Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek at what your friends and neighbors are doing behind doors left slightly ajar. Today, the Multi-Orgasmic Woman Test-driving a Potential New Boyfriend: 23, female, Greenwich Village, straight.
DAY ONE
5 a.m.: Suffering from insomnia, horny. Contemplate how I’ve been single for over a year after an intense three-year relationship, burnt out on casual/drunk/let’s-just-be-fuck-buddies sex. Realize Potential New Boyfriend is just finishing his shift at Über-trendy restaurant. Send booty-call text.
6 a.m.: Potential BF arrives smelling like truffle oil. He suggests he shower, I respond by yanking him on top of me. He tastes like red wine. Excellent sex ensues.
8 a.m.: Potential BF snoring in my bed. Still awake, less horny. Go to gym, run four miles, return, shower, wake the boy. Missionary-style sex again before dashing to the office. Love that we can watch ourselves in my well-placed wall mirror.
11:42 a.m.: Discreetly sniff arm repeatedly during conference call. Can smell him on me. Feel deliciously naughty.
10 p.m.: Contemplate masturbating, pass out before I can summon the strength to find my vibrator.
DAY TWO
1:30 p.m.: My old friend Dave IMs me to say he has broken up with his live-in girlfriend of two years. I immediately compile a mental list of single girlfriends willing to engage in casual sex.
2:39 p.m.: Mutual friend on IM discloses that Dave also has a history with men.
3 p.m.: Grill Dave via IM on his sexual preferences. Indeed, he’s a two-way street. Try to block the screen with my body, so my boss does not see the conversation.
DAY THREE
8 p.m.: Attend swanky art party with Potential BF. Many hot men, feel smothered by his excessive attention. Alternate between feeling irritated and guilty.
10:47 p.m.: Post-party drinks at local bar. Run into my ex’s recently married best friend. Asks how I’ve been while staring directly at my tits. Feel vaguely disgusted, but secretly hope he reports back to the ex that my tits look good.
Midnight: Skip the nightcap in favor of bed with Potential BF. How is it possible he’s figured out my body so quickly? Orgasm twice: Once with me on top, and impressively again with me on the bottom. Doze off while spooning. Awake an hour later and shove him to his side of the bed. The man has no concept of personal sleeping space.
DAY FOUR
2:46 p.m.: Potential BF and I emerge from bedroom after hour-long sex. Love the fact that he doesn’t seem to need/want anal. Discover gay roommate has just stumbled home from a night with his “slam piece.” Get mad when he refuses to disclose details.
4:58 p.m.: Share French toast and berries with Potential BF at late brunch. Excessive kissing, hand tickling, deep eye gazing. Don’t give a damn who’s watching.
8:27 p.m.: Drinks with best friend at Stanton Social. Discuss vulvodynia (chronic vulval pain) and “feminine dryness.” Hope she does not hate me for having orgasms.
DAY FIVE
10:22 a.m.: Masturbate in bed. Rabbit Pearl (in purple) from Babeland, a gift from my ex-boyfriend. Wonder if the orgasms I give myself are better or just different than what I have with Potential BF.
3:15 p.m.: Brother calls from Christian college. Says he’s in love but he and the girl haven’t kissed yet because “they’re saving themselves.” Decide I’m probably going to hell, resent parents for burdening my soul with Catholic guilt.
5:48 p.m.: Ex-boyfriend from five years past calls. Is leaving the country for six months, says he’s in love with me. Freak out. Rationalize the practicality of this with him for an hour. Get turned on when he reminds me of “that time in my dad’s garage.”
6:48 p.m.: Vent to best friend, agree to refrain from taking his calls. Fall asleep remembering the way he could flip me across the bed with one hand. Hot.
DAY SIX
10 a.m.: Chat with co-worker about possibility of serious relationships at such a young age. Refuse to admit I’m dating the Potential BF, retorting, “We spend quality time together.”
11:17 a.m.: Momentarily panic when I realize I’m two hours late starting new pack of birth control. Rummage through purse to find crumpled prescription bag from week before. Inside: pill pack, a $20 bill, and a note, “This month’s on me. Love, [Potential BF].” Holy shit. The man just paid for my birth control. Let me repeat that: Holy shit. The man just paid for my birth control.
11:31 p.m.: Potential BF texts asking if he can come over after work. YES. YES. YES.
DAY SEVEN
8:30 a.m.: Leave Potential BF sleeping in my bed as I head to office. Take journal with me to prevent potential snooping.
Noon: Sprint home at lunch break to wake Potential BF, enjoy quickie, me on top. We both cum at the same time. Loudly. I love this man. Mental anxiety attack when I realize I almost said this out loud.
10:33 p.m.: Catch roomie sneaking out the door “for a walk to get ice cream.” Refuse to believe the shit-eating grin on his face has anything to do with cow’s milk.
Total: Five acts of intercourse with Potential BF; one act of masturbation; one run-in with ex’s best friend while looking conveniently hot; one surprise gift of birth control pills from Potential BF; 1 surprise confession of love from former boyfriend, promptly ignored.
