This week, a woman checking out the dating pool on her trip to L.A. and engaging in some rope play: 24, single, Brooklyn.
6:30 a.m. I wake up to my three-month-old goldendoodle whimpering. Was getting a dog as the world re-opened the best choice? Ehh. Is Fergus the love of my goddamn life? Absolutely. I turn my phone on and take him outside to do his business. I’m bombarded by 1 a.m. texts from A. We started chatting on Feeld a while back and he’s the first person I’ve genuinely considered meeting up with. He wants to see me tonight. I’ll respond later.
8 a.m. I chug an adaptogen-filled cold brew while completing my daily Duolingo. I want to drop everything, move to Rome, and descend into a life filled with sun-drenched, wine-drunk sex and pistachio gelato. But I need money and a trust fund for that, so I settle for Halo Top and the odd WhatsApp sext with the Italian I met on vacation in London last month.
1 p.m. I take a break from my job as an assistant at an entertainment group to inhale a lunch of peanut butter on an apple. I finally respond to A’s texts and learn he’s having dinner at a friend’s apartment … in the building across from mine. He proposes a post-dinner drink. I find it too convenient to turn down. He sends a selfie. He’s shorter than I expected, but he’s still someone I’d make eyes at from across a bar.
7 p.m. I get on the phone with a television writer — a friend of my dad’s who has agreed to give me notes on my pilot. (I’m from L.A.) He’s complimentary, constructive, and I end the 45 minutes beaming. I down a pre-date glass of wine.
8:45 p.m. A comes over to my place with a gorgeous bottle of natural red. I’m immediately wet. I pour two glasses and barely manage a sip before he’s behind me, kissing my neck and reaching under my sweatshirt. I abandon the wine and we begin making out furiously. From our texts, I know he’s newly single and eager for an ass to slap. We had texted about how I don’t have sex without condoms, so I’m bothered when he repeatedly moans about how badly he wants to fuck me without one. Fergus starts barking like a madman, so I ask how I can make him come, fast. I give him a blowjob, and as soon as he finishes I usher him out. I let Fergus sleep with me for being a good sport.
7 a.m. I wake up before Fergus and run to the gym downstairs to fit in a workout. When I get back, he’s still asleep so I drink my coffee in blissful silence and apply ice to the hickeys and bite marks covering my neck and shoulders. Last night has me missing J, the lifeguard and shroom dealer who opened my eyes to the beauty of casual sex. J is in an open relationship with a woman he swears will bear his children. I text J asking if he wants to bring some rope around soon. He responds immediately, “That can be arranged.”
12 p.m. My boss is in Malibu and texts me a photo of his Erewhon latte. He’s not a regular boss, he’s a cool boss. He’s also a hot boss, but now I know how often he repeats his own jokes, the mystique is gone.
7:15 p.m. After feeding Fergus, I heat up a grain-free pizza for myself. Later I do some jumping jacks while Fergus watches in confusion.
9:30 p.m. I smoke some weed and take Fergus into the hallway for some fetch. My neighbor shoots us a dirty look as she exits her apartment. He’s tired after 15 minutes, so we go inside and watch an episode of Loki.
6:15 a.m. Last night’s early bedtime means we’re up bright and early. I turn on some light tunes and Swiffer while Fergus barks at my feet.
11:30 a.m. I’m running a Zoom when I remember I have my annual OBGYN appointment on the UES in an hour. I discreetly schedule an Uber and encourage a wrap-up. I put Fergus in his playpen and turn on Sex & the City for him.
1:30 p.m. In a cab home and trying to connect calls for my boss while keeping an eye on my puppy cam. The cab smells of sunscreen, my boss is on a call with a Brit, and all the sudden I’m horny. I peel open my sweat soaked blouse and send a photo of my damp chest to Kent, another Feeld connection. He’s heavy-handed with the emojis. I check the cam, Fergus is still fast asleep. Thank you, Carrie Bradshaw.
8 p.m. My friend asks if I want to come to her beach club in Westchester this weekend. I look at Fergus’s sweet face and start to decline when I spot my pale legs in the mirror. I accept and book a Wag!
7 a.m. I wake up to silence and stay in bed until I remember my dreams. I have a faint recollection of sex with Aidan Shaw and don’t harp any further. When I first met J, he told me he also built furniture and I thought I might fall in love and be left heartbroken when he eventually had babies with his primary partner. Well, we’re two months into this “friendship” and he hasn’t asked what I do for a living so I think we’re past that.
2 p.m. I pick up a package and when I get in the elevator there’s one other person in the car, this guy I eye-fucked on the street once only to see him at my building’s pool with his pregnant wife later that day. I’ve seen him at the grocery store a few times too. He’s a big waver and an even bigger winker. I do not fuck with a married winker. I give him a half smile and focus on the floors passing by.
