sex diaries

The Texan Dating a Veterinarian and a Veteran

New York’s Sex Diaries series asks anonymous city dwellers to record a week in their sex lives — with comic, tragic, often sexy, and always revealing results. This week, a 27-year-old copywriter dating on Bumble: female, 27, UES, single, straight.

DAY ONE

10 a.m. My thoughts are preoccupied with the Vet, a guy I met on Bumble who works overnight emergency shifts at an animal hospital. As a pescatarian and friend to all animals, I’m putty in his hands, but he keeps texting on and off and playing games. We’ve been out twice, and after our first date he texted me nonstop and double-texted. We hooked up the second time — just the tip — and his texting game disintegrated.

10:01 a.m. I’m Bumbling up a storm. The guys on Bumble are superior to any other app, and the sheer number of them is encouraging. It’s Pandora’s dick in a box.

12:30 p.m. I go to get my hair blown out at Julien Farel. The sink chairs fully recline and massage you, which feels phenomenal.

11 p.m. Go out on the LES with my roommate. Every single guy at this bar is in a relationship. I resort to texting the Doctor I banged twice last night, and eventually the Vet. I ask the Vet repeatedly what he wants from me. He says that he likes me but I scare him. I don’t think a guy has ever admitted this to me before, and I’m tickled. The Vet agrees to a house call for my puss.

DAY TWO

2 a.m.
When he arrives, my roommate interrogates him regarding his intentions. She thinks he’s using me as a distraction until he finds a Jewish wife. I slink to the floor as my roommate makes him admit that he likes me. I then crawl to my bedroom, where he arrives minutes later. I’m wearing a low-cut dress with no bra, which is basically my signature move (#freethenipple). I love my perky breasts and curvy hips. Society doesn’t clamor for medium-size breasts, but they are seriously the best of both worlds. The Vet lays on the bed and I unbutton his shirt. I make a mental note of his pink shirt — it’s so clueless and I love a clueless dresser. I straddle him. He pushes my dress over an inch on each side to reveal my nips, and then tells me to take the whole thing off. He starts eating me out. Usually, I’m an all-you-can eat buffet, but this time I stop him and get on top. I bend backward to grab his ankles. I know he wants me to take control but overall I’m too drunk/exhausted from doctor sex last night. His long dick hurts. He comes in missionary, a good ol’ fashioned fuck. Bright spot: His ass is squishier than his scrawny frame would suggest.

2 p.m. Really lamenting the fact that the Vet and I finally slept together and I had whiskey clit. I text to tell him and he doesn’t even know what whiskey clit is, or that I had it. He’s a sweet lover but maybe inexperienced.

4 p.m. I’m so hung-over, I watch Master of None for the umpteenth time with my roommate. I Seamless a pizza with pineapple, and the chunks are so huge they scrape off the cheese. UGH.

DAY THREE

9:30 a.m. I wake up and walk 40 blocks to my office. I miss the days when the Vet sexted with enthusiasm about examining my puss. The week after our first date was en fuego. Our conversation made me need to change my underwear at work.

3 p.m. Working — which really means reading the entire internet. I think about the inevitable conversation that occurs when the person you’re dating asks you what you want. I don’t understand how anyone can know what they want or how someone will fit into their lives — until they actually know them. I’m looking for reciprocal passion, intrigue, and elocution. The term “sapiosexual” is thrown around with reckless abandon, but in any case, so true. I’m not into get-money types; I like a guy who has fucking values, interests, and hobbies. And I live for the moment when I take off my own clothes.

11:45 p.m. I text to see if the Vet is working overnight shifts, hoping he can assist me in rubbing one out. No response, but I contemplate his disinterest as I use a contraption designed to massage eye cream into your under-eyes to get me off.

DAY FOUR

10 a.m. I’m at work. I have a feeling that this company is folding: 2016 is the year I’ll lose my job and my childhood home, and my best friend will move abroad with her husband. I text her status updates about the Vet. My friends are the kind who make you feel like everything you go through, they go through. Close female friendships make the world go ‘round.

