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New York’s asks anonymous city dwellers to record a week in their sex lives — with comic, tragic, often sexy, and always revealing results. This week, a woman who professes her love for everything bagels on dating sites: straight, 21, single, Upper East Side, intern.
10 a.m. I wake up later than usual. I’m an intern at a production company in the city, but today, I don’t work. There’s a text waiting for me from Z, a guy I’ve been seeing for about two weeks now. We met on an app and hit it off quickly. We have a really natural rapport and can talk for hours.
He asks me what I’m doing Saturday. I’m out of town for a family event, so I tell him I’ll hit him up when I get back. Out of the 12 days we’ve known each other, we’ve spent 9 of them together, which is a little insane.
1 p.m. I finally get out of bed. It’s that kind of day. I make myself lunch and scroll through Instagram. I go on Hinge, then Bumble. I like Hinge, knowing someone thinks you’re cute without having to match, and that’s the kind of validation I need right now. Bumble isn’t too interesting today; it’s mostly finance bros with no bios. On Hinge, I match with a hot guy with long hair who kind of looks like Thor. His name is G. After a few messages of flirty banter about bagels (my bio professes my undying love for everything bagels with cream cheese) we make a date for drinks on Wednesday. I feel a slight twinge of guilt, but I remind myself that I’ve only known Z for 12 days. He isn’t my boyfriend.
8 p.m. Burritos with my roommate and our friends, mostly men. I love these guys; all I do with them is laugh. I’m one of their closest female friends and also their friend who gets laid the most — an interesting combination. They ask me a few questions about dating and I do my best to answer. I don’t think I’m very helpful. For all the sex that I have (and I have a good amount of it) I don’t have very much experience with actual, meaningful relationships.
1 a.m. I stay up too late watching Sex and the City. As an aspiring television writer and woman of New York, I can’t believe I’ve never watched it! I put on a face mask and smoke some weed. I’ve been texting Z on and off all day and send him a silly video of me in my face mask. He tells me how excited he is to see me later. The eagerness is sweet and a touch off-putting.
8 a.m. Time for work! I work two different internships, neither of which pay me. And I work them back to back, so today will be exhausting as usual. I drag myself out of bed, feeling a bit of a weed-induced hangover and head out. I send Z a photo of me on my way to work. I’m wearing a dress he likes. It makes me look a little bit like a Catholic school girl.
10 a.m. Work. Extraordinarily boring today. I don’t hate this internship but I don’t think I’m learning too much. I drink way too much coffee and count down the hours on the clock.
7 p.m. Because I have terrible impulse control and bad time-management skills, dinner is a slice of pizza on my way to my second job. I really need to start meal prepping.
10 p.m. I get horny at work, and since my job is mostly on social media I have time to send Z something a little naughty. He responds in seconds. We sext for an hour, getting dirtier and dirtier until I’m fidgeting in my seat. I’m so turned on, I can’t help myself — I go to the bathroom and masturbate until I come, hard. He loves it. He can’t wait to see me on Sunday. His texts became spottier and less grammatically correct as the night went on. He doesn’t say, but I know he was getting off too. That turns me on even more.
7:30 a.m. I’m on a very early train back to my hometown. I have a family event this weekend and am excited to see my parents and siblings. I’m not great at communicating with people outside of New York and feel guilty about that, so I bring a huge bag of pastries from my mother’s favorite bakery in the city. Hopefully all will be forgiven.
4 p.m. Party time! I’m a little drunk on Champagne and the bubbles make me hiccup. My uncle asks me about C and I bristle. C is my ex-boyfriend and the only man I’ve ever loved. We had a whirlwind romance that ended as abruptly as it started. He dumped me right before Thanksgiving, having the forethought to do it at a time I’d be home with my mother’s shoulder to cry on. How thoughtful of him.
4:15 p.m. I cry in the bathroom over C, just for a minute. I look at C’s Instagram. He reached out to me a week after we broke up wanting to make sure that I was okay, and I told him to never contact me again. I didn’t mean it, obviously. He ran away to Europe for a semester, and we haven’t spoken since, but watches all of my Instagram Stories almost as soon as I post them and likes every photo. I feel a smug sense of satisfaction knowing that he still wants to keep tabs on me like this, even months after we broke up. I rejoin the party.
5 p.m. On the train back to the city, Z texts me and asks if I want to meet up with him and some friends tonight. He phrases it like he doesn’t expect me to because he knows I’ve been out of town and am probably tired, but it sounds more like he’s nervous to ask and is giving me an easy out if I want to say no. I’m surprised he wants me to come. I wait about half an hour before I say yes. What the hell, right?
8 p.m. I’m running late, and I hate being late. I meet Z at his place and he and his friends are drinking beers on his stoop. I’m more nervous than I thought I would be. He gives me a big hug and a kiss on the cheek, and my stomach flip-flops. Do I like him? I think I like him.
12 a.m. Okay, I definitely like him. We drink at a bar near his apartment and his friends start to peter out one by one, until it’s just me, him, and one other girl. She goes to the bathroom and he slides over in the booth and slips a hand around my waist. “I’ve been thinking about you all weekend,” he growls in my ear. I giggle and turn away. He really knows how to make me blush. He runs his lips against my neck and I shudder. We make out until his friend returns, then make our escape.
