I have a new man in my head, if not exactly in my life.

Texts from him make me happy.  He’s remarkably awesome.  Two weeks ago, I met him, slept with him, laughed with him, and had the best time imaginable.  He left with plans to return later in the week for the weekend, which fell apart work-wise.

I’ve given him space: he lives 1700 miles away, with a vibrant social and professional life, and he is wildly successful.  He’s short, dark, kinda douchey, and I like him.

I like him a lot.

I like him more than I should.

He was just so freaking cool and fun and awesome.  The sex was the best I’ve had in years.  The best since BFD.

This post, dear Reader, is far far more than any of you care to know, but as this is my diary, I actually want to capture what’s happening accurately.  So, there are lots of text messages in part 2.



 I met him at the Chic Hotel Bar.

Of course.

He was talking football with my friend FM and I was bouncing between an event in the theater upstairs and the more reasonably priced drinks downstairs.  As always, I was with the reporter, who is my constant escort for everything.  The reporter is smart and cute and 15 years my junior.  There is absolutely no romantic interest between us, and we’ve become the best of friends.

I have no idea what to call this man yet, which is no reason to stop the narrative flow.

I met him around 9 pm.  We encouraged FM to bring the short, handsome stranger who was in town from New York to join us upstairs as his “plus one.”  The reporter and I checked back in on my rsvp for the sole purpose of drink tickets, as we had earlier used his.

He introduced me to an incredibly important woman in my industry, who hugged him warmly, gave me her card and wanted to be sure that he had everything he needed.  I was rather impressed actually, as she was quite clearly trying to cater to him.  He thanked her for the tickets she’d given him to the HUGE concert the night before, and I was kind of wishing I’d met him earlier.

We all drank heavily on what was a Monday night and I had failed to eat enough, which means, of course, that I got hammered and blacked out a little.  Not a lot, but I lost a little time here and there.

We went back downstairs to the CHB and, rather unsurprisingly, NY and I had connected.  He’s my height, maybe an inch or two taller.  He’s dark, Italian heritage, wearing a flawless leather jacket and jeans.  He is completely adorable, and very New York.

He had won $1k earlier in the evening on the game, so I told him he was buying our drinks.  He did — he bought all but one round of drinks for all of us (I picked up the first round downstairs for us all).

He was exceptionally cool and we’d been talking and laughing for hours.  We work in related industries and I get him.  He’s professionally social with a high-profile job and we’re talking music and travel and it’s great.

We were, by this point, cuddled up on the sofa, his arm wrapped around my shoulders as we held hands.

FM leaves, and I’d asked him to stay behind 15 minutes, but he bailed, leaving me with the Reporter and a female friend of ours who lives in his neighborhood.

As the evening was winding down, I say quietly to NY: “he is going to take her home, and you are going to take me upstairs.”

It had been a months since I’d had sex.  It seemed like a good idea.

We waited for the reporter and our friend to leave.  Then we headed up to his room.

We held hands through the lobby and then we were kissing in the elevator.  It was perfect.  We get to his room and I drop my purse and jacket in the entry and we kiss our way to the second bed.  He grabs a condom at my request, and the sex is amazing.  It’s amazing enough that we have an immediate round two before drifting off to sleep.

I sleep remarkably well next to a stranger in a strange bed, and when I awaken I am a little confused as to the time.  It’s Tuesday morning and I actually have some things to do.  I glance at his phone, but it’s — unbeknownst to me — set to east coast time.  It’s still earlyish and he wakes up a little and is curled around me. I get up for the bathroom and check my bag for my phone: missing.  Awesome.

I climb back into bed and he pulls me on top of him for round 3 and it’s just as amazing. We had last night stopped the pretense of safe sex, rolling the dice that we’re both as clean as we say we are.

He talks to me as we’re having sex and we’re both just blown away by this unexpected pleasure.

After he finishes, I return to the bathroom, realizing again that I have no phone.

We are laughing and talking and he cuddles up to me and says, so, we’re getting married now, right? Absolutely. We joke about how much our mothers will love the other.

Until that moment, we had the awkwardness of what the hell do we do now, but his joke and our subsequent marriage plan conversation made everything relaxed and perfect.

He asks for my number for his phone and shoots a text at 839 am: “Hi wifey,” which he tells me, laughing, as I am collecting my clothing strewn across his hotel room.

But here’s the weird thing . . . all of this feels perfectly normal. We’re happy and making plans for the day and the week.  He is leaving town today (Tuesday), but he’ll be back on Thursday.  We already made plans last night for Friday (he put me and the reporter on a super vip list for a high profile event as we sat at the CHB) and we both know that we are going to be spending more nights together.

It is not even a question in our minds.

He hands me his computer, so I check my email, my facebook, my twitter, text FM that I was not home, but would be soon, and check to see where my phone is.  He adds me on facebook as we’re laying together and then goes through all of my friends, surprised by the number of mutual mutual friends we have — music, restaurants, tech, it should not surprise him, but it does.  He said, I know this is kinda stalkery, but it’s cool.  And it is.  It’s very cool, actually.  It’s also amusing when he clicks on a film producer in LA, sees the mutual is a chick he hated in high school who is now an actress “ugh, so crazy.” Or us trying to figure out how we’re both friends with people who are friends with foreign tech execs.

I am dressed and getting ready to leave, but we kiss again passionately, and he takes my hand, and I say something along the lines of okay, fine, and we both laugh, and we have sex for the fourth time in about 7 hours.  I am actually getting sore by this point, because I have a tampon in, and I have my period, which I’d known but not really considered.

This time, I actually bleed onto his sheets, so he laughs that he’ll have to take his nap on the other bed.  He’s super-chill about everything, and we’ve been having the best time.

He’s rather conservative politically, whining about already having to pay > $100k/year in income tax, I tease him about getting a better accountant.

This is very much a fling, but it’s a fling we’re both enjoying immensely.  He’s sweet and funny and affectionate and adorable in ways I would not have expected given his profession and his life.  But I am utterly charmed by this man in every way.

At one point, while I am working on his computer, he gets up to grab the paper from his door, and on finding it was the wrong paper, throws on clothes to march down to the concierge to find out why they delivered the USA today to his room rather than the NYT.  He returns laughing with the paper at the ridiculousness of getting out of bed, and yet, it’s his thing.

[When I do my inevitable google-stalking of him later, I find he was featured in the paper within the past couple of months.  He is also frequently in gossip columns because of his job and I’ve seen pictures of him in gossip magazines.]

We tell tales of the night before and he thinks Iam hilarious and fascinating and he’s clearly thrilled by how all of this is going.

I finally pull myself together and head out, with our promise we’d see each other when he got back.  We will.  There is no doubt.

I head to pick my phone up at the concierge, clearly a little worse for the wear, and as I wait for security to deliver it to me, the concierge directs me to coffee.  I do love this hotel so so much.

Because of the big event going on, basic room price: $1,300/night, so I guess coffee is the least they could offer while I waited for my phone.

I text him as soon as I get home and he is adorable and prompt in his response.  He lives on his bb, complaining he needs an actual keyboard for typing.

He heads off to a big city a few hours away.

Hours later, tipsy after grabbing wine and food with my girlfriend RA at the CHB, I text him that we have still not recovered my missing shoe, which had fallen out of my bag.

He calls me “babe” in a way that feels endearing.  We wish each other good night in a way that feels natural.

Part Two, with text messages.