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
10 pm: Happy Birthday to me. Yes … it’s my birthday and based on my track record this year, it is highly unlikely that I will get a kiss let alone a hot-dick injection as a gift. My sexual year in review: one night of drunken sex with a high school friend, four one-night stands (mostly drunken), six make-out sessions (also mostly drunken), and a partridge in a pear tree (aka the one guy I actually dated for a month, but he blew me off before we ever did it). I’m no good at math, but I know that my year in sex = pathetic.
I try to drown my sexual sorrows with a birthday celebration at my favorite bar. It’s my favorite bar because of the ridiculously hot bartender, Maxwell*. For most of the year, my friends and I have frequented this place, betting on who would be the first to get into Maxwell’s pants. This guy is the epitome of eye candy. He’s 27, 6’3”, amazing body, nice eyes, sexy smile, great taste in music, and unparalleled cocktail making abilities (that’s a damn fine quality in a man). We all used to try to flirt with him to no avail until we officially discovered that he has a girlfriend. Of course he does. Boo! Hiss! After that, we all settled on our silly, silent schoolgirl fantasies. At least I can dream.
When we arrive at the bar tonight Maxwell doesn’t smile and wave as he normally does. No. He runs to me like a puppy to a fire hydrant. Something’s up with this dude. Not that I mind his big sloppy bear hug and googly eyes. I’m surprised he doesn’t start humping my freaking leg and try to piss on me.
“You smell amazing,” he dithers after he pulls away.
“It’s my birthday!” As if that has anything to do with the way I smell. I am just so taken aback wondering what’s going on here. When a young, hot guy treats you like a tasty dessert, it can only mean one thing: he just got dumped.
“Happy Birthday!” he shouts as he automatically starts mixing my favorite cocktail – dirty martini with a side of extra olives.
“No you’re not. You’re beautiful and smart and you have your s**t together,” he replies as he grabs my hand and kisses it. My friends look over at me with mouths agape. They give me a “holy s**t, no way” glare. WTF is going on here? I’ve somehow entered the sexual twilight zone. An entire year of BS and now this?
I have no idea what to say at this point, “Your girlfriend is a lucky lady.” I sound more like a grandmother than a girl who wants to f**k him.
“We broke up.” I knew it!
“So sorry to hear that,” I coo even though I am anything but sorry.
“Would you like to get a drink sometime?” He’s certainly not wasting any time.
“OK, sure.” I try to act as nonplussed as possible. I look back at my friends who are concealing squealing noises at this point. It’s not like he’d have to twist my arm to get me to go out with him. I can see his pert little bicep popping through his tight thermal. But I don’t want to seem overeager.
“I’ll give you my number,” he adds quickly. He’s overeager enough for both of us.
“But shouldn’t I give you my number?”
“No. I’ll give you my number and I’ll get your number when you use my number.” Huh? Too confusing. Plus, this dude doesn’t realize how much I hate talking on the phone. This plan sounds bad to me. And then reality sets in. I know I’ll probably never call him and being old means I’ve eclipsed the moment in my life where I can take this guy behind the bar and have my way with him just because it’s my birthday. Sigh. That was so last year.
I take the slip of paper with Maxwell’s number, slide it in my wallet, and wink at him. Oh, how I want to get him naked. Yet, the old lady in me knows better. Poor Max is just experiencing a moment of desperation. Like a little raincloud that poured down on me momentarily and then blew away. In fact, next time I go to the bar, I’m guessing he won’t even remember giving me his number. But I guess I’m kind of OK with that since I would be totally devastated if I was no longer able to go into my favorite bar and fantasize about a young, hot bartender while he shakes my dirty martini. God, I really am old.