4:15 p.m. Trying to kill time at the office, I start texting old flames, just for attention. My boyfriend hasn’t texted me back regarding dinner plans
By submitting your email, you agree to our Terms and Privacy Policy. New York’s Sex Diaries series 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 lying to her live-in boyfriend about happy hour: 26, straight, in a relationship, Connecticut.5:50 a.m. Every morning I struggle with waking up. Especially lately.
7:15 p.m. Home, walking the dog, smoking a jay, a routine I’ve come to really enjoy. I get in the house and begin my clean up in my phone, deleting the messages and Snapchats that entertained me all day. My bf is severely paranoid about phones . Neither of us trusts each other, but we play along as if nothing is wrong because this relationship is too convenient right now, for both of us.
4:30 p.m. Distracted all day at work, my mind is on Jameson. I ignore most of my man’s text messages — he’s just not what I want right now. I touch up my makeup before I leave work and finally text my bf that my co-workers and I are heading to happy hour and I’ll let him know when I’m on my way home. He sends me an annoyed emoji but recovers quickly with I love you have fun and be safe. All the assurance I need for my night to be a go.
10:30 p.m. We end up staying at his office and drinking with some of his buddies who have stayed behind. They start asking if we’re an item. I get slightly uncomfortable but hold my composure. Jameson and I are both in relationships, just not with each other. 9 a.m. I roll up a jay for a walk with the dog and finally turn my phone on to a message from Jameson. I reply that I was still thinking about his lips. We start planning a New Year’s escape for both of us in Miami. I know I’ll never be able to pull that off with my boyfriend, but the thought engrosses me anyway; in fact, I spend my entire Saturday off masturbating to the idea.
9 p.m. We’re home in our own spaces. I’m smoking a jay in the bathroom, as my high grows, I climb on the couch and snuggle in between his arms. Weed makes me mushy; we lie there in silence for a while, watching trash TV. He gets up and goes to bed.
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