocrisy, the haranguing, the selfishness, the narcissism, and the coldness. The arctic coldness. No. Not this year.
8:30 p.m.: Is my love ruler losing inches? It’s possible, right? A shrinking penis and an expanding tummy do not make a winning combination.
DAY FIVE
1 p.m.: Sweet Jesus! I just met the most exquisite Japanese-American woman. I’ve not seen such a shimming, black-lacquer mane in years. Immaculate, flawless, smooth wheat-colored skin. The eyes? Two almond-shaped, limpid ponds. And surprisingly, she was quite nice. Better than a Playmate or a Penthouse pet. Not the biggest boobs, but so what? Do you judge a Rolls Royce by the size of its headlights? As we were talking, I tried to imagine having sex with her. The most I could muster was visualizing her sitting naked on a bed in a sunlit bedroom. That was it. It was as though she was too immaculate to be sullied by my sweat and sperm. Would I make it with Botticelli’s Venus? Well, I suppose if she insisted. Some women are almost too beautiful for sex. Almost.
5:30 p.m.: Valentine’s Day approaches. There’s something so pathetic about it. You send cards and boxes of chocolate to women who aren’t even lovers just to be a nice guy. But do you get anything? Candy? Cuddles? Kisses? Come-stained fun? Nothing. To hell with it. The b–ches in my life get nothing…except for my friend who makes dumplings for me now and then. Her and few others. Aside from them, all the females can jump in a lake.
11:30 p.m.: Nothing is more depressing than lying in bed alone and hearing a woman next door cry out in the throes of pleasure. Nothing. And let me tell you, she was singing an aria.
DAY SIX
10 a.m.: I’m thinking I should give away all my sex toys: the handcuffs, the blindfold, the riding crop … I’m not putting them to use and probably won’t for the foreseeable future. It’s a little sad.
12:30 p.m.: Wonder why women chase after guys in prison. If I were sent to the hoosegow, would babes write to me? I don’t understand the attraction to men in correctional facilities. Perhaps the ladies confuse “penal” with “penis.” How can a dude doing 25-to-life share his love with you?
11 p.m.: As I’ve done often lately, I think about two women from my last job before I go to sleep. One was an older Eastern European. (What is it about those Warsaw Pact honeys?) I’m not much for cougars, but there was something about her. She really stuck out, both fore and aft. And her smile was to die for. She could be uptight, but occasionally she’d let loose with a joke or flirtatious remark. When she was really happy, she’d shake her big bottom back and forth like a dog. If only she knew how much I wanted to slap and fondle it! When she told me she was married and lived in New Jersey, I began fantasizing about illicit assignations in Garden State motels. Before leaving I thought about telling her how I felt, but that would’ve been awkward and stupid. The other was a charming and very pretty Latina. She couldn’t have been more than 35. Wonderful eyes and hair as black as night. Like the Slav, she had a great smile, but less erotic, more like a friend spotting you in the bleachers at a ballgame. I like to imagine finding her through the BDSM personals website I used to frequent. We’d meet at a bar on a quiet afternoon, sit and talk, getting on like a house on fire. Before long we’d be necking at the bar. Then we’d go back to my place for some more intimate, rougher fun.
DAY SEVEN
Noon A job! Thank you, God. My soon-to-be boss confirmed I start Monday. Now I’ll have money for massages and porn. But no dating. Not this year. But hey, let’s face it, an employed man is a lot more attractive to the ladies. But that doesn’t matter for the next eleven months. Anyway, I’m celebrating. Break out the massage oil, ladies, and tell me a story with a happy ending!
TOTALS: Two BDSM dreams, three acts of masturbation, three fantasies of women I’ve worked with or met briefly, one appointment for a full-body massage with sensual release.
