Sex Diary: I’d Give Thanks For Some Sex
Welcome to the Frisky “Sex Diary,” in which an anonymous person shares the details of her sex life over the course of a few days. Sometimes these entries are filled with revealing romps, while other times there is nary a naked moment in sight. Some of these diarists are frequent contributors. Want to share a page from your sex diary? Email firstname.lastname@example.org. All entries will be anonymous.Diarist: An unattached, straight freelancer in her early 30s living in New York City
6:45 pm: As I sit in my office (aka the local coffee shop), I remind myself of my goal to try to get laid before I have to go home and visit my family for Thanksgiving. Family gatherings are stressful enough and I haven’t done it in months. I have, for the time, given up on meeting some mythical, unicorn of a man that I have deep feelings for. Too much of a headache. I want to skip all of that and just try for some good old-fashioned f**king. It’s gotten to the point where I think about sex almost around the clock and I feel the sting of injustice that I am not getting any.
So back to the coffee shop. A hot, young, hipster-type dude asks if he can share my power outlet. Is there subtext to that question? I sure hope so. He is tall and thin with dark brown hair and nice eyes. He looks young. I like his hands. I’m picturing taking him back to my place. Feeding him (he’s a little thin). F**king him. And then sending him back to his hipster hovel in Brooklyn. This could be really good. We start talking and it’s one of those deep, weird, intense conversations that lasts for a couple of hours. We are seriously about to go on an impromptu dinner/drinking date that I’m thinking could lead to some action – I literally have my coat on – and he says to me, “Before we go, I should probably tell you that I have a girlfriend.”
Aaaahhhhhhhhh! Nooooo!!!! “Well then, I’m thinking if I were your girlfriend I would probably not want you to go have drinks with me.” He agrees, but only because I said no. Well, I guess I’m not getting impromptu laid tonight. But he does have some valuable advice for me about getting laid. “A guy only wants to have sex with a girl he thinks he can never sleep with. Once he knows that he can have sex with you, he won’t really want to anymore.” That seems kind of screwed-up, but at this point I’m open to advice. I vow to simultaneously want to have sex while pretending not to. We smoke a cigarette together outside the coffee shop. I pretend like it is a post-coital smoke. Thank you for nothing, coffee shop guy.
7:30 pm: I go to meet a girlfriend for dinner at a local vegetarian haunt. My friend just broke up with her boyfriend and I am hunkering down to provide words of comfort and pseudo-wisdom. But just as we sit, another couple sits at the table right next to us. I look over and – holy s**t – it’s a guy I went on a couple of dates with a few months back that never called me again after I spent the night. Of course he has a girlfriend. It all makes sense now. And what are the odds of him sitting right next to him in a city of millions? The happy couple is playing footsie and kissy face the whole time and I am so close that there’s no way he doesn’t see me. More annoying is that his girlfriend looks just like me! I’m not sure what to do. It’s too awkward to say anything to him or to my friend. So I just lift my scarf up over my face to try to conceal my identity. He was no superstar in bed. We never even had sex. We only shared a silly hand job. Lame. He fumbled like a 13-year-old … and he was old. Good riddance.
8:15 pm: I’m tipsy on red wine and hanging out with my friend and her boyfriend at their place. Being the third wheel rocks! I receive a text message from the guy who I had a one-night-stand with this summer – I’ll call him Brad*. We had awesome, dirty drunken sex. He had a huge penis which is not usually my thing, but he liked to talk dirty, which is my thing, so it worked. Also he went down on me forever and he wasn’t half bad at it. The next morning I discovered that his cousins were in town and staying at his place, so when one of them barged in the room and saw me mostly naked, I was eager to get out of there. Brad went to work. I got dressed and then made forced convo with his cousins who had just moments before seen me naked. Awkward!
Anyway … three months later Brad texted me to say that he “had a nice time meeting me.” Meeting me? I think he means, “f**king me.” And he was “sorry he dropped off the face of the earth” but he had “gotten back together with an ex right after we met and of course it was a mistake.” Even though I wouldn’t mind another roll in the hay with Brad, I act disinterested at best to hear from him – if it’s even possible to act disinterested via text. He now texts me every Thursday, Friday, or Saturday night to ask if I want to get together. And when he says “get together” he most likely means “f**k.” And so far for the past month I’ve been conveniently “busy” every time. Maybe coffee shop guy’s advice was right. So this weekend I am thinking about finally saying yes so that I can get laid, but of course his text says the following, “Hi! I am going to Europe for work for three weeks but I really want to see you. Can we catch up when I’m back?” And by “catch up” I think he means, “f**k.” To which I reply, “Sure. Have fun.” Meaning “I’ll continue to explore my options.”
8:00 pm: I meet a friend for drinks at my favorite restaurant in the city. I call it “Shan-gri-la” because it’s a magical, mystical place with great food and the hottest male waitstaff I’ve ever seen in my life. The men are all chiseled and strapping and covered in tattoos. I can’t get enough. I dine there about once a week to see the one I call “The Lumberjack.” He’s 6’3”, built like a football player; big strapping arms covered in tats and he has the best ass I think I’ve ever seen. At first I thought he was a big, gay lumberjack but after he started flirting with me, I knew I was wrong. Tonight’s the night I’m gonna put my moves on him and his fine butt. He comes over to the table to clear our plates. “Can I take this?” he asks.
“I don’t know … can you take it?” He laughs. Damn I’m good. I wink at him every time he passes the table. He grabs my shoulder and squeezes it every time I wink. Last time I was there, he told me he was headed to a wedding. As I am putting on my coat to leave he comes over to my table.
“How was the wedding?” I ask.
“Kind of weird,” he says.
“I’m sorry. I was thinking of you,” I add boldly.
“I was thinking of you a few times myself,” he out-bolds me. I blush like crazy.
“Do you ever go out – outside of this place?” Then I stare at him until he gets the hint. “Give me your number.” So on the back of a napkin I write down the key to my hopes and dreams for future sex. My name and number. And I place it seductively in the Lumberjack’s big hand. “Don’t lose that,” I whisper in his ear as I walk out. Maybe I will have something to be thankful for this Thanksgiving after all. Here’s hoping for a bountiful harvest.