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 24-year-old late bloomer, straight, Greenpoint, journalist.
10:00 a.m. Sooooo ready for this week to be over. I spill hot coffee on my hand walking into work, carrying three tote bags of God-knows-what. Why do I have so many tote bags?
10:15 a.m. I’m a 24-year-old woman living in New York. But I was a very late bloomer. I lived at home though college in a conservative Catholic family. Lost my virginity when I was 21. And the Sex Talk? Never got it. (Thank you, Google.) So, moving to the city became my big chance to finally navigate the world of dating and hookups. Thus, I text James, a 25-year-old programmer I met on Tinder a few weeks ago. Skinny, scruffy, 5’9”, wears a red beanie a lot. We hooked up on our first date and have been texting casually ever since. Me: Work blues, what’s for lunch? J: Haha, I feel ya. Still looking for good spots.
2:00 p.m. Some co-workers and I decide to check out a beer garden in Astoria after work.
6:40 p.m. On our way to Queens, I check in with Jess, a 28-year-old video producer I swiped right on. We got off to a rocky start at first, playing Tinder-tag and not actually meeting until nearly a month later. I’m still surprised we ever did. But he’s funny and odd and I like him. So far. Me: What kind of trouble are you getting into tonight?
6:55 p.m. He says he doesn’t want to be that guy on his phone the whole time and signs off.
10:00 p.m. I’m dancing like Elaine with my co-workers and feel myself slipping into the dark waters of Drunk Texting. Inevitably, I cave and message Sean, a 24-year-old and my most recent ex. Long story short: We met online, said we wouldn’t do labels, but somehow ended up with one because, well, what did we actually expect?
10:15 p.m. He’s drunk at a bar in Brooklyn. Our texts get explicit pretty quickly. I tell him I wish I was sucking him off, and we unanimously decide that having sex would be a trophy idea. It’s not like we ended on bad terms. Not really, anyways. Fuck you, gray area.
11:00 p.m. I’m on the train back home when my phone buzzes. It’s Sean: What’s the best train to your apt?
11:01 p.m. Nevermind, in an uber.
11:15 p.m. It’s kind of nice to see him again, two months later. All 5’10”of him, with his floppy brown hair and gamer-specs. My roommate gets home and gives me a “What the fuck are you doing” side-eye.
11:20 p.m. He slides my shirt off, I undo his belt, and oh dear God, how I have missed him. He already knows what I like. Name-calling. Mild choking. When he’s inside of me, I literally. Can’t. Even.
11:40 p.m. We lie in bed, sweaty and basically panting. The room smells like sex. We chat for a bit, but decide no more sleepovers, for the best. He gets dressed and we kiss good-bye. Then, I drift off into the best sleep I’ve had all week. Success.
9:30 a.m. I get up for a barre class in Greenpoint.
11:30 a.m. My phone buzzes. It’s Sean: I feel kind of dirty about last night. Wbu? I say I feel fine. We agree that is was fun and would be willing to keep sex as an option.
11:31 a.m. I can’t help but think, Oh! My first fuck-boy. *Smirk*
6:10 p.m. Jess, the video producer, texts me: So, what kind of trouble did you end up getting into last night? Eep! I don’t know why he makes me so giddy. I find it enticing that he’s four years older than me. Also, we live five blocks apart. We decide to hang.
9:45 p.m. When I spot him standing outside the cocktail bar in a suit jacket and dress shoes, I swoon. He’s a little awkward (how I tend to like them), and I can’t tell if he’s nervous, bored, or just not picking up on social cues. We chat about families, living in Brooklyn, and craft cocktails where you can’t pronounce any of the ingredients.
1:30 a.m. Down the street and a couple of beers in, we’re swapping high-school prom stories before kissing for the first time. It’s electric. Damn you, extra-strength cocktails. On the walk back to his, I hop onto an old penny-horse ride outside a closed bodega. We laugh.
1:40 a.m. Jess’s apartment is just like him, kind of off (there’s a cow-print couch I later find out he reupholstered himself), but cool. He offers me a shot of chartreuse and we toast before I move to his bedroom doorway. He follows me and we start kissing like there’s no tomorrow. He slides his hand down my waistline and under my belt and I am so fucking wet.
1:45 a.m. Two beautiful dicks inside me, in two days. Bless me.
2:05 a.m. He is definitely a “geek on the streets and a freak in the sheets” type. But damn. He fucks me pretty hard and is surprised I can take it. It must be some sort of repressed sexual aggression I crave deep down. I climb on top and he tells me to wrap my legs around him. I ride him. I finish before he does, which rarely happens. Yes, yes, yes.
9:30 a.m. It’s kind of weird waking up next to Jess. He’s not a cuddler, but not cold. Again, I can’t tell if he’s socially awkward, or just not interested. He gets up to pee and comes back with minty-fresh breath. Okay, I see you, boy.
9:36 a.m. Morning sex, get at me. I tell him he has nice eyes (who says that?).
9:55 a.m. I cancel my barre class. No way these legs are bending for 24 hours.
10:30 a.m. Back at my home. I get a text from Jess. It’s the picture of me on the bodega horse. N’aww.
12:00 p.m. Remembering I have an office potluck tomorrow, I text James the programmer and ask if he wants to come over and make a pie. He’s amused: Seriously? What time?
2:00 p.m. He buys us coffees and remembers how I take mine: milk with two Splendas.
8:00 p.m. We hang out pretty much all day. I feel strangely but incredibly comfortable around James. After making the pie, we share a toaster-oven pizza, smoke cigarettes on the rooftop, and talk about exes and moving to New York. When it gets chilly, we go back inside to make tea before making out. He’s a very mindful kisser, never rushing. I appreciate that.
