SexDiaries: 'I’m spying again. The lights are on now and he’s home watching TV. The candle is burning. That means She is coming over. I don’t want to see this.'
Photo-Illustration: James Gallagher This week, a woman sleeping with the married bartender who works next door while trying not to spy on her ex across the street: 28, single, Brooklyn.11 a.m. I wake up at my parents’ house in Connecticut. I get a text from the Bartender, like clockwork. “Good morning! Are you in town?” I’m not, but I will be later, I text him.
After he finishes, he wastes no time with going down on me until I finish. He comes back up flushed and dripping in sweat and we lay there wrapped in each other’s arms for a little while. It almost feels normal.He confirms with a nod.He checks his phone. It’s his boss calling. He heads in for his shift and I get ready to go out with friends.
Let me tell you about the Neighbor. We met because I noticed how hot he was from my window and orchestrated a random “hello” down the street. From there, I saw him out at a bar one night and we started dating. It was just about this time last year that we stopped seeing each other. Or more accurately, it was just about this time last year that he canceled plans on me, only for me to then see that he had another girl over instead.
3:30 p.m. I close my laptop early and take the subway down to FiDi to see my chiropractor. After cracking every vertebra in my spine, the masseur comes in. I lay there while he digs into all of my knots, sporadically unleashing “ahhhhs” and “owwws” completely involuntarily. By the end I feel looser, straighter, and more relaxed.
10:47 p.m. Another text from Bryan even though I still haven’t responded to the first one. “What’re you up to? Come grab a nightcap!” I toy with the idea. It could be nice to feel chased right now. Maybe we could even go to the Bartender’s bar and I could make him feel a little jealous … No! That’s a horrible idea — what if someone did that to me?9 a.m. I get up to make coffee and realize my roommate used the last of the oat milk. Oh, well.
8 p.m. I go out for drinks with a group of girl friends. We talk about everything under the sun: friends of ours who have recently broken up, makeup, cults. There’s nothing special about tonight, but we drink and laugh all the same.
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