New York magazine runs a feature called “Sex Diaries,” sort of like Penthouse forum but without the improving articles. Readers anonymously send in details of their sex-lives — “with comic, tragic, often sexy, and always revealing results.”
Last week, a 42-year-old corporate trader shared his hijinks with a much younger Sugar Baby. (Which could be a post all its own — why the treacly euphemism for sex workers? Should we name all professionals after popular candies? “Cancel my afternoon appointments, Marion. I have a meeting with a Milk Dud.”)
Anyway… today the Universal Bullshit Translator is tackling the Married Trader and his Sugar Baby.
4:45 a.m. I am a trader, and I live in Chappaqua, so I wake up at the ass crack of dawn and sneak out of the house without waking the wife or kids. They prefer it this way since it’s so damn early.
7 a.m. First Starbucks triple latte of the day. Settled into my desk. Let’s go!
4:20 p.m. The market was not my friend. Get me the fuck home.
Did you have a bad day, Boo Boo? Do you need a friend? I think we could buy you a few.
UBT: I work hard for the money and am a considerate family man who lets small children sleep. My one small pleasure is a frothy caffeinated beverage. Behold my suffering! And pity me.
4:45 a.m. Same evil wake-up call. I’ve been doing this for 20 years; you’d think I’d be used to it. You’d also think I’d be richer. We just moved out here to the ‘burbs. It’s a big house in the safest possible neighborhood. The wife likes it. My two young children like it. Me? I’m not about to run for mayor, but I don’t need to burn the town down, either.
4:30 p.m. Every other Tuesday, I go to physical therapy for an old back injury. But the wife thinks I go every Tuesday. This is not a PT Tuesday. This is a Brie Tuesday. Brie is my special ladyfriend: We met at a fundraiser about six months ago, and she is 24. It is pure sex. And money. She’s not a proper escort, but she might as well be.
U-huh. You met at a fundraiser. Sure. And the UBT is a chocolate-covered pretzel.
Because that’s how it goes — you sidle up to some young thing at the Save Dyslexic Quakers gala and whisper, “Care to be my biweekly fuck for money?” And she’s in total accord with your wishes. Every OTHER Tuesday? Yes, she’s free!
UBT: Brie is my special ladyfriend. The kind of special I have to pay to touch me.
5 p.m. We meet at a midtown hotel and quickly down two dirty martinis each at the bar — it’s a solid routine. We never touch at the bar because, in case I’m ever spotted, I have a pre-rehearsed story that Brie is my niece. My real niece goes to Columbia, so it would make perfect sense if it ever got back to the wifey. The hotel is also right near my physical therapy, so I’m covered that way.
It would make perfect sense that I would drink cocktails at a hotel with my college-age niece. No one would find that creepy or unusual at all! Doting uncle is the perfect disguise! No one would ever suspect me of paying for sex!
The UBT thinks someone slipped some stupid in your drink.
5:30 p.m. In the hotel room, I always go down on Brie for as long as she lets me. Today it’s about 15 minutes. I love her pussy. It is very pretty and smells like cotton candy. We have sex missionary-style on the hotel bed and come together after about 12 minutes, if I’m being honest.
Brie fakes her orgasms.
5:42 p.m. I take a quick shower.
Gotta wash all the cheater juice off before I go home to wifey.
5:50 p.m. I give Brie $600 after every time I see her. This is because (1) she handles the hotel room, which can cost up to $350, (2) she has to cab it to Brooklyn, where she lives, and (3) I’m happy to give her spending cash. She is a part-time nanny for a Park Slope family and doesn’t make a lot. I’m no fool, I know it sounds like she’s a hooker, but it’s really not like that. And if it is, fuck it, I don’t care.
I’m not paying a hooker! I’m giving a part-time nanny some spending money! It makes perfect sense that a woman who earns $600 per half hour would spend the rest of her non-biweekly-Tuesday time babysitting small children for crap wages.
She’s just that kind of selfless, crazy kid! Don’t spend it all on comic books, okay Brie?
7:30 p.m. Home. Wife and kids are so preoccupied with bath time that I don’t have to lie about what I did at PT … because no one asks.
I’m a sad sausage. No one asked me about my day with the hooker. They don’t love me. Ergo, I should see hookers.
9 p.m. I go to bed hours before my wife. All good in the hood.
4:45 a.m. Motherfuckin’ alarm.
