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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 single working mom who loves sexting the night away: 39, straight, Queens, personal trainer.
9 a.m. I wake up naked and horny. The guy I slept with last night (let’s call him Man No. 1) stayed over, and I went back to sleep after he left at 7 a.m. I didn’t want him to stay but didn’t have the guts to tell him to leave. After all, I stayed at his place last week — it’s only fair. It’s just that I’m used to sleeping alone; I can’t fall asleep sharing my bed easily.
Man No. 1 and I met on OKCupid. After the first coffee date, he texted the magic words: “I’d like to cook for you.” We made plans for the next night. The meal was so good — a Persian chicken dish with spices I’d never heard of before. I’m so into men feeding me; I had to sleep with him. The more ingredients and preparation the recipe has, the hotter the sex gets. This has been proven true to me several times.
10 a.m. Still in bed, watching porn. I come twice over this very moving performance of an office romance. My ex calls with news: His girlfriend’s dad died. He asks me if I can take our kid from him so she can have a little privacy. He’s been living in a one-bedroom since we separated, but don’t pity him: He owns; I rent. I put on some clothes to go parent. My ex is cool. I mean, he is an asshole — but I have love for him. We get along very well. Our son is 7 now. It took us a while to figure out co-parenting, but these days we’ve got it down.
3 p.m. I pull a play-date out of my ass, then take my son to soccer and buy him a sandwich. I’m not used to Sundays with my kid — I have him during the week. The week has homework, bath time, electronic time, and reading; in other words, structure. We buy some sort of paper thing to put together with our hands. It’s fun.
5 p.m. Because I have tickets to the theater, I take my son back to his dad’s.
8 p.m. The show I see is great, really cool. I always think going out is an opportunity to meet somebody IRL, but it never happens. Nobody tries to pick me up. It sucks. I dance, I laugh, and then I’m just ready for bed.
10:50 a.m. I open my OKCupid app. There are always a couple of messages from men that are painfully below my league. And I’m not superficial; I usually go for personality, humor, and confidence, not looks. But dating online means you often make plans over witty texts, then wind up meeting a guy with some mannerism that makes you cringe, like constantly flipping his hair back.
2 p.m. Work starts early in the morning for me. I’m a personal trainer. Today I was booked from 6 a.m. to 1 p.m., and then a weekly manager’s meeting. I couldn’t be more uninterested in this meeting. I want to poke my eyeballs out.
8:10 p.m. I leave my son’s room after reading him a few stories. Something I now regret a bit: I invited this guy I met last week (Man No. 2) to come over after my kid’s bedtime because I’m cheap and don’t do sitters for dates during the week. I can’t afford it.
Man No. 2 seems sweet and levelheaded; we’ve been chatting on the phone the past couple of days and I’m not scared he’ll rape or murder me. First date was coffee; not long but nice, and left me wanting to know more. He mentioned he eats Paleo, so I made us guacamole with yellow, orange, and red peppers. I’m impressed with myself. Usually I suck at entertaining.
8:30 p.m. No sign of Man No. 2. I text: ‘”Should I expect you tonight?” I’ve gotten extremely good at gauging men’s interest by their texting. It’s not a hard skill to acquire, mind you. The more you do a thing, the better you get at it, right? Tinder proficient, I call it.
8:35 p.m. He responds that he has a sore throat, which makes me feel immediately disappointed. He senses that and makes an effort to explain himself. I forgive him.
7 a.m. I wake up, hustle to get the kid to school and me to work on time. I’m always in a shitty mood after the prospect of sex falls through.
2 p.m. Teach a couple of clients, work out, send some emails.
4 p.m. On my way to pick up the kid from school. He has a swimming lesson at 5:30, and I hope my friend A is there with her kid. She likes to ask about my little adventures. If there’s anything fun about online dating it’s sharing your experiences with your married friends.
5:30 p.m. A isn’t here. I’m bummed.
8:30 p.m. I lie down in bed with my heating pad on my back, turn off the lights, and grab my phone. I’m exhausted. All I want to do is text. Other people meditate, read, go on Facebook. I like to text. Better said: I like to sext. I have a thing for it.
Right now I’m staring lovingly at a dick pic from Man No. 2. My mouth is literally watering. Who am I? I start fantasizing about how it would feel and am getting excited. I feel a little embarrassed, honestly — I’m objectifying really hard here.