12:10 a.m. The walk back to his place is more like a light jog. I just want to get upstairs and get his clothes off. We get into his building and he fumbles with his keys. He’s five years older than me — it’s cute how much he still stumbles around me. We finally get in the door, and he slams me against it, kissing me hard and picks me up and carries me to bed.
2 a.m. We fall asleep cuddling, with his arm around my waist and his head in the crook of my neck. I lie awake for a while, listening to his breathing. I gently untangle myself from his grasp and go to the bathroom. When I come back, he’s curled up in a ball like a baby. For a six-foot-two guy covered in tattoos, it’s an interesting contrast. I wrap myself around him and let him be the little spoon for once. I fall asleep quickly.
6 a.m. Hell yeah, morning sex! It’s sleepy and quick, but very nice. I conk out again after he leaves for work. He’s the CTO for a big tech company so being late is not an option. I cancel my date with G, telling him something came up. I don’t feel like I want to fuck him as much as I did before, not after the incredible sex I had with Z last night. He doesn’t really seem to care. No big loss.
10 a.m. I go home, taking the long train ride from Brooklyn back to Manhattan. I get a bagel and eat in the park. Z texts me, “Hey you! How’s your morning going?” I don’t answer immediately. Admittedly, when I like someone I can be a stage 5 clinger, but I’m not sure how I feel about someone else clinging to me. I text him back, and we end up talking all morning. Maybe I don’t mind it as much as I thought I did.
9 p.m. I didn’t do anything all day. My roommate texts me, “Are you alive?” and I realize I haven’t been home in days. I assure him that I’m alive, and we smoke some weed when he gets home from work. I fall asleep soon after, exhausted from a weekend with my family and from the marathon fuck session I had the night before.
4 a.m. I have a text from this guy R that I hooked up with a few weeks ago. He was definitely drunk. The text says, “Need that pussy ASAP.” Gross. I block him. I’m not in the mood.
11 a.m. Z has a few days off from work, so he invites me over. We do almost nothing all day except fuck. We fuck in his kitchen, in the shower, on the bed, on his couch — we tear the place apart. It’s exhilarating, and I have a post-sex buzz for the rest of the afternoon.
4:30 p.m. We decide to make dinner together and go out to get ingredients. He almost never lets me pay for anything, but after reminding him how he paid for brunch the last time we were out, he finally relents and lets me pay for the groceries. It isn’t that I don’t appreciate the gesture, but it makes me a little uncomfortable when the guy pays for everything.
6 p.m. We cook together. I’m chopping onions and crying my eyes out while he dices tomatoes. We don’t talk much, but every so often I catch him looking at me. He sidles up behind me, wraps his arms around my waist, and kisses the back of my neck. I push him off and he laughs. We finish cooking and devour the meal, ravenous from a day full of sex.
9 p.m. It starts to rain so I put on my favorite rainy-day song, “Stars Fell on Alabama.” Something shifts, I’m not sure what. I turn and see Z watching me. He kisses me and it feels different than it normally does. Much deeper and more deliberate. We kiss tenderly for an hour, like we’re in high school.
1 a.m. He’s asleep but I’m restless, so I go outside for some fresh air. I have another text from my roommate making sure I’m not dead in a ditch somewhere and one from my mom. I feel bad that I’ve been neglecting everyone else in my life, but not that bad. I’m having too much fun. I slip back inside and find Z awake, waiting for me. He pulls me back into bed and spoons me until I fall asleep.
10 a.m. I am exhausted and not in the mood to be at the office.
4 p.m. My boss goes home early. I’m sure I was supposed to stay until 6 like usual, but I leave shortly after she does. She’s the only person I answer to and it’s not like they pay me. Z texts me “Hey you!” again and I’m annoyed. Why am I annoyed by his genuine interest in me? I think about C and how much he hated texting. I’m not sure why the noncommittal, vague texts he sent me didn’t annoy me more than Z’s, but here we are.
9 p.m. Drinks with friends at our favorite dive bar. It’s fun, but I’m tired and lately all they want to do is bitch about not getting fucked regularly. Personally, I think it’s their attitudes … but you couldn’t pay me to say that out loud tonight.
10 p.m. I leave early and walk home instead of taking the train, which gives me a moment to call my mom. She tells me stories from work and about her crazy boss. I miss her, it’s nice to catch up.
11 a.m. I sleep in and wake up groggy and disoriented. Z sends me a cute with a picture of a dog he saw on the way to work and a funny caption. I laugh out loud — he has that effect on me. We make plans for dinner.
2 p.m. I finally have some time to masturbate. Just because I’m getting fucked regularly doesn’t mean I don’t like getting it done on my own sometimes. Normally I watch porn, but today I focus on my dirty, dirty thoughts. Z pops into my head and I’m thrown off. I come, but I feel weird all day. Not bad, just weird.
7 p.m. I meet Z for dinner at a fancy Italian place he likes. He’s warm and affectionate and I feel myself slowly beginning to let him in. I haven’t been truly vulnerable with anyone since C and that was almost a year ago. I could see myself with Z, the more I think about it. Being with him is different than it is with other guys. I’ve been seeing people casually for almost a year now, but being with Z makes me happier than I’ve been in a long time. I want to tell him that, but I can’t be that vulnerable. Not today, not yet. But soon.