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In an effort to catalog the mass sexual dysfunction in the District of Columbia, we bring you BYT’s Below The Beltway series. 1 week. 1 person. 1 city. Total Anonymity guaranteed.

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Below The Beltway No.18: 24-year-old single female looking to have Prince-Carmen Electra caliber sex. Let The Games Begin.
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Monday

Monday’s are brutal and on this particular Monday, I wake up in my apartment still tasting the shots of whiskey and baileys some guys kept sending to my girlfriends at the bar- oh Sunday night! They were Middle Aged Bros, a particularly annoying breed of male, and by the end of the night my friends and I were looking for excuses to run the hell out of the bar (For many, it’s called a “wail and bail”).

Around lunchtime I get a text from Hippie-Consultant Hybrid. I met this particular individual last fall at Marvin while I was in that rare lucid blackout land that only true alcoholics are able to enter and escape alive. We were both were seeing other people at the time and stayed in touch despite our significant others. I figured he was low-hanging fruit when I broke up with my ex, just some totally hot guy to wrap around my finger. Problem is, he was in the same boat and figured the same about me. Even worse, he turned out to be a more than alright guy… maybe even a little impressive. Now we’re both single but have been particularly awful to each other as we also both have the desire to stay single. I tried to stop talking to him, but recently he’s been texting me whether I respond or not. Sounds ridiculous? Damn, right, my friends, and I would continue ignoring him too…. The problem is that the sex is fucking phenomenal; Like, Prince-Carmen Electra Sex, like Wonder Woman-Superman Sex, like what Miss Piggy would do to Kermit the frog. He asks me if I’m free tomorrow night. I say yes, but that we should just talk (ummm… naked?) and agree to meet up with him at a charity event the next day. Home. Yoga. Sleep.

Tuesday

Mentally preparing myself for my date with Hippie-Consultant Hybrid. I know I must look fresh to death so I tell my boss that I have a doctor’s appointment and leave work to get a manicure. Yes, people, imagine all the reasons why he would be paying attention to my hands. We meet at an art space and proceed to down champagne like we just won the Stanley Cup. I meet a bunch of his friends, look at some art, hear some live music etc. Then he invites me for a smoke at his apartment (yes, that kind of smoke). Our conversation about yoga, kayaking and gardening turns into him asking me why I stopped talking to him, discussing his ex, and, exactly as I suspected, his own selfish place in life. It just so happens, I tell him, that I’m in the same place. He invites me to his room to “meditate”, and within five minutes we’re going at it calling each other nasty-names, biting, scratching… I’m sorry… what was I typing again? Twenty minutes later, we’re at it again.

Wednesday

Wake up at the Hippie-Consultant Hybrid’s place. Take his bathrobe, head to the bathroom and wash my mouth out with Scope. I return and we have some seriously Bangaranging sex again (ROO-FEE-OOOOOOOO), drink some coffee and go our separate ways. Sound good? Wrong. The problem with this is simple: Hippie-Consultant Hybrid is completely emotionally unavailable and is unable to see me for multiple nights in succession without freaking out and running faster than Bambi into the thicket. That means this particular brand of OHHELLYES SEX will not be coming around for another ten days or so. Too bad for my ass, because I will now be thinking about how awesome our go-round was for the rest of the week- unless, of course, I have something else to think about.

This sex diary will now take an ugly, vicious turn, Dear Readers. If you have a tender heart or a weak stomach I suggest you turn off your computers and go watch an episode of the Golden Girls. You see, my mission, should I choose to accept it, is to get my mind off of this guy, by getting myself on some other guy. Let the games begin.

Thursday

Thursday is the night that all desperate alcoholics delude themselves into thinking is an extension of the weekend. I myself play along with this delusion, knowing that it will only end in heartburn at my desk the following day after I down an Amsterdam Falafel at 3 AM in hopes that it will save me from a vicious hangover. It won’t.

Around 3 pm I get a call from my Recently Hella Single friend. She just broke up with her boyfriend of many years and is, as a result, raging with serious fervor. She mentions that Local 16 is having a free 1 hour open vodka bar and that it is usually packed with foreigners. One of our collective mottos for men is “Don’t speak English so well? C’mon over,” so I immediately accept.

About 20 minutes after the open bar has ended, my friends and I are surrounded by a group of German men. Their English is two steps above par at best. Perfect. Hella Single friend disappears with on named Otto or Heinrick or… I mean, whatever, and my roommate and I are left to entertain the rest. While my roommate is challenging two Germans to see who is the better kisser, I make out with some French guy named Pierre. I can’t tell you how he appeared.

