Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek at what your friends and neighbors are doing behind doors left slightly ajar. Today, the Guy in a Smoking-Hot, Not-Quite-in-Love Relationship: 26, male, straight, UES, advertising manager.
DAY ONE
9 a.m.: Koreatown hangover. To alleviate the nausea, I watch a saved-until-manually-erased DVR’d OnDemand porn. It features co-eds and/or teens.
Midnight: Wasted in Brooklyn. I’ve been in a relationship for the past six months despite my rampant self-involvement and immaturity. I’m constantly pushing my luck. Luckily, she’s not out tonight to see the drunkenness.
1 a.m.: Still wasted, and en route to Manhattan-bound subway. I walk past an attractive girl smoking and crying in an apartment doorway. We talk. She’s French and still crying. I tell her a joke about two peanuts walking into a bar. I walk her to her doorstep and decide not to lean in.
2 a.m.: Pick up a (not the) girlfriend outside of a bar in cab on the way back to my apartment to go hang out. I’m all types of wasted. Her earrings jangle and slap against her long pale neck. I love/hate that this turns me on.
2:30 a.m.: She is not wearing a bra under her form-fitting white shirt. I remember when we used to fuck without condoms. She is talking too much. I drop her off.
3 a.m.: I masturbate furiously.
4 a.m.: I masturbate again and open the window.
DAY TWO
4:30 p.m.: My cock hurts from masturbating (I have sensitive skin). I rub some cortisone on it in anticipation of having sex with my girlfriend later.
8 p.m.: Dinner with the girlfriend. She says she enjoys the consistency of our sex lately. I realize I care less and less about the actual act of sex. Then I realize that I never think this during the actual act of sex.
10 p.m.: We’re healthy with Scotch and happy with company, and our walk home is punctuated by impromptu make-out sessions on the busy streets of New York. In jeans with no underwear, this latest erection is proving painful. Then I almost tell her I love her.
10:30 p.m.: I throw her on my bed face down. With a handful of her hair wrapped tight in my fist I explore the low of her back with my tongue. Her skin even tastes soft. I fuck her from behind, but I realize she’s not going to come that way and I absolutely love it when she does. With me now on top (our turnkey position), she comes quickly. I hold her tight as I can to me and continue in the same motion until her mind resurfaces from its post-come stupor so she can come again. She does this with little effort on my part. She pushes me off panting and awesome and puts me in her mouth.
DAY THREE
8 a.m.: Girlfriend offers morning head before she leaves. I oblige. The grass can simply not be any greener.
3 p.m.: Picking up some shit I got framed, I see a beautiful ass in white pants. From the black hair and taut frame, I assume the girl is Asian. I am reminded of a rant I read long ago from a man who claimed he would give up the fork utensil if it meant all attractive women were forced to wear white pants year-round.
9 p.m.: Girlfriend comes over. We get high and watch television. When we don’t have sex, I always hear about it. Compare all-consuming state of indolence to inevitable comment. Indolence wins.
DAY FOUR
1:30 p.m.: See the slightly more attractive one of my two office-building crushes. I tell myself that I would give it all up just to wake beside her on a Sunday morning and brush aside the bangs from her face. We talk about who-the-fuck-knows-what. I try to remember if she is the one with the boyfriend or if it’s the other one.
7 p.m.: At the gym. Erect on the stationary bike with nowhere to go.
8:30 p.m.: Girlfriend comes over.
9 p.m.: We have amazing sex. At least for me. Sometimes we try to find all the various ways in which she can come. This go-around proves futile. I can tell her heart’s not in it, the sexy li’l quitter.
11 p.m.: Fall asleep together naked while the TV mumbles in the other room.
DAY FIVE
1 p.m.: On the salad line at Hale & Hearty, wondering if Beth Ditto gives good hetero head.
7 p.m.: Take my team out to a nice dinner to thank them for a good first quarter. Can’t stop staring at an Israeli Keira Knightley at other table. Sharp eyes, turquoise heels, blah blah blah. Despite her forehead-slapping beauty, I imagine she would not like having sex up against the various surfaces my apartment offers. Realize I have the dumbest thoughts.
11 p.m.: Four gin martinis into the eve, I meet up with my girlfriend at a bar by my apartment. She went to the Elton John concert and is just as many sheets to the wind as I am. She looks striking, and I can’t stop telling her so. She’s wearing a trim dress the color of weather-worn brick with black tights and the highest heels she owns. I tell her that I’m happy.
11:15 p.m.: She’s been feeling a little insecure lately (despite my perma-hard disposition when I’m around her) and starts talking about not being a good girlfriend. First I think this is a mood killer, then tell myself that I’m a guy and who gives a shit about moods. I take off my shirt and her tights and press my tongue against her with her dress pulled up above her hips. She comes on my couch. I pass out in three minutes beached-whale style.
DAY SIX
8:30 a.m.: Walking to the L train, I spot a gorgeous six-foot Amazon black punk girl with studded leather jacket dripping with shine. Cro-Mags and Voidoids pins. Probably the coolest, sexiest woman I have ever seen in my entire life. I wonder if I would be too intimidated to have sex with her when the time came.
11 a.m.: Still thinking about that girl from the subway platform.
2 p.m.: On the street. Chelsea gallerina in ankle boots makes me wish I were an artist.
9 p.m.: Girlfriend comes over after she gets home from work. Lying against one another on my couch, I stand to take off my pants and put on shorts. She asks me why I would do that. “Just take them off and I’ll give you a blow job.” Living the dream, but wanting to be inside her, we run to the bedroom (cliché clothes-tearing, against-the-wall humping) and fuck like teenagers. She comes. Then I come while I’m on top. I’ve only come this way with her a handful of times. She reminds me of this with a big smile on her face.
10 p.m.: Still naked in bed. Tickle fighting. Other lame naked pillow activities ensue. Like saying how much we adore each other. I care about her deeply. Am I in love? I don’t think so. I’m far too mired in my own bullshit and twentysomething trappings at the moment. I want to love her. And I should. I just, well, don’t. She’s the best girlfriend anyone could ever hope to have. I wish that were enough to love her.
11 p.m.: Leave her to sleep her sleep and go watch the Lakers game.
DAY SEVEN
10 a.m.: Receive text from my good ol’ lesbian friend about her newest girlfriend: “Sometimes having a gf sucks.” Strangely can’t find myself agreeing.
11 a.m.: Exchange texts with girlfriend about our great sex the previous night. Hard now. Can’t stand up to walk to the printer. Inconvenient erection. Will have to wait this puppy out.
8 p.m.: Dinner with friend who’s in town for the weekend. He tells me that he got stuck on a roof earlier in the day and fingered a girl he met a few days prior while he was up there. I wonder which happened first. The fingering or getting stuck. Turns out it was the fingering.
Totals: Three acts of intercourse; three acts of masturbation; three acts of fellatio; three acts of cunnilingus; three inconveniently public erections; two almost-mentions of the L word.
