This week’s sex diary.
This week, a man hooks up with a poly guy while trying to move on from a situationship: 29, single, Melbourne, Australia.
DAY ONE
11:12 a.m. I wake up still stoned and also aroused. Lately, I’ve been living in a loop: staying up all night, watching Baby Reindeer, smoking spliffs, and eating expired chocolates. It’s fucking terrible. I check my phone, and grudgingly, I listen to my dick and jerk off.
12 p.m. Devour two pieces of toast while standing over the kitchen sink. I chug a banana protein shake and hum to “Hollaback Girl.” (“THIS SHIT IS BANANAS / B-A-N-A-N-A-S.”)
12:45 p.m. I arrive at the gym. Crush a pecs-and-lats workout so I don’t feel as insecure for tomorrow’s Hinge date with M: a 30-year-old, ripped poly babe who’s interested in philosophy. “Have you heard of information theory?” he asked as an opener. Frankly, most of the men I’ve dated, and fucked, are duplicitous bastards who don’t read or understand or care about Eastern thought traditions. M didn’t love-bomb or neg me, so the vibe feels positive.
1:20 p.m. I’m cycling to Eminem and ogling the gym bros, which gives me a boner. I surreptitiously readjust my hard-on, flipping it into the waistband of my compression shorts, and fight the urge to rub one out in the bathroom. Toward the end of class, my friend texts. Apparently, J is going to be at this shindig on Saturday. Shit. J is a Shawn Mendes look-alike who I thought was The One, until we argued and started playing games. Two Libras in love, projecting. I care, I don’t care … My ego takes over. “Protect yourself,” it whispers.
2 p.m. So I check Hinge and reply to this stand-up comedian who’s performing at a comedy festival here. He’s cute with a burly mustache, but after stalking him and his work, his voice is a turnoff. He might be funny, though, so I reconsider and set up the date.
2:35 p.m. I hit up the supermarket and buy condoms and hair-removal cream.
4:40 p.m. Six blunts deep, I’m in the bathroom, stark naked, and start shaving: face, chest, balls. I notice how much bigger my dick looks after the shave and give it a few tugs to congratulate him.
8:30 p.m. In bed. I try to read but can’t. I think about running into J: Do I ignore him? Should I text to ask if he’ll be there on Saturday? Obviously, a terrible idea, plus I followed him on Instagram four days ago because his profile was public, and, unsurprisingly, no request back. I smoke another spliff and meander around the house before I perch on the balcony, gazing at the ceasing full moon.
4 a.m. I’m so … high.
DAY TWO
12:30 p.m. I’m up and at ’em late and I don’t care. I have blue balls and decide not to have a wank, saving it for my date with M, the poly philosopher, tonight. I read, try not to smoke, cycle for 45 minutes, and write. I primarily write about fashion for various magazines and websites, but I’m also co-writing a book with a fashion designer. The advance I got is what’s really paying the bills these days.
3 p.m. I’m not sure what to expect tonight, but I’m feeling slutty and amorous.
6:30 p.m. In the bathroom getting ready, which is my favorite part. I slather myself in vanilla body wash, spending extra time lathering my dick so it tastes summery and sugary. I brush and diffuse my hair. Daub vanilla on the nape, on the neck, behind the ears, and on the wrists, and then create a trail from chest to balls.
8 p.m. At a gin joint with M. Weirdly, we met when we were teenagers, which makes me feel relaxed. A gardener. Chiseled arms. Bespectacled. Babe! The conversation is stimulating, and he’s super chill and straightforward. Four pints later, he subtly mentions he’s in a relationship with a woman and is looking for a short-term fling. Score — a communicator. I text my sister: “I’m on a date with a man who has a girlfriend.”
11:30 p.m. On the curb, hooking up, waiting for an Uber. M grabs my hair and pushes me up against a wall, choking me, while I nibble on his ear. I turn him around, kiss his neck, grind into him, and slip my hand down his jeans. He’s bulging; I tease the tip for a second. “Wait — stop. The Uber’s here.”
12 a.m. Back at his place, we fuck voraciously: grappling, choking, and stroking each other’s tips. Soon, I’m face-fucking him while holding onto his bed frame. M admits he loves the taste of my vanilla-scented dick. I feel triumphant — mission accomplished — and thrust deeper. We 69 for a while, and then he pulls off my socks and massages my legs, and I feel an unusual sensation jolt through me: He’s sucking my toes. Wowza. I’ve never had my toes sucked, and it makes me even harder. I immediately finish and then try to avoid cuddles so I don’t catch feelings. “It’s time I go,” I say, inviting him to tomorrow’s party. Ciao — I’m out the door.
4 a.m. Home. Exhausted. I smoke a joint on the terrace. If only he were single, I think. Why can’t all men be like M?
