This week, a fintech executive tries to decides between getting serious with one woman and having wild sex with another: 47, single, New York
DAY ONE
7:12 a.m. Wake up alone. The apartment’s bright. It’s on the second floor of a West Village brownstone. I bought it two decades ago with my first bonus. I make a double-shot latte and stand at the window in my boxers, watching a woman walk a small, serious dog down my charming street.
9:30 a.m. I open my laptop, which I try not to do on Sundays. I scan a thread from our CTO but do my best not to really think about it. I’m a VP at a fintech company, so I’m looped in on everything. I close the laptop in the spirit of having a calm Sunday.
11:45 a.m. Text from Mia. Calm is not the word I’d use to describe her. It says “thinking bout u,” no punctuation. Mia’s a freelance photographer about 20 years younger than me. She’s gorgeous with a gap between her front teeth that makes her look like a French model. (She’s also a French model.) We’ve been on and off for a year. It’s the wildest sex I’ve ever had. Every time we see each other, it’s all night, all positions, dirty talk. She slaps me. She calls me her “cum machine.” It’s nothing like I’ve ever experienced. It keeps me hooked and distracted from more age-appropriate, compatible women.
Mia likes to mess with my head. She’ll write “thinking bout u,” then wait a few days to respond to a text back that reads …
3 p.m. … “Dinner this week?” I know she won’t answer. I’ll hear from her on Wednesday. Put my phone on the coffee table and take a walk.
7:30 p.m. Dinner on Grove Street with my friend Patrick. I have a delicious roast chicken and a glass of Burgundy. Patrick is 52, remarried to someone his age, and always reminds me that he made a very good decision giving up the young ones for a stable relationship with a good woman. At the end of dinner, he says, “You look tired.” I tell him to fuck off.
However, he’s right. I’m tired of dating like I did in my 20s. I got married briefly in my 30s. It was disastrous, but I’ve been “recovering” for long enough. I’d like to settle down. I’m getting too old for games.
10:15 p.m. Natalie calls. Natalie’s 42 and has a great job with an international hotel brand. We met at one of her properties in London. She’s petite — strawberry blonde, green eyes. Mia is kind of harsh, a ’90s-supermodel type. Natalie is beautiful too, but much more low-key. I like Natalie, so I answer. She wants my take on a work conflict. We talk while I walk home. I sit on my stoop to finish the conversation. Per Patrick, I’m tired.
