New York Magazine'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 female medical student, here for an one month rotation at the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner of the City of New York, visits more than just crime scenes: 24, bisexual, single, Murray Hill.
DAY ONE:
3:33 a.m. Text message alert says to meet at a scene in Long Island City. Floater found by a couple of vagrants. Just went to bed two hours ago. Haven't slept enough to be hungover. Still feel the remnants of the last tequila shot sloshing around my cotton ball mouth. Kundalini probably on hold later.
3:38 a.m. It's raining today. Time to break in my Fifi Botta Louboutins and I am out the door. No cabs this early. The subway will take too long. Lyft it is. I smell like sex as I fish out some baby wipes from my Alma BB.
4:25 a.m. The sun will be up soon. The sky is already blossoming pink, like healthy lung tissue. I check my makeup discreetly, around the corner from the crime scene as the drizzle lands on the tip of my lipgloss brush. Mmm..petrichor gets my juices flowing. As do the memories from last night's Bad Habit. Can't remember how many mouths and lips I tasted. So many flavors.
7:20 a.m. Unknown number text: Hey, found your thong in my bag. Trade you later at 1PP. Free for coffee? Could be the Aussie or Lady SVU. Investigate later. My boss is slicing up the cortex like fresh Alsatian butter. Said I could play with some tools today. Mentholatum across philtrum, check.
12:35 p.m. It's the Aussie by the Wafels & Dings. Blonde hair like spun sugar. Here on winter break before starting in the crown prosecutor's office. I showed her my sights down under, which she appreciated, four times to be precise, last week at Therapy. The VIP section is very discrete, love happy hour. Don't normally go for blondes but that brittle, frigid attitude gets me. What a talented tongue, a wholly underrated muscle in the human body. We flirt over espresso. She invites me to the Hamptons for the weekend, a friend of a friend and such.
4:40 p.m. SeattleSurgeon Facetimes, our end-of-the-weekly chat. Off-again with BoneBreaker. We play show-and-tell while I'm in the handicapped stall. It's harmless fun we started in three years ago before she transferred to the west coast. My visual cortex has a straight shot to my pudendal nerve, what can I say. Only broke out a light sweat when she took off her scrubs and shimmied her glorious breasts at the screen.
7:17 p.m. Another scene, this time near Bushwick, less grisly. The sulfur from the gunshot wounds linger in my nostrils. Post-mortem scheduled for early a.m. Meet up for a pie at Roberta's with LadySVU before her night shift. Quick peck goodbye, minimal tongue, promised to pencil her in for next week, early-ish.
9:20 p.m. Spied another brunette, with long curls this time, at the pool table, breaking a rack with a dark-skinned man, pretty eyes. Her smoky laugh tickles my ear canal, labyrinthine.
10:03 p.m. I startle awake. Still at Metropolitan, alas, no sign of the brunette. Catching the Cannonball to the South Fork tomorrow, should get my beauty sleep.