12 p.m. It’s been a tumultuous day, work-wise.
4:30 p.m. Get me out of Dodge and straight to … SLT. I love SLT.
6:30 p.m. I meet the family for pizza in the town next door. My kids are my life. And no, I don’t think about Brie at all. I’m able to fuck her every other Tuesday and leave it at that. No texting. No sexting. No missing each other. No trouble.
As long as everyone stays in their place, everything is fine. Family pizza night/hooker night. Can’t mix it up, or it’s like when pizza delivery goes wrong and all the toppings slide off and slosh around. Family pizza night cheese cannot touch hooker Tuesday pineapple. Chaos will reign.
10:30 p.m. When all the kids are asleep, my wife and I cuddle in bed. I have a massive boner. We’ve been together for a decade, so the sex isn’t what it was, but it’s still pretty good. Last year I got “snipped,” so we’re still enjoying the freedom of that. I fuck her from behind while rubbing her clit hard, around and around, how she likes it. Brief flashes of Brie, but nothing I can’t handle.
You have an affectionate wife, who turns you on, a good job, and a lovely family. Yeah, your life just sucks. I think you deserve MORE.
4:45 a.m. Fuck my tedious life.
12 p.m. Market blows.
5 p.m. Drinks with a buddy down in Tribeca. He says his new girlfriend is coming in a little while. This guy is in the middle of a gnarly divorce, so I’m glad to see he’s getting some … in the butt. Yep, he and new girl are into ass-play, he tells me. Mostly hers, a little his. Whatever floats your boat, brah.
6 p.m. I just can’t take his new ladyfriend seriously knowing she likes to take it in the tushy.
I can’t respect a slut who likes anal sex. But a woman who takes money for sex? Hand that special lady friend $600, I say!
9 p.m. On the Metro-North home, I’m just glad to be married.
I’m sure your wife is just thrilled to not have you arrive home until after 9 p.m. I’m sure her life is never “fucking tedious” staying home with kids.
UBT: I’m just glad for cake.
4:45 a.m. I look at my phone, and there’s a voice-mail from “Joseph Hedgefund.” Guess who Joseph Hedgefund is? It’s the name of a certain soft cheese. Brie must have drunk-dialed me late last night. In the past, this would have really pissed me off, but I’m too tired to get riled up at the moment.
6:30 a.m. I listen to her message from the car: She is wasted and says she wants to see me and to “choke” — on my cock. We’ve done some bondage stuff before — it’s mostly me getting whipped and emasculated and shit, but sometimes we tie her up, too. She has more than once requested to choke on my cock, so I shove it down her throat until she’s all drooling and lightly gagging. For some reason she loves it. Fun times.
She calls me to request sex. I’m sure it’s because she can’t get enough of my cock and not because she needs money.
5 p.m. I’m meeting the wife and kids at our place in the Berkshires straight from work, so I head there as soon as the market closes. I can’t wait to play with my kids all weekend.
8 p.m. Wife has made spaghetti and meatballs, and there’s a Chianti open. We play with the kids, put everyone to sleep, and make love.
Fuck my tedious life!
8 a.m. Oh, sleep, I love you. I fucking love you.
12 p.m. We play outside all day. Tag, hide-and-seek, etc.
4 p.m. We go into town for Chinese food — my kids go crazy for Chinese food. Looking at my wife and spawn, I’m a happy man. These happy, healthy days make me wonder if the Brie thing is in fact a good thing for my marriage. It’s just the right release to keep things balanced.
It’s not cheating, it’s BALANCE.
A balance of power in my favor.
9 a.m. Sleep, marry me.
3 p.m. Another missed call from Joseph Hedgefund. Now I’m getting pissed. I’ve been up front about my situation and limitations from the start. In the voice-mail, she says she got tickets to some comedy show during the week, and do I want to join her? Please, Jesus, don’t let this woman start going crazy on me. Please. When I fill the car with gas, I send her a text that says, “No more messages, please, please, please, this is serious.” And then — wait for it — I type, “See you next Tuesday.”
7 p.m. Back home. Back to the grind tomorrow. And that’s my life.
Crazy woman and her cultural events! How dare she text me! Doesn’t she know she’s a bi-weekly orifice?
I’m sorry Babe, there’s just only so much of me to go around. I give my best to my spawn and wifey. But I can choke you with my cock on Tuesday.
This column ran previously.