DAY THREE
2:30 p.m. Yes, I just woke up. Hung-over, still in bed, I’m too exhausted to get going. I feel great about last night’s hookup, which is helping me get over J, but after most one-night stands, I’m craving cuddles. I text M saying thanks, to which he replies saying he loved chatting but wants to continue hanging out as friends, signing off with a kiss.
5 p.m. I leave the house smelling like a Diptyque candle. I chug vodka for fun on the way and meet a friend before we head to H’s for dinner.
6:30 p.m. At H’s, we’re drinking a bottle of red and chatting. Typical gossip. We eat pan-fried falafels. Drinking. Smoking. Gossiping. Laughing.
9 p.m. We arrive at the party. I link arms with the girls, soothing J jitters, and we prance right in. Inside the bohemian trap house, babes are swigging, toking, and snorting. There’s a stage and strobe lights outside. I pop three prescription amphetamine pills and start up a conversation with a dude whose ex is chatting up another man. I feel his pain and offer to hook up with him to make his ex jealous.
9:15 p.m. No sign of J — phew. I light a cigarette and sip from a bottle of white wine. I can’t afford coke, so I survey the backyard and find someone selling MDMA.
11:45 p.m. Perched on the floor, I am talking to this musician who’s also a mutual friend of M. He offers me some K — bump — and we start an effusive conversation: “Why haven’t we hung out in years?”
3:30 a.m. The party is dead, J isn’t here, and the musician and I are rapping to “Superman,” an Eminem classic. I roll another spliff, smoke it, and decide to bounce. I try to tiptoe past J’s best friend who is lying in the arms of her boyfriend on the floor while he plays the guitar.
5 a.m. Home. Wasted. Rolling. Sleep is practically impossible, so I smoke more weed. I’m somewhat disappointed that J didn’t show up.
DAY FOUR
3 p.m. Good morning. The goal is to write an entire chapter of the fashion book today. I sit at my computer and realize it’s never going to happen.
4 p.m. Coming down: I roll out of bed, smoke a blunt, and pass out. I’m never taking molly again, I decide.
8:45 p.m. Tears are streaming down my face as I shower. I can’t decide if I miss J or if I’m just having the worst comedown of my life.
11:30 p.m. After reading a book for a few hours, I check Hinge. The stand-up comedian asks me about hobbies and all that mumbo jumbo, which I find exasperating. I’m not feeling mentally sound or horny, so I resolve to message him back tomorrow; I’m sure I’ll care then.
DAY FIVE
11 a.m. Oh, man — today is the actual comedown, and it’s so bad that I am considering starting antidepressants. Instead, I push myself out of bed and try to make the most of my day. Speaking of which: What day is it again?
3:30 p.m. After the gym, where I cycled for 45 minutes as I listened to Taylor Swift, I answer the comedian’s questions, regretfully, and feign amazement at his dance abilities. I feel horrible — I know I should give him a chance and be less judgy — but my neurotransmitters are fried.
4:15 p.m. A post-gym wank to a cum-control video on PornHub.
10 p.m. Spliff. Think about J. Bed.
DAY SIX
Noon. It’s finally Tuesday, my favorite day, and I’m looking forward to my meditation class this evening. We’re focusing on overcoming ego, attachment, desire, and jealousy as well as learning to cultivate a loving, compassionate mind-set.
5 p.m. “Text J,” a voice in my head says. So I do. Seconds later, he replies “Hello” and then concedes to not knowing who it is. Gee-eee-zzz. I tell him, and he instantly texts, “Oh,” and then, “Hi.” I’m nervous. I thought the conversation was going to end once he saw my name, and wtf does “oh” even mean? Good thing I’m on my way to this class …
11:30 p.m. Feeling blissed out, I arrive home. Meditation has momentarily soothed my monkey mind until it dawns on me that J never replied — sigh. I’m not shocked. I’m under the impression he’s still punishing me, which I guess I deserve. The way things ended wasn’t great. I had told him that my ex hurt me in many ways, and I felt like J wasn’t sensitive about it. Or maybe I was oversensitive. Either way, I ended up really lashing out at J after a little fight we had. I went overboard. And then we never spoke again.
Whatever. I smoke a joint, read, and reply to six boys on the apps.
DAY SEVEN
10 a.m. Gym bro–ing it early for once. I smash an ab workout and flirt with this toned dude who strikes up a conversation in the locker room. I bite my lips as we chat, and I think about fucking him in the shower (he had Grindr open). Nah — next time.
1:30 p.m. I’m out of bud, so I journey over to my dealer’s place. She tells me that I need to move to Greece, where my family is from, and to stop trauma bonding with fuckboys. I nod, take the bag, and head home.
6 p.m. Blazed and blazing it.
Midnight. Another joint. More ruminating. I finally stop hating myself for a few — fall asleep, apologizing to J in my dreams.
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