8:30 p.m. We have super-vanilla sex for a bit and neither of us finish. Instead, we spend most of our time lying naked in bed, him tracing a finger up and down my arm, me playing with his tiny black plugs. I tell him about my recent fondness for mild BDSM and he chuckles, wide-eyed. He’s pretty into astrology and meditation so we talk about that and lay around for another hour before he heads back to Bushwick.
10:20 a.m. I roll into work, smug about having gotten so much action the past few days, convinced this is my sexual peak. I’ve never tried the whole seeing/talking/sleeping with several people simultaneously, but so far, so good. Very good.
11:15 a.m. James and I start texting. He asks if I want to go to a concert later this week: And don’t worry about the ticket. :)
8:00 p.m. Home for the night. I wander into the kitchen and settle on a frozen Amy’s teriyaki bowl. While it whirs inside the microwave, I stare longingly at the biodegradable blur like you’d stare longingly at a phone, waiting for it to ring. Except, I’m also doing that, too.
8:10 p.m. I check my OkCupid profile. A match! Feeling like Beyoncé.
8:11 p.m. His username is conveniently a first–last name deal, so obviously I start social-media stalking him like a crazy woman. Brian. Twenty-five-year-old stand-up comedian who looks oddly like one of my friends from high school, and also like the guy from Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs.
8:30 p.m. We start texting. I start to peg him as the archetypal comedian who’s seemingly cool on the surface, but dark on the inside. He texts with periods at the end of everything. What does that mean? Probably nothing. Or everything. I finally crack him and he laughs at my terribly cheesy pun. Literally, it’s a joke about cheese.
11:00 a.m. James has been texting me every day. Not about anything serious though; we just bitch about work.
12:55 p.m. Still nothing from Jess.
1:45 p.m. Sean pings me on Gchat. I know friends-with-exes isn’t sustainable. Duh. But this feels pretty good. I vow to take it one day at a time. My mom’s always saying, “You’re young, and you’re single. You should be having fun! Don’t rush to settle, blah, blah … ” I needed to embrace those sentiments when I was ready. I’m ready now. To be 24, get laid, make plans, and live life. Hell, yes.
10:05 a.m. I hook myself up to a caffeine IV and sail away to a happy place.
2:00 p.m. WHATEVER JESS, I DON’T WANT YOU TO TEXT ME ANYWAYS. I RODE A BODEGA HORSE FOR YOU.
6:30 p.m. I head to the East Village after work to meet some girlfriends for happy hour. Over $6 blood-orange mojitos and sliders, we gab about work, life, and how men are dick holes, but can also have great dicks.
6:35 p.m. My phone buzzes. Brian, the comedian, texts me: I’m going to a show in Long Island City tonight. You should swing by. Eep!
10:15 p.m. As the girls and I stumble onto the uptown train together, I’m suddenly nervous. I was planning on taking a shower tonight, so I’m kind of feeling gross now. Is it desperate that I’m going on a first invite? Too late, already on my way to Grand Central, next stop: What Am I Doing With My Life. I kiss the girls good-bye and transfer to the 7 train.
10:39 p.m. Fuck these ambiguous venues. I arrive outside and peer in the window. It’s a cafe/bar/club trio.
10:40 p.m. Me: I’m being a pussy outside. B: I’m coming! Suddenly, I see his goofy grin emerge from the side door and he hugs me hello.
11:30 p.m. Witty exchanges and a few PBRs later, the show wraps up and we’re dancing like no one’s watching with his comedy buddies. Oh look, a photo booth … I can’t resist a photo booth.
11:40 p.m. We try and make clever faces before four blinding flashes, but are much too drunk. Soon, we’re making out like a couple of horny kids behind the gym after homeroom.
1:45 a.m. After power naps on the late-night train and sloppy kisses on the platform, we finally get back to his place in Bushwick (Bushwick boys, tho.) Incredibly inebriated, we strip and have sex. I’ve never been with a guy who actually says, “Come for me, baby” so much. He aggressively wants me to sit on his face. We’re both too drunk to finish, so we just cuddle. He’s definitely a cuddler. I dig that.
11:10 a.m. Tangled limbs and crumpled sheets on a mattress on the floor. I love Brian’s lanky, 6-foot body. He buries his head in my chest — in a cute way, not a creepy motorboating way — and he says he likes how I smell. I am in serious need of a shower, but thanks?
11:15 a.m. He says he wants to make me eggs. His special ingredient: scrambling them in bacon grease (actually genius). We share a plate and nibble on blueberries, talking about where we’re from and what it’s like to be making exponentially less money than your friends. After breakfast, I get dressed, he gives me a deep kiss good-bye and I hop into an Uber back home.
12:45 p.m. After a hot shower, I’m reborn. I get ready for a wine-tasting event my roommate invited me to in Chelsea. I’m impersonating her friend who has the unlimited membership.
2:15 p.m. How the fuck do you remember anything when you’re sipping all this wine?
10:30 p.m. In my favorite pair of jeans, Doc Martens, and an open-back top, I text James that I’m heading over to hang out with him. We hang out with his female roommate (who is intimidatingly pretty), drinking, talking, and getting high.
12:15 a.m. We finally arrive at the venue in Williamsburg. It’s packed. James is a big fan of the DJs — which is cool and all, except he keeps trying to explain things over pumping bass. I can’t hear shit. I smile and nod a dozen times.
3:00 a.m. Back to his place, we stay up until dawn, get high, drink beers, fuck, and watch videos on YouTube. I feel tired AF, but reckless. I realize this is the kind of stuff most people do in college. Sleep with your ex. Get drunk and have a lot of sex. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s exactly what you do as a 24-year-old lapsed Catholic who moved from the suburbs to New York, finding sexual liberation along the way.
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