2 p.m. Bumble message. It’s a guy I matched with weeks ago, before the holidays. He is back from Florida and wants to meet up for a drink. I’m disconcerted by his lack of photos (only two) but like that he lives on the Upper West and works for a nonprofit.

3 p.m. I Google the Vet and read his bio, which is a huge mistake. If you have the tendency to idealize men based on intangible qualities, stay off the World Wide Web. He traveled to Thailand for two summers to neuter stray animals; I went for the Full Moon party.

7 p.m. I walk home from the office with my work wife. We spontaneously decide to cook pasta at hers, but we do this most weeks. Her boy toy has just returned from Colombia and comes over so tan. They’re happy, and it makes me want someone to bring around with my friends.

DAY FIVE

11:30 a.m. Guys are so flirty on the street. I enjoy walking up and down Lexington and being looked up and down. Why does nothing ever come of sidewalk flirtation?

7 p.m. I respond to my expiring Bumble matches. I send every guy the same boilerplate message and just change the name. I consider banter to be my best commodity, and I don’t like to give it away for free.  

7:30 p.m. I’ve settled on a sweater and tights with flats for my date with Nonprofit. I should really wear boots or heels, but we’re going to Jacob’s Pickles.

8 p.m. Nonprofit turns out to be Columbia grad student/military Special Forces. Jacob’s Pickles turns into a shitty UWS bar that boasts available seating. Despite my stereotypes about military guys, he seems liberal enough for me. We down Sambuca and Sauv blanc and eat shrimp. I have no qualms and bring him home.

DAY SIX

12–5 a.m. We try, unsuccessfully, to fuck. Neither of us can sleep, so we cuddle and watch Black Mirror. He tells me stories of living abroad and I realize — and then say — that he craves intimacy. It’s so interesting to be with a man who craves intimacy. He holds me tight.

6 a.m. We drift in and out of conversation and sleep. As I come to, I realize he is smart, principled, and fucking hot, and I want to unravel him. He puts his hand near my clit but doesn’t move it. The anticipation is incredible.

7 a.m. He fingers me until I come. Despite the fact I’m not completely sold on him, I go under the covers to retrieve his dick and spy a baby’s arm. Seriously, the fattest D is staring at me and I don’t remember this at all. I ask him if he’s kidding with this D. I try to spit on it but don’t have enough saliva. He climbs over me, fingers me with his D without me even asking him to, and then enters me. I feel like I have never had sex before this moment. He fingers my clit and fucks me while I dig my fingernails into his back. He flips me over and continues the c-stimulation all the while. I’m making noises I’ve never made before and he comes on my back.

11:30 a.m. I have a work lunch at the Smith, so I strut down Lex and listen to “I’ve Got You Babe” with the biggest smirk on my face. Many cuties at the Smith, but I am completely satiated. I’m glowing.

7 p.m. I call my mom and relay everything that has happened — in less detail. She lives in Texas, where I grew up. She says I’m “selling [myself] short” by sleeping with whomever I want whenever I want. It’s taken me 27 years to unlearn everything I learned down there.

9 p.m. My friends have the opposite reaction. We laugh about going through most of our lives as sexual prey, and turning into sexual predators the day we turned 27.

DAY SEVEN

5 p.m. I’m so grateful for the sex I had yesterday, and that Special Forces is texting me. I would crawl across Central Park over hot coals to have this guy’s D again. Maybe this is my cuff.

2 a.m. (Technically Day Eight) Look what the cat dragged in. The Vet texts, “Hi.” I won’t respond to that, ever. It stings, but I know he doesn’t want me like I want him. Life doesn’t just tie itself up like that, but alas, the journaling must end here …

Want to submit a sex diary? Email sexdiaries@nymag.com and tell us a little about yourself.