Of a dry spell! New York magazine's Sex Diaries column is pretty much exactly what you'd expect it to be. This week's subject is a 23 year old female banker who wasn't getting laid until Barclays Boy saved the day.
9:50 a.m.: Late to work again. I have a date with this super hot Barclay's trader tonight. He has the most perfect abs ever, blue eyes, slightly floppy brown hair, a southern accent, and ... completely over-intellectualizes everything. (For example, me: "So, how did you and your mom like Wicked the other night?" Trader: "Oh you know, it was like a Greek tragedy, and all the characters had tragic flaws, but then there was a happy ending! I mean, how can a Greek tragedy have a happy ending?")
2:20 p.m.: In the kitchen, work crush walks in. I e-mailed him last weekend and invited him to be my date to a ball game and he chooses this moment to awkwardly reject the invitation. The ultimate rejection. The kind that only happens when you are totally obsessed with a guy and he is totally not obsessed with you. With or without a textbook explaining the psychology of it, I know that work crush is SOOOO not into me.
8 p.m.: Sitting opposite Barclay's trader at BLT Prime. It's suddenly as if best guy friend and work crush don't even exist.
10 p.m.: Licking his face and nibbling his earlobe like he is a hamburger. Totally outrageous. I'm already practically dragging him out by his Hermès tie.
11:20 p.m.: Fucking Barclay's trader ... in his bed, on the edge of his bed, on my back, on his back, on his desk, in his desk chair, up against the wall ... loving his blue eyes and his southern accent more and more.
The Overserved Ivy Banker Chick [Daily Intel]