Ok, it’s not that random, really. It was Day Eight of the Sex Diary I submitted to Daily Intel. Maths have never been my forte and I named two different days as Day Four, finishing the account of the whole week plus before I discovered. What can I say… I have other strengths.
So now I am posting this. We can call it an appetizer to tomorrow's Sex-Diary-in-full posting. Or a dessert, as it really should be, as it is chronologically coming after the main entree.
DAY EIGHT:
8 a.m: Wake up and start working.
1.30 p.m: Yoga/lunch break over. The weather is too nice to sit inside, and I take my laptop out to work there. It’s not efficient. It’s one of those days when people won’t leave me alone. Strangers shower me with compliments. Hot men bring me coffee. Tourists take their picture with me. A Florida Latino in his early twenties even has the balls to jump all over me and kiss me while we’re being photographed, without as much as asking if I am ok with it. I get mad and yell at him, then think “never mind, boy’s got guts, and it’s not worth my time”. I refuse to give him my e-mail for him to “send me the picture”, though, and I warn him that other women would have hit him over the head. He smiles sheepishly and says it was “totally worth it”. And so the day goes.
4 p.m: A Chinatown kid wants a hug and says “buti”. I am shocked that a two-year old knows the word “booty” until I realize he means to say “beauty”. I overcompensate by answering “and you are a cutie pie”. His mother does not understand enough English to make that one out, and I feel like an idiot. V. glad X didn’t see me now, as I know what he would have said. For myself, I am not so sure I’d “make a great mother”. I consider one of my points proven, though: I def. would not have been able to get much done should I have spent the day with kids. I work the best when I am left to myself.
5 p.m: Happy hour and I am hungry already. Haven’t eaten any fruit today, as I usually do between lunch and dinner. So I decide to put my laptop down, and I treat myself to a glass of rosé and a tuna steak on sidewalk café. Attention galore continues. After eating, I want to keep sitting, watching people without really talking to anyone. But I feel drunk after just those two glasses of wine, and these passersby don’t stop talking to me. So I pick up my crossword. Good idea. Ain’t drunk if you can do the crossword!
6 p.m: Realize my crossword is full of mistakes.
8 p.m: Back home with laptop, incapable of understanding how I can feel intoxicated after just a couple of glasses. I then decide evening is too young to call it a night anyway. I know I’ll start thinking of X if I stay at home. I don’t want to feel sad. So I take the subway uptown, deciding to catch some Harlem jazz. Love jazz.
10 p.m: Great jazz. Love this club.
11 p.m: Am making a new friend, a singer living nearby. She won’t sing tonight, though. We share stories, talk about music and the danger in living close to where one likes to hang. I tell her my bouncer story and admit I want to go back there to hook up with him again, and she laughs, responding “we’ve all been there”. Still, she looks sort of resigned when man after man approaches me and ignores her. Sure, anyone can accuse me of having a black man fetish, but honestly? A single white woman in a black club, looking all right, gets a whole lot more attention than she should have. My new friend is at least as good-looking as me, maybe even more so. She’s got one of these classic beauty faces, but with a white woman next to her? No one notices.
1.30 a.m: Concert over. One of the musicians offers me a ride home. He’s not drinking, and his car is just around the corner. My new girlfriend shakes her head and points her finger to me, laughing. I ape the gesture, but I still accept. Why not? I like him, we’ve already been talking a lot during his breaks.
2 a.m: Stop at diner, talking and laughing and getting a bite. I like this man, but in diner light, I can see he is too old for me.
2.30: Diner bathroom. I just got my period. Ah, never mind. One night stands on the period? Not very polite.
3 a.m: Back in car, driving across Times Square. “I bet you’ve never seen it like this”, he says. He is right, it’s empty. Strange feeling. It feels like a parallel universe. New York without a single New Yorker. Not even a tourist. My body, all of a sudden, turns cold. No people. Is this what the apocalypse looks like? Jazz musician doesn’t notice, keeps talking. After half a minute, I shake it off, continue the conversation. Man’s funny, makes me laugh.
4 a.m: Making out in car, outside my building. This is getting silly. I tell him. He laughs and keeps kissing me, craving my mouth with his, feeling up my breasts. He’s got these big amazing hands. Musician hands, muscular fingers, sensitive palms. I have been with too many jazz musicians already, but they’ve all been amazing lovers. I think about the trumpeter and his tongue. The guitarist and his hands. The saxophonist, oh-so-good with both hands and tongue. The drummer and his never failing rhythm, that cock! The singer, so curious, exploring, so young. And that bass player, going steady, and then suddenly surprising me by adding new tunes to the repertoire… This one feels great too. He’s a marvelous kisser, and he’s managed to open my bra without putting his hand inside my top. V. nice. I like it, I love it, and I know he can feel I do, but I don’t want to take him up. Not tonight. He’s too old for me and I feel tired. My period I have forgotten about. His moves turn me on, and I can tell there’s a great cock inside of those pants. It salutes me through the fabric, and I love a big cock. For a second, I consider giving him a BJ in the car. Then I remember I am outside my own building in my own street and that any one of my neighbors can see us. So I lie. I tell him I’m a tourist, staying with friends, and that I can’t bring up a man because I’m sleeping on their living room couch. He understands and tells me he’ll look me up if he ever gets to my native country. Feel slightly bad about myself, and then suddenly remember about my period. I could have just told him I got it at the diner. True excuse, no need for lies. But it's too late now.
4.30 a.m: Hits bed alone. Oh, I really need my sleep now.
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