5:30 p.m. I spend the remainder of the workday flirting with my office-crush via Slack. He’s L.A. based but hot as hell. He tells me that he “… appreciates me” and that he’ll be in the city later this summer. I tell him we’ll have to get drinks and he sends back a, “Let’s do it ;)” I love networking.
7:30 p.m. My mom calls to discuss my dwindling bank account. I eye the $70 protein powder that arrived earlier and feel nauseous. I let her lecture as I respond to my Feeld matches. I originally joined the app as a goof after J told me his profile used Fergus as an alias. Now I use it more than any other app, far more entertaining.
9:45 p.m. Fergus and I are having a photoshoot when J asks if he can come by tomorrow. I tell him fine if it’s after 10:30 p.m. I want to give Fergus ample time to fall into R.E.M. sleep before I get tied up. I spend my last 15 minutes of consciousness guessing how I’ll be bound tomorrow; I can’t quite picture it before I fall asleep.
5:30 a.m. Woke up feeling craving a boyfriend, dishearteningly. I crack open my window, smoke the last of an old J, and open Hinge, a notoriously relationship-y app. I see a message from the blonde drummer I had been messaging a few weeks ago asking if I was still alive. I respond assuring him I was just unplugging for a bit and ask if he wants to get drinks soon.
7 a.m. I feed Fergus and get dressed for the gym. I plan to “hit legs.” I’ve learned everything I know about lifting from TikTok, and now I’m obsessed.
4:45 p.m. Sitting on my floor half-watching Succession while Fergus gnaws at my fingers when I get a message from a 24-year-old on Feeld, which is rare. We exchange silly messages, and he sends me his number. I open with a voice memo, my go-to, and he calls me. We talk for 40 minutes. Turns out he also works in entertainment, knows my former boss, and we have a few mutual friends. His manic energy radiates through the phone, and I can’t tell if I find it attractive or unnerving.
10:30 p.m. Lying in bed watching the people in the apartment across from me turn on MSNBC. My parents are big MSNBC folk, so I’m comforted. I’m close with my parents, talk to them at least three times a day. This sort of longing would usually ruin my night, but Fergus and I just booked a five-day L.A. trip starting Monday, so the homesickness fades fast. My front desk alerts me of a tall man coming up. I left the front door open, so he walks right in. No matter how many times I see him, J’s 6’5” stature always sends shivers down my spine.
10:45 p.m. We exchange about 15 minutes of niceties, “Some weather huh?” There’s a lull and J pulls me to him with one hand behind my neck and rips off my bra and underwear with the other. After some foreplay, he gets some rope from his backpack and binds it to my bed frame. I smile thinking about the rope among the little bags of shrooms packed up for the ex-frat stars he sells to.
7 a.m. Last night was fun but I expected a more adrenaline-fueled night. Maybe I’m getting too comfortable with J. I switch my Feeld location to Los Angeles and let Fergus out of his crate.
10:30 a.m. Fergus has a check-up. His vet is always packed with dog DILFs. They come solo but I assume they’re spoken for. Most dog DILFs are. I check my Feeld pings and only one catches my eye. This guy S I’ve seen on mainstream dating apps in L.A. before. He’s got killer eyebrows and a boyish vibe. It’s always the innocent looking ones who have the dirtiest things to say.
2:30 p.m. I meet up with friends for drinks near mine, the same friends I’m going to the beach with tomorrow. One of them thinks I would hit it off with her friend’s cousin — she describes him as older, smart, and wealthy. Sounds boring to me but I promise to chat him up.
4:15 p.m. I was right about S. I’m getting my acrylics re-done, not bothering to hide my phone as I watch the clip he sent of himself jacking off. I’m not big into videos but I respond with flattery anyway. He loves how wholesome I look and tells me he can’t wait to defile me. Nothing I haven’t heard before.
9 p.m. S FaceTimes me. I don’t answer. I don’t have the energy to feign enthusiasm for his dick.
10:36 a.m. I’m on the Metro North sipping a hard kombucha. S and I are texting, switching between raunchy sexts and friendly banter. I’m not not turned on but I’m also playing up my arousal. He could be an adventurous partner but when I get to L.A. I kinda just want to binge Joan’s Chinese chicken salad and Nancy Meyers movies with my sister. Schlepping to Eagle Rock for stranger sex might be a stretch.
2 p.m. At the beach club, two tequilas in and flirting with someone’s husband. Not initiating anything, just exercising healthy eye contact. His wife spots us from across the pool and drags him away “for a family photo.”
5 p.m. Chatting with my friend’s brother who I haven’t seen since college. He’s surprised I don’t have my own membership to this club, saying I give off “billionaire’s wife” vibes.
6:45 p.m. On the train home. I miss Fergus and watch him on the cam. His sitter left 15 minutes ago and he’s chilling. My sweet boy.