hot ghoul diary 8.0
going to the sex store to cure my psychic rot
friday
11:06 am
i’m sprawled out on my soft pink sofa while a hairy italian corporate stooge who critics are calling “my boyfriend” works from home at my desk. as i try to adjust to this new way of living (supine with an overheating laptop searing my thighs), i can’t help but feel like i’m setting the movement back. not to go full sheryl sandberg, but there is always something that feels vaguely debasing about letting A Man sit at My Desk.
as a writer (coffee shop lurker), my desