Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek behind doors left slightly ajar. This week, the Single Mommy Blogger Having Sex on Office Tabletops: Female, 30, Minneapolis, blogger/part-time caterer, straight, divorced (single).
DAY ONE
12:50 p.m. Answering online-dating e-mails. I have profiles on Match.com and a new, still-in-beta local singles’ site called Plume Blue, which advertises on public radio and attracts more intelligent (if uglier) men. Do I want cunnilingus or a cunning linguist? I vacillate.
1:07 p.m. Still answering online-dating e-mails. Part of the delay is due to having two suitors with the same name, who I’ll call Parker (not their actual name). Because we’ve progressed to e-mailing off of PB’s site, I don’t have their pictures handy and I can’t remember which is which. Will copy and paste the same message to both.
6:02 p.m. Reading PB suitor No. 3’s introductory e-mail, in which he says he’s a “frequently broke” 27-year-old looking to “finish up the pesky Spanish bachelor’s degree that a mixture of procrastination, alcohol, and skipping class as an immature idiot didn’t allow me to finish.” So much for weeding out the losers.
6:18 p.m. Kids just got picked up by ex-husband. Commence me time, meaning: buzzing myself into oblivion with my bullet vibrator, followed by yoga and mindless tweeting.
7:35 p.m. Om my God. A ton of hotties in the weight room, conveniently adjacent to yoga studio. I steal glances of them flexing and pumping every time I fold my head between my open legs. So horny, despite vibrator-induced release earlier.
9:14 p.m. I ask a platonic male friend on Facebook why he hasn’t set me up with a real gentleman yet, and he says I’m “tough to please.” I tell him “Fuck me, feed me, follow through. It really is that simple.”
10:52 p.m. Doing special bedtime breath exercise for momentum. Bring it, Universe!
DAY TWO
6 a.m. Alarm clock interrupts dream about ex-boyfriend, the one with the Monster Cock. In dream, MC was preparing his apartment so I could move in with him, but he didn’t want to get rid of his ghastly purple carpeting. Also, lots of talk about casserole, but no sex. No wonder I broke up with him.
10:05 a.m. Catering at the synagogue. My favorite co-worker, the married cook I have a crush on, is in the kitchen. We used to flirt all the time; then I blogged about him and now he’s a cold fish. He shows me how to plate the food, plays a couple of tunes on the piano, and leaves.
11:12 a.m. My favorite female co-worker finally shows up (over an hour late) and launches into her latest sexcapade, which involved four days of nonstop sex in San Diego. “Jealous” is an understatement.
3:40 p.m. At home with my daughters. There’s a school carnival tonight and I feel guilty asking my mom to chaperone instead of me, but I just can’t do one more thing today or I won’t be all perky and pleasant for my date.
4:35 p.m. Mom takes girls to carnival. Feeling anxious about my second date tonight with The Italian, a forty-something divorced dad from Match, so I make chocolate-chunk banana-bread batter, a surefire stress soother for me.
4:56 p.m. Let the primping begin! I bring my laptop into the bathroom and stream the premiere episode of The Client List ... As Jennifer Love Hewitt rubs down hard-bodied hotties, I apply makeup, flat iron my hair, and shave my legs in the sink.
5:55 p.m. Putting on my lucky thong. Honestly, I don’t need to get laid tonight (would be wiser to wait) but I wouldn’t mind getting a massage out of the deal. But since when has a massage ever stayed a massage? (See Jennifer Love Hewitt, above.)
8:11 p.m. Basking in the afterglow of the best duck of my life at Rinata restaurant.
9 p.m. Dinner finished, The Italian asks where I want to go from here. I say his place. He says he has a sitter. (So do I.) Two horny people with no place to get it on. This feels like college all over again.
9:10 p.m. The Italian pulls up in front of his buddy’s office. There is a “soft opening” (heh heh) in progress.
9:25 p.m. “We don’t trust people who don’t drink,” Buddy says when I refuse a beer. He seems to think I’m a goody two-shoes. “Be careful what you say,” The Italian tells him. “She’s a writer.”
9:31 p.m. Buddy is reading aloud from a blog post about how I got finger-banged on a fire escape.
10:33 p.m. Buddy gives The Italian a key to the office, tells us to go for a drive, and that they’ll all be gone in ten minutes.
10:57 p.m. The first kiss is a perfect fit.
11:16 p.m. Enjoying The Italian’s big sausage … on the conference table, on the floor, on a desk, on an armchair. I want to come, but I can’t unless I’m on top. (Though not on his face, which is where I am now.)
12:03 a.m. “We need a bed. Let’s go get a room,” he says.
12:18 a.m. Le Meridian is booked. So is the W. Third try’s a charm at Graves 601.
12:30 a.m. “Are you going to want your own bed,” the Italian jokingly asks, “or can we share?” Price tag: $179.
12:41 a.m. I am on top. I am coming. I wish this would never end.
1:03 a.m. Trying out all sorts of positions. Would like to come again, but am so wet and sweaty now, there’s no friction left. I tell The Italian to come. He does, inside of me. We are not using protection.
1:05 a.m. Pillow talk is just as satisfying as the sex.
1:36 a.m. Round two, though neither of us comes. Too tired.
2:03 a.m. There’s nothing more I’d like than to sleep in this huge white bed and have sunrise sex, but I tell The Italian I don’t like my girls to wake up and not find me at home. As a single parent, he understands. We get dressed and check out. As we are leaving the lobby, a bride comes in. She looks radiant and beautiful in a strapless ball gown. That stage of life feels so far away for me now.
3 a.m. Driving me back to my car, The Italian asks how many long-term relationships I’ve had since my divorce. “Three, though that depends on your definition of ‘long-term’.” “A year or more,” he says. “Then I’ve got nothing,” I say. I explain that while those relationships were serious, they were short-lived. Still, I’ve been engaged twice in that time. “And the men just up and left,” I tell him.
3:03 a.m. The Italian pulls up alongside my car, which is dripping wet. Of course I make a joke about this. We kiss good-bye. Several times. He says he’ll call me tomorrow.
3:35 a.m. After tweeting spree bragging about getting laid, I’m finally tucking myself into bed. What a night. So grateful to the gods, fate, whatever made this happen.
DAY THREE
7:45 a.m. Awoken by 9-year-old doing cartwheels one floor above my bed. Cue bangover.
9:21 a.m. Sexting with The Italian and “watching” my daughters do gymnastics all at the same time. Multitasking MILF.
10:35 a.m. Would love to go for a run in 70-degree weather, but I don’t think my legs would take the pounding after last night’s pounding.
12:55 p.m. Plan for afternoon while kids are on playdate: eat banana bread, and write blog post about sexcellent adventure with The Italian.
8:15 p.m. Went to put 8-year-old to bed, but she’d already fallen asleep. Bad mommy needs spanking.
8:37 p.m. The Italian texts to ask if I’m free to talk on the phone. Sense a lightweight, but still palpable, sinking in stomach.
8:52 p.m. The Italian called. He said he wanted to invite me over tonight but got worn out training for Ironman. Made plans for Thursday instead. Praying my period comes and goes in the meantime.
10:02 p.m. Still have dates with the two Parkers from Plume Blue pending. Both fall into “nice guy” category. Torn between postponing until I see what happens with The Italian and plowing ahead with the “two pairs and a spare” dating strategy.
10:20 p.m. Confirmed date with one Parker tomorrow night for dinner. Feels a bit like betrayal to The Italian.
DAY FOUR
7:15 a.m. Back hurts like hell. I’m too old to be having sex on tables.
10:10 a.m. Ex-husband late to pick up kids. Grr.
11:04 a.m. Replaying sex-highlights reel is hazardous while treadmill running.
12:31 p.m. Phone ablaze with messages. “What’s shakin’?” from The Italian, and a request to cover a catering shift tonight. Now must reschedule dinner date.
12:43 p.m. “Rats. Just ironed nice shirt” says text from Parker. Nothing from The Italian.
4:34 p.m. No further texts from The Italian.
5:05 p.m. Crush is not working today. The other cook, the one who makes me uncomfortable, is here. He’s also married and flirts shamelessly with me. The difference is I have no interest in reciprocating.
6:32 p.m. Cook spanks me with a baking sheet. “Excuse you!” I say. I am not in the mood.
6:40 p.m. I ask my boss (currently breaking up with his baby mama) how he’s been. “Livin’ the dream,” he says. “What kind of dream?” I ask with a raised eyebrow.
