“Tell me what you want to do to me,” I cooed in Brandon’s* ear. It was our first time in bed together and I was hoping he would pass my “dirty talk test.” The test is simple. I ask the man what he wants to do to me and he responds with his own special brand of dirty talk. Easy, right? Not always so simple.

It’s easier to get the little head than the big head in the game. But the problem is, I only want to have sex with a man when both heads are present. I want him to understand that my pleasure takes place first in my mind and then in my body. And if he can’t stimulate my mind, he has a very slim chance of stimulating anything on my body. Sure he can fumble his way around and accidentally push a button, but why bother? I know some people don’t like to talk; they just like to “do.” But for me it’s not enough.

When I showed up at the bar, Doug* had not arrived yet. I had seen his picture (he was an online acquisition), so I knew roughly what to expect. I am not a superficial broad and I can usually find just about any dude attractive if he has a good personality. Based on the few emails we exchanged, I felt fairly certain that at worst Doug and I would bond as friends. His emails were funny, honest, and open. “Now that’s what I’m looking for!” I thought to myself. “A guy who can communicate!”

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 diary@thefrisky.com. All entries will be anonymous.

Here’s the second 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 will be racy and filled with revealing romps, while other times there will be nary a naked moment in sight. Some of these diarists will be frequent contributors. Want to share a page from your sex diary? Email diary@thefrisky.com. All entries will be anonymous.

Today we have a sports widow who is not sure her libido is going to survive football season!

Introducing the first 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 will be racy and filled with revealing romps, while other times there will be nary a naked moment in sight. Some of these diarists will be frequent contributors. Want to share a page from your sex diary? Email diary@thefrisky.com. All entries will be anonymous.

As many times as I’ve tried to recall the evening, I don’t remember the first time I met Marc*, although he seems to remember it well. He claims we met in a hot tub at a party that my then-boyfriend was throwing. Apparently, he thought I was “hot,” but I only had eyes for my BF Rick*, who was a friend of Marc’s. That was six years ago.

Marc and I saw each other again many times over the years. He was a peripheral part of my circle of friends—one of those people that pop up in your world every once in a while. The first time I actually do remember meeting Marc was at a get-together at a downtown NYC bar. It was a few months after the hot tub night. Rick and I were still madly in love. Marc showed up at the bar alone. I was wearing a short skirt – it was a humid summer night.

“I’ve never even kissed a woman,” Adam said. One of my best friends on the planet, Adam was unequivocally gay—the kind of caricature personality who lisped, wore pink, plucked his eyebrows, flicked his wrists, and decorated his apartment in rainbows. He was my first call when a guy I was dating was being a jerk, the one who was always up for an impromptu shopping mission or who’d dance with me until the wee hours of the night at an ‘80s club. Technically, he was everything I’d want in a boyfriend: smart, funny, kind and gorgeous—too gorgeous to be straight, as the saying goes. But since he was gay, I barely noticed.

But as he said those words, our faces were inches apart and we were locked in that trance-like pull of an inevitable kiss. We were at a party, dancing to New Order. And soon our lips locked and we were full-on making out. As I felt his hands squeeze my butt, I backed up and stared at him. “You’re an amazing kisser,” he said, with a wink.

Next thing I knew, we were back at my place.

As a single lady who has lived in a big city for years, and now moved to a new one, I’ve had my fare share of one-night stands. I’d never call myself someone who makes a romantic life out of having a lot of random sex. In fact, my heart stands more on the traditional side where I look for sex after the relationship connection, knowing I usually wind up hurt in casual flings and that I actually disdain the thought of adding another one-nighter to my “list.”

Last night, I got drunk. (A few too many Blue Moons.) The night before that, I got drunk. (Vodka tonics.) The night before that, I got really drunk and accidentally made out with a dude two degrees skeevier than I would normally go anywhere near. (Shots followed by champagne.) The night before that, I ... got drunk. (Blue Moon. Again.)

I bet you’re starting to notice a pattern here. 

Peter owning up to Googling me on our first date should have been the first warning sign. Don’t get me wrong: I Google, you Google, we all Google acquaintances. Doing it in private is one thing. Saying it out loud is another. 

“Did I tell you who I work for?” I asked. It was technically a blind date, as we’d corresponded only a few times through an online dating service.

“Oh, no, but I think I know,” he said.

“How is that possible?”

“Oh, well … I Googled you.” Point blank. I Googled you.