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The Woman Faking Work to Escape Her House Guest

Photo-Illustration: James Gallagher

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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 34-year-old with an unfortunate fling in town: 34, straight, single, Cobble Hill.


7 a.m. I’m in a really strange predicament: I’ve been seeing this guy for a few months and he’s visiting me from Austin. It was really good up until, like, two days ago, and suddenly I can’t stand him and want him out of my bed.

8:30 a.m. I’m having a coffee and all dressed for work, while the guy (let’s call him Ryan) is drinking coffee in his pajama pants, watching me. I want to scream at the top of my lungs: GET THE FUCK OUT OF YOUR PAJAMAS YOU LAZY SHIT AND DO SOMETHING. I feel livid for no reason. I give him a kiss on the cheek and … pretend to go to work. In reality, I have today off because I knew he was coming to town and I wanted to hang with him. But now I can’t stand him, so I’m faking that there’s an emergency at the publishing house I work for. He’s not on to me at all.

9:30 a.m. I’m at the gym. I keep a locker here with clothes in it. He’ll never find me. I listen to a Kanye/Jay-Z playlist and do a half-hour workout. I need to blow off steam. I don’t know why but all his habits are just annoying me to death. He’s been in New York for four days. I’m this close to pretending I got my period so I don’t have to have sex with him tonight. We’ve had sex every night he’s been here and I’ve faked coming every time. I think it’s his general laziness that I’m finding to be such a turn-off. Six more fake hours of work to go.

11:30 a.m. I go to a pho place I like in Chinatown and read The New Yorker. Lovely. Ryan texts, “How’s work, babe?” I ignore him. Don’t take this moment away from me, lazy and kinda cheap Ryan WHO VAPES.

4:30 p.m. I did some shopping and actually popped into my office in midtown to hide my purchases. And to tell my best work friend what a bust the weekend was. The only way I can explain it to her is like this — he got to my apartment with no New York plans, no money, nothing to do except hang around me at home nonstop. It’s suffocating. He’s not ambitious. He plays music with a big-name musician, which I thought was cool, but it’s not that often and it’s not lucrative and he’s almost 35 and just … no.

This is an odd confession, but: His dick also seems smaller on this trip. I used to want him so bad. We met at a music festival in L.A. a few months ago and I was — sorry to be crass — dripping wet the minute he touched me. And the next time I saw him, a few weeks later in Austin, it was the same. Now — yuck! The worst part is, just two weeks ago we decided to be monogamous, which means ending things will require a proper breakup, not just a disappearing act. I’m not a disappearing-act girl, but I don’t want to deal with this guy.

7 p.m. I come home and, I kid you not, he’s still in his pajamas. He did buy some groceries and is cooking some kind of beef stew. There is red wine, though. Thank god.

9 p.m. He made a delicious meal. Right after eating, I go to sleep with a pounding headache. He thinks I’m just “off” from this headache. I feel a little bad about how mean I’m being, but I also can’t stand him, so whatever. I can’t believe we have two more nights to go.


7:30 a.m. Today I really do have to go to work.

8 a.m. On the subway, I think about my ex, Elliott. Elliott was the opposite of Ryan. We dated for two years and broke up because it was shit or get off the pot, since we were both turning 30. Very type A, successful, an overachiever. But he was a nerd. Honestly, a big nerdy square. I was embarrassed to take him to work functions because he’d just dork out. People liked that about him, but I remember wanting him to shut the fuck up. Okay, clearly the issue is not with these men, it’s with me! I know. Yet, I don’t care.

6 p.m. Long, boring day at work. I work in YA books. I like what I do, though the money could be better and it’s all single women, which gets a little depressing. On the train home, I pop a stick of gum in my mouth and think about how to not fuck Ryan tonight.

7 p.m. He cooked again! Since we won’t be together on the real Valentine’s Day, he’s done sort of a fake one tonight. A creamy, mushroom pasta sauce, a salad, and a heart-shaped cake from Key Food. It’s not from Paris, but it’s a sweet gesture. I drink a lot of wine because I know I’ll have to fuck him for all this.

9:30 p.m. Ryan loves to eat pussy. It’s like his thing. He’s pretty good at it but I’m not the most comfortable with it. But tonight, I go for it: I sit on his face for a long, long time. Maybe 20 minutes. Finally I come. And then I blow him, which seems like the right thing to do. I like to give blow jobs even though — let’s be honest here — you can usually smell a little shit down there. Right ?


9 a.m. I am back at work. I am less annoyed by Ryan this morning because he actually got up before me and got dressed like a grown man and took the train to Westchester to see some cousins. It’s like, just be busy! That’s all you need to do. Get the fuck up, dress yourself like an adult, and have somewhere to be.

12:30 p.m. I get to see my mom and brother for lunch. They live in the city. They work together actually, running a small family business. They’re very funny, very New York-y. My parents are divorced, but it’s amicable.

