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 email@example.com. All entries will be anonymous.Diarist: An unattached, straight freelancer in her early 30s living in New York City
9 pm: No problem that my goal to have some sex before Thanksgiving didn’t pan out. There’s always Christmas. I hope to be decking the halls with hot sex, carrying some mistletoe in my purse, and hanging seductively around the egg-nog bowl this season. No better time to search for my own Christmas dick … er … gift than tonight. I have not one, but two birthday parties to hit downtown. I walk into the first bar and … holy s**t. I can’t believe what I see.
It’s former hookup buddy (my sexual superman, the most desirable dick I’ve ever met) who is now engaged. Engaged Guy and I have a long-standing “friendship.” He’s one of those people that I can’t control myself around. We spent one night together when he and his girlfriend were temporarily broken up. Even though we didn’t have sex, it was one of the best nights of my life. The greatest thing about him (aside from being funny, smart, and hot) is that he’s obsessed with my body – like no one ever has been. I’ve never seen any guy (and there have been a few) go so insane for my tits or my ass and tell me repeatedly – like a feral animal. His appreciation for my body no doubt inspired me to give him the best BJ he’s ever received. I even swallowed, dammit! When we were done with our insane, all-night romp of kissing, oral, and dirty talk he held me and whispered, “I’m too excited to sleep.” “Me too,” I replied before we passed out seconds later. Our chemistry is out of control, which is why when I found out that he got back together with his lady and was marrying her, I was devastated and knew I couldn’t ever see him or talk to him again. It’s been about a year.
Engaged Guy hugs me and grabs my lower back and his hand slips down a little lower to the top of my ass. Oh no. Why is the universe doing this to me? Dangling my most favorite carrot right in front of my face when I’m going through a dry spell. It’s not fair! I excuse myself from his grip so I can collect my vagina.
“When’s the wedding?” I ask, trying with all my might not to give in and suck his face.
“That’s so soon.”
“No it’s not, I’m not married yet.”
“Well you don’t sound very excited. Are you excited?”
“I don’t want to talk about it with you … I still have feelings for you.” No he didn’t. No that motherf**ker didn’t.
“I gotta get back to the party.” I had to try to walk away before Engaged Guy totally killed my Friday night mojo.
“Have a drink with me later?” he tries one more time. “Drink,” by the way, roughly translates to “amazing, unfettered, passionate f**king.”
“Maybe,” I say momentarily imagining the possibilities. I can’t bear to say no. But like the good, sex-deprived girl that I am, I leave the party about an hour later without even saying goodbye. Where’s my freaking medal?
8 pm: I don’t want to waste another moment thinking about or lamenting the loss of Engaged Guy to my least favorite institution. Now that he’s not six inches away from my face with his hand on my thigh, I remember what he really is: a lying, manipulative dirt bag and I feel bad for the girl he’s about to marry. Does she know what she’s signing up for? He would have screwed me in a second. I can’t help but note the irony that the only guy who wants to have sex with me is the only guy in the world I can’t f**k. Life is cruel. I decide to go to a gay bar with some gay friends to dry out. I get a text from Engaged Guy.
“I’m sorry we didn’t get to have a drink last night. I’ve been thinking about you all day today. Meet up tonight?”
Arrrrggghhhhh! I have to tell him to f**k off. Tear drop. “It’s not appropriate for you to contact me. If you’re ever single, give me a call. But until then … go away.” He responds with a lower case, “ok np.” Ack.
8:30 pm: The only way to break this stupid dry spell is to go out and cruise for new penis as much as possible and try to forget about my sexual superman (Engaged Guy). When my friend invites me to a cocktail party (a horny person came up with that name) at a downtown bar, I force myself to go. The prospects are looking grim – some kind of uppity engagement party in the back room. They aren’t even sharing their lame-looking appetizers. I sit down on a bar stool next a guy I wouldn’t normally look at twice. We start talking and I am immediately at ease. Making jokes, laughing at his jokes, not trying at all to bone him or make him want to bone me. After an hour or so like this (and a few gin and tonics), I start to see the possibilities. But more for a relationship than for a quickie in the bathroom. Just when I think he is falling for me, I go to use the bathroom and when I return, he has disappeared without even saying goodbye. Thank you, Santa, for your generous gift.
11 pm: I drunk-stumble home and see that I have a Facebook message from Cocktail Party dude. It says, “I’ve spent longer than necessary thinking of something funny to say … but I think I just want you to know that I want to see you again. How about Thursday night?” A-ha! I knew it! This guy has balls. Thursday night it will be. With sleigh bells.
1 pm: So my date with Cocktail is confirmed for tomorrow night. We’ve been exchanging witty emails and text messages all day. I’m waiting for his next text when one rolls in from Brad (see my last diary entry). “I’m FINALLY back from Europe. Let’s catch up over a drink? Tomorrow?” By “catch up over a drink” I think he means “get drunk and screw.” But I have a date with Cocktail! Brad has officially asked me out eight times. I think I will finally have to say yes. It’s pretty much a sure lay. But now I am all intrigued by Cocktail.
“How about next week?” I think I’ll have Brad wait just one more week. So what will it be … relationship material or hot sex? Who cares as long as it’s a white Christmas?