9:17 p.m. Too much talking, Man No. 2. You can’t go from dirty sexy talk to complaining about having a cold. I’m turned off. Ugh.
8:39 p.m. After a long, boring day, I’m freshly showered, smothered in coconut oil, wearing heels and lingerie. FWB No. 1, an old friend, is coming over. It’s been a while. His son goes to my son’s school. I’ve seen him a couple of times at drop-off. We don’t talk to each other outside my apartment. It’s hot.
9 p.m. A different guy, FWB No. 2, wants to talk. Man No. 2 wants to talk. Man No. 1 sends me a link to a porn scene. I’m loving the attention. When it rains it pours! I think I might be pathetic for loving the attention, but I also don’t care.
9:30 p.m. FWB No. 1 comes over: We have sex right away. He’s into spanking my ass, which turns me on. It hurts, but I like it. He leaves right after. Very therapeutic!
7 a.m. I open my eyes and hear my son has the TV on. He’s not supposed to do that. Ugh. Parenting.
3 p.m. Lunch date with Man No. 2. He asks me when I had sex last. I don’t want to answer. He gently presses and I respond reluctantly: yesterday. He tries to act like he’s okay with that, but I can tell he’s disappointed. Well, it’s his fault for prying.
Feeling a little upset now. I dislike being made to feel like there’s something wrong with having a fulfilling sex life — I’m a single woman in my late thirties.
9:51 p.m. FWB No. 2 wants to make me come over the phone. I let him. He’s good at fucking my brain, setting up the scene — he has a real talent for speeding up or getting bossy. I like being told when to come.
9:32 a.m. I’m exhausted. Overdid the wine (two glasses). Living for when I can put my kid to bed and be asleep by 10. Being a parent sucks. I don’t care what you think you know, or what your experience is. It’s a job I can’t quit, and it’s driving me insane. I get a gray hair every time I nag, I know it. My son’s teacher recently called and said, “He sometimes needs a special invitation to sit down on the rug with the rest of the class.” The little asshole does it to me too; he enjoys testing me.
And he is not a total asshole, mind you — he’s a nice kid at the end of the day. I know actual little assholes. I’m just tired.
3 p.m. In fact, there are a couple of little assholes right here in this park. My kid really is sweet as can be, but lately he’s testing me with control issues.
6 p.m. I just dropped him off with his dad (thank you, divorce), but I can’t shake how annoyed I am at my kid. I know, I know: There are books. And therapists. I got them all — I just like to complain.
10 a.m. I love Saturdays. No need to wake up, to get dressed or hurry anywhere. I spend hours just enjoying myself in bed. I used to book brunches or workouts, but not anymore. Me, myself, and my mattress.
2:30 p.m. I think about doing some cooking and cleaning, some laundry, etc. But I don’t. It feels like a win.
4 p.m. FWB No. 2 comes over. When he goes down on me, he latches on and doesn’t let go. I orgasm over and over again and don’t understand how he gets me off so many times. Many partners have tried similar approaches, but it never feels the same way. He just plays me like an instrument. It’s extremely romantic and extremely disappointing, since we can’t make an actual relationship work between us.
6 p.m. FWB No. 2 just left. I asked him to please put on paper what it is that he does to my clitoris. He must have some manual or guidebook. I wish finding a person who fucks you so well meant everything else would fall into place. That this person wouldn’t live far or have crazy exes. Or be a full-time parent.
I also wish my brain could compartmentalize better. I try to have sex without feelings, but I can’t, not really. Is it because I’m a woman? Or because I am me?
9 p.m. I’m on OKCupid, messaging with a 25-year-old. He says he’s looking for some “good sex.” I do ask about his type, but I also tell him he’s too young for me. I’m lying: I’d love to eat him alive. I won’t though — I’d shame myself into resisting before going for 25. Twenty-six, I could do. I did, actually. Many times, and I enjoyed myself tremendously. I called him “the Kid.” Maybe I can do 25 until September, which is when I turn 40.
10 p.m. I waste time texting with people for too long. As opiates only take a week to become addictive, online-dating matches can become the love of your life in four days of texting. Then you meet and it’s not there; there is no spark. And you took the time to get the clothes, the makeup, think about the conversation. It’s exhausting, and I’ve become jaded. I honestly prefer to go straight to the sex to see if we’re compatible before I get my hopes up.
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