7:55 p.m. Done catering. Three new texts from The Italian. Apparently he was napping earlier. Uh-huh.
10:30 p.m. Don’t know why I’m still awake. Feel like I’m waiting to see if a man is going to text/email me. Going to masturbate while I wait.
11:06 p.m. No texts/emails/phone calls, but got off six times. Guess I’ll go to bed.
DAY FIVE
6:13 a.m. Sleepless in Minneapolis. WTF, Mr. Sandman?!
10:17 a.m. Checking online-dating sites. The man action has slowed significantly. I wonder if they’re all reading my blog and think that I’m in a relationship now? (Am I in a relationship now?)
10:48 a.m. The Italian texts to hammer out details for third date, three days hence. He is going to cook for me! And he doesn’t cook at all! Should be a fun/funny bonding experience.
4:55 p.m. Paula Deen has a new line of lip gloss. I hope she does flavored lube next.
5:03 p.m. Text from The Italian: “You have an amazing ass!”
10:02 p.m. The Italian texts to ask about food allergies. I tell him no dairy, onions, or garlic. He’s cool with all of that, except the garlic. Clearly, he’s never spent the night with me after eating garlic.
11:23 p.m. Exhausted, but hate going to bed alone. Would masturbate, but want to “save” myself for The Italian. Stuffing down feelings instead. If only this banana bread vibrated, my life would be complete.
DAY SIX
6:12 a.m. Whoever set my internal time clock needs to get smacked upside the head.
8:16 a.m. Text from The Italian. He couldn’t sleep, either. Why aren’t we not-sleeping together?
12:24 p.m. Doing a phone interview with a musician who just turned 21. His lack of self-awareness is infuriating. Reminded why I don’t date twenty-somethings.
12:53 p.m. Two-page fan e-mail from reader, ending with: “I would rather masturbate with a handful of bees than ever have to hear that word again” (re: my accidental use of the word “irregardless”).
1:22 p.m. Text from The Italian. He is having rough day at work. I swear to God, you give a man good head and he becomes (as Rosie Perez’s character said in Untamed Heart) “sand in your underpants.”
3:13 p.m. The other Parker wants to have coffee tomorrow night. I don’t want to go. Going to postpone one week.
5:43 p.m. Stressed out. Going to masturbate.
5:54 p.m. Coming so hard I piss myself. Going to do that again. And again. And again.
8:08 p.m. Ah-ha. Yoga buzz ruined by text from The Italian. His friends have issue with the blog. They want certain details edited out. There goes my night of chillaxin’.
9:02 p.m. Hmm … Googling “sexy kiss” for stock photo for blog. This is my kind of porn: semi-naked cuddling stuff.
9:45 p.m. “Sexting,” albeit tamely, with The Italian. Why am I not getting laid right now?!
10:13 p.m. Jesus Christ. Am I ovulating or something? Every man and his mother is trying to get ahold of me right now. E-mail/text/voice mail overload.
11:19 p.m. Ugh. Bedtime dread again.
DAY SEVEN
7:23 a.m. The good news: I finally got a full night’s sleep. The bad: I also got my period. Hope The Italian is up for blood and stuff tomorrow.
12:03 p.m. Decided to try on my skinny jeans just because I miss having pants with holes in them. They will not zip. Going to walk and squat around the house in them until they loosen up.
12:33 p.m. Ta-da! Can still squeeze into skinny jeans. Going to photograph this momentous event and post photos on Facebook for ego strokes.
2:34 p.m. Something feels wrong but I can’t put a finger on it … so I’m going to finger myself with my Bullet until better feelings come along.
2:37 p.m. Mid-orgasm text from The Italian. In Spanish. “I’m up to my elbows in deliciousness,” I say. He thinks I’m talking about dessert. LOL. Is it tomorrow yet?
9 p.m. Texts from The Italian once again coincided with my Bullet orgasms. Does he have radar or what? Will soon develop Pavlovian response to SMS.
TOTALS: One hot date; two acts of intercourse, one orgasm (with a lover); 25 orgasms (solo); five masturbation sessions with bullet vibrator; two online-dating profiles utilized; two spankings received; one twenty-something rejected; two catering shifts worked; three pseudo-sexual-harassment incidents; one raincheck.
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