Ugghh and then… my phone lights up with a text from Hippie-Consultant Hybrid. “I’m still at the office if you can believe it. Have anything stupid to say to make me smile?” DO NOT BE FOOLED READERS! This is not a hint that the wall of his impenetrable fortress of emotional retardation is cracking; this is simply a show of his inability to stop playing games.

I respond that I am at a bar with a bunch of Germans trying to sell me on the physical excellence of the German body- I admit they are very convincing. No reponse. Take that! I win. I can go home now. I give the French dude my number and go home to smoke (yes, again, that kind of smoke).

Friday

High off my success from the night before, yet low because of the hangover I’m experiencing, I enter Friday knowing that I had to repeat the night before with gusto. I met Recently Hella Single friend at a super lame birthday party where I argue with a hipster over the meaning of the word “libation,” scoring myself a Makers on the rocks. Win. My friends and I head out of the spot to dance and meet a bunch of Israelis that continue the free drink parade. Just as I’m about to thank the drum major for leading me to such a glorious drunken state, I realize that I’ve been robbed. Yes, people, I WAS ROBBED. My blackberry? Gone. My wallet? Gone. I check to see if they are on the bar and see that the thief had kindly returned my wallet sans cash but without taking my cards or ID. Whoever you are, I hope you’re enjoying my new Curve. Go fuck yourself.

Determined not to allow this to ruin my night I breathe deeply and stay calm. “Self,” I tell myself, “the universe will throw you a bone here. You know it.” The bone shows up in the form of a 6’6’’ alleged former Hoity-Toity college basketball player that we will call Potential Entertainment boy. We dance. He buys me a drink. I drink it. He offers to take my friends and I home for a smoke. I agree.

Before I know it we’re in his sweet apartment in Chinatown chilling on his balcony. I couldn’t tell you how we got to his room (sans my friends) or how he got my clothes off. But it happened, and from what I remember, it was good.

Saturday

Wake up at Potential Entertainment Boy’s apartment and look around the place I hadn’t paid attention to the previous night. Cool art. Good books. Interesting. We lay in bed late and actually have a good time. Eventually I had to engage in robbery recovery, so I had to leave his apartment, but I must say I was pleasantly surprised. We know, and hate, mutual people. We laugh a lot. And we even have a little sumpin’ sumpin’ more in bed. Could he be the person to blot out Hippie-Consultant Hybrid? The short answer is, no, he’s just not good enough in the sack. The long answer is that before I left he kindly wrote down his number for me on a piece of paper (as I was phoneless) and so we shall see.

I cut my losses and decide to attend a friend’s DJ set at L2. My friends and I get to the place and the scene is dead. The music is alllll liiiivveee shittt… but there is no one there. So while dosey-doeing in the middle of the dance floor, I notice an obnoxious accent coming from near the bar. It is unmistakable and chilling. I turn around to see Alzheimer’s Date, a British boy I used to date annually in college.

Each year I would decide that he was a waste of time, yet in one years time (I suppose he’s realized that’s how long it takes me to forget how ridiculously vain he is) he would contact me and I would go out with him again. Trying to be the bigger person, I turn around and say hello to find that he is incoherently drunk. He says to me the following absolutely ridiculous thing: “If you’re looking for a boyfriend, I’m not your guy. If you’re looking for a good lay, I’m probably not you’re guy either. But if you’re bored, I’m your man.” He had never spoken truer words, but that did not convince me to go home with him when he offered at the end of the night. The place had picked up, and I was flirting with a Southern boy. Gave Southern boy my number and went home happy.

Sunday

Go to brunch at Belga with a group of my favorite homosexuals and girls. As I enter the restaurant, I hear the same obnoxious buzzing I had heard the night before. Only, now that I was not drunk, it was like someone was stabbing me directly in my inner earlobe. Alzheimer’s Date was at the bar in the restaurant. I didn’t know if he had seen my friends and I arrive, but I knew I had to mockingly point out his presence and act like a child. It was the only thing left.

Luckily, he knew to respond in kind. There was no reason for him to appear in my section of the restaurant and pretend to play with his phone directly in front of my table. In fact, some might say that he looked like a total jackass as he pretended not to look at my friends and me. Again, I am a big person and, and thus said his name aloud (yes, he stands so close that I didn’t have to shout). He feigns surprise as I roll my eyes. I did my best impression of “no really, stay for a drink” while my body language gave away that I was actually thinking “no really, if you stay I will poison your drink,” and he leaves.

Got home and have a serious attack of Alzheimer’s and send him a facebook message. What? He’s hot. Happy Sunday Funday, God Bless us, everyone.

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