This week, a young marketing executive who meets a Ken doll lookalike and wants to slap him in the face: 26, single, New York.
7:15 p.m. I’m on a date, technically. We met on Bumble. He’s in venture capital, and he invites me to a show with a few of his friends. I’m more invested in the conversation I’m having with his VC colleagues.
10:15 p.m. My patience is wearing thin. I make up an excuse to go home, and VC insists on taking me to the subway station. He rents a Revel and drops me off there. I’ll never see VC again, but I still say “see you soon.” I accidentally get on a subway heading deeper into Brooklyn instead of toward Manhattan. I give up, get an Uber, and head to my friend’s party in the Lower East Side.
11:30 p.m. On my way up to my friend’s apartment, I send a naughty photo to my ex-boyfriend back in San Francisco over Instagram. The ones that disappear so you don’t have to remember your indiscretions. Our relationship was on and off for two years until he decided to quit his job and Eat Pray Love.
12:30 a.m. I’m flirting incessantly with A, who looks like a Ken doll, and I want to smack his sexy face. All that flirtation goes to waste; he invited a “friend” to the party who shows up to take my place as his preferred conversational partner. She’s plain, but what did you expect? Ken always ends up with Boring Barbie.
I check my Instagram DMs, and see that my ex-boyfriend has seen my photo. No reply.
1 a.m. I head out on the town with new friends I made at the party. On the way out, I run into a handsome man. We lock eyes, and I ask him where he’s going. I don’t bother to let him start, I tell him he’s coming with us, and he does.
I like to dominate. I think all men like to be submissive to women in one way or another. To relinquish power in the name of desire. They won’t admit it, but they do. It’s a fun little game I like to play, to give and take power like it’s a commodity.
2 a.m. Handsome man is high. Like a kite. He keeps touching his face, and I tell him to put his hands palm down on the bar until I say so. He says he likes being submissive to me. Told you so.
Two vodka-sodas in and handsome man tells me a secret. He has a girlfriend. And he’d like me to join them. Big whoop. I hand over my phone number, and leave him at the bar.
4 p.m. I head to a workout class in Flatiron and grab a bite afterward. Ever since moving to New York, I’ve shed my fear of eating alone. I’d rather eat alone than eat with a VC guy ever again. Yawn.
10 p.m. I met this neurotic girl in my first week of living in New York. She’s cute but crazy. She invites me to random parties, and tonight her friend is DJ-ing in the East Village. It’s Halloween weekend, so I throw together my best “Beyoncé”: a sparkly NYE number circa 2018 that fits too tight and is just right for the occasion. I take back three shots of Tito’s. My roommate is a flight attendant, so we have an endless supply of mini vodka bottles in the freezer that come in handy on nights you don’t want to remember.
11:30 a.m. I pregame with my neurotic friend, who lives a few blocks from me. We check our teeth for lipstick, she hands me Adderall, and we order an Uber.
1:00 a.m. I dated a British guy for about a month shortly after moving to New York. I wasn’t totally into him at first, but then he did that thing where he would ignore me and obviously I fell in love with him. His friend is at this party, and I spend the rest of the night avoiding eye contact.
2:30 a.m. I always regret going out. It’s like a broken record. Someone gets fucked up. Someone gets lost. Someone goes home with a loser they’ll regret in the morning. And I always end up eating cold noodles in bed. If you asked me where I’d be at 26, this wouldn’t have been it.
10 a.m. Sunday. Detox. I hit a yoga class, eat granola with yogurt and honey. I ignore a DM from a man back in California. I tell people I left primarily for professional reasons, but personal reasons won out. I became involved with a man I worked with; it was brief and fleeting. That’s my dirty secret. He uses Instagram to solicit direct messages. I don’t think his wife would appreciate that.
1 p.m. I head to the Wing to do work. The space is beautiful. Separate from my day job in marketing, I’m working on a video project and I also like to write about my personal life on the side.
10 p.m. My ex-boyfriend and I are good at one thing: phone sex. He finally responds to my salacious photo on Instagram. We start flirting, and I FaceTime him. I take my clothes off on camera. I love the attention, and to be in control of his pleasure.
It’s so easy for a guy to get off. You tell him you’re wet, that he’s the biggest you’ve ever had, that you want him inside of you. Done. I never finish. Not from phone sex with an ex. Not from sex. I take melatonin and drift off to dreamland.
9 a.m. I make six figures at work and still, I want more. It’s a cushy corporate job; I need to remind myself I’m lucky. I used to work in tech; there’s no lack of money there. Before my move to New York, I learned to negotiate. I wasn’t going to make the move without a salary bump.
8 p.m. Getting ready for a date. I met D on Bumble. He’s a surgical resident with a body I could climb like a tree. I wear a little black leather skirt and straighten my hair. I throw my favorite Chanel gloss on my lips. My lips are as real as my leather skirt: not at all. The gloss makes them look extra pouty. I want him to notice.
10 p.m. I think he gets off on the sound of his own voice. He’s been droning on and on about him and his life and his blah blah blah. I’m bored.
10:30 p.m. After he asks me if I work out and tells me he has an affinity for women with large butts, I make up an excuse to leave. This isn’t the worst date I’ve been on. I meet up with a friend in the Lower East Side and recount the tale. We do our “I hate men” hoo ra ra and I head home. I don’t hate men, I just don’t like them sometimes.
6 p.m. I head home to get ready for a party my friends are throwing in Brooklyn. The beautiful thing about New York is access. This place opens its doors for you. In my short time here, I’ve had experiences I never would have had back in the Bay Area. It’s a different world.
8 p.m. I meet a French guy at the party. He tells me my fortune, I bat my eyelashes. I have an incessant need to be desired. Even if I don’t like you, I want you to want me. It’s a curse. I flirt with him.
10 p.m. We get kicked out of the venue and a portion of the group heads to a local bar in the pouring rain. Then I accidentally end up at my friend and his girlfriend’s apartment. Oops.
1 a.m. I’m in an Uber without any underwear on. We all hooked up, but just a little. The next time I see my friend and his girlfriend, we’re going to pretend none of that ever happened.
9:30 a.m. I’m hungover. I should learn not to pretend weeknights are Saturday nights. But I love a good party.
7 p.m. I started a book club shortly after moving to New York. It’s the one social thing I won’t allow my drinking habits to seep into. We meet at an adorable café in my neighborhood, and I lead a discussion on the month’s read. They’re a random collection of women I likely would not be friends with in real life; we met on the app Meetup. Still, I find solace in their company.
11 a.m. My ex DMs me and asks for a picture of my underwear. I’m at work. I tell him to go fuck himself. It’s 8 a.m. where he is. He concedes.
4 p.m. Leave work early for a facial. You can tell how much venom I’ve been pumping into my body by looking at my face.
8 p.m. I swipe idly on Bumble, and start chatting with an older man. I love older men. Salt-and-pepper hair. Wrinkles that could tell stories. Every fine line an adventure. It’s tantalizing. This one is 48 and still a fuckboy.
9 p.m. I delete my dating apps for the 26th time since moving to New York and pop a melatonin.
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