My brother and mom laugh so hard when I tell them how mean I’ve been to this poor Ryan. I don’t think they take anything about me and my love life seriously, which is fine. Because right now, I don’t either.

5 p.m.  I come home from work early because I know Ryan won’t get back until 7 or 8. Thank you, Jesus. A few hours to myself at my little studio. I do what I always do when I’m alone. I take out my vibrator and close my eyes and come up with the most amazing fantasies. Usually, an orgy of some sort. I like to imagine several people working on me at the same time. Like, every hole filled with a dick or a tongue or a finger. I come really hard, after five minutes of my dirty imagination. Then I wash my hands and cook myself some rice and beans. Maybe his train will be delayed.

9 p.m. He comes back a little later than I thought, giving me time to think about what to say to him before he leaves tomorrow morning. Little do I know, he’s about to tell me that he’s feeling like something is off between us. Oh man, this is so much easier than I thought it was going to be! I tell him I’m just not sure about the chemistry. He says he agrees! I’m not sure if he’s just protecting himself or whatever, but it’s clear we’re both done. I have a feeling we might never speak again after he leaves.

11 p.m. No sex. Good. Good night.


6 a.m. He has a super early flight because the cheapo flies any ungodly times to save $14. I give him a sleepy hug from bed … and I do hold him a little longer than I might have imagined. I’m pretty sure I truly won’t see him again and we did have something great there for a second. Weird how life works that way. He leaves and I try to go back to sleep but can’t.

7 a.m. I go to the gym before work. I have a weird sense of sadness today. I guess it’s like the calm after the storm. Maybe I was enjoying hating on this guy; it breathed life into me somehow.  I know, I know, I need therapy. (I haven’t been in years.)  While walking uphill on the treadmill, I debate going online to revive some Tinder and Bumble accounts, but … not just yet.

6 p.m. I run home from work to change into a dress because one of my authors has a book party tonight. It’s quiet at home. My studio looks clean and big without Ryan’s stuff around. I’m glad he’s gone. I put on a dress that doesn’t look great but I’m a little chubby right now (winter will do that to you), so whatever!

8:30 p.m. Champagne and a sense of freedom now that Ryan is gone. No one to flirt with.

10 p.m. Bingeing The Crown. So good!


10 a.m. Well, it’s Friday and I have zero plans all weekend. By the way, I was right … haven’t heard a peep from Ryan. I decide to go on Bumble to revive a few conversations and meet new guys.

2 p.m. Online dating is such a time suck. It’s all I’ve done all day, seriously. But I do have drinks plans with someone tomorrow night. He’s French but living in America doing banking. I’m not sure about those Frenchies. Don’t they all have big egos and small peckers?

6:30 p.m. I’m in bed. More of The Crown.

9 p.m. Good night!


10:30 a.m. I do have friends! It’s just that most of them are married and getting pregnant now. But not my friend Trisha. We grew up together and she knows me like a sister. We love our bottomless brunches in the LES, and this weekend it’s very much needed. I consciously want to day-drink the day away. We have a bunch of mimosas and talk about guys. Trisha, for some reason, has serious issues with men. She’s always really nervous and anxious before a date and can never be herself with a guy. Nothing ever sticks because they all say she’s not authentic or whatever. But she’s just a wreck! I think it comes from both of us being fat in high school. I would love to say it empowered me, but really it just made me — and especially Trisha — self-conscious and insecure.

1:30 p.m. Epic weekend nap!

5 p.m. I wake up and see that the Bumble Frenchie texted with a wine bar and time for tonight. I’m game. I just need a very long shower to wake me up.

7:30 p.m. Getting dressed for the date  … ugh. I guess I’ll wear the one shirt that always works for me. Black, off the shoulder, just sexy enough.

9: p.m. The French guy is gay. There is NO WAY he’s not gay. This isn’t the first time it’s happened to me either. I am only going to have one drink.

9:48 p.m. Wow, that was a record-length first date: 48 minutes. I just want to go home and watch The Crown.


8:30 a.m. I’m up for a spin class. Not bummed about last night at all. I mean, it was funny and I had one delicious cocktail that he paid for. No harm, no foul.

10:30 a.m. I fucking love a good spin class! It’s so gross and such a cliché, but damn there is nothing better.

Noon Masturbate to a bunch of people fucking all my holes. How lovely.

3 p.m. I go to my mom’s house to hang for the rest of the day. My mom is an amazing Jewish-Italian cook. I eat my heart out when I’m there, and I don’t care about calories or jean sizes or anything. My mom is a bigger woman, as are all the women I’m related to. We don’t get hung up on our weight; it’s not us. We’re a funny, close, happy, crazy-ass bunch.

7 p.m. Over dinner, I tell everyone about Ryan the Vaper and Frenchie the gay guy, and it’s entertainment for all. I’m cool with it. When I’m really ready to look for love, I’ll get serious about things. For now, lasagna.

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The Woman Faking Work to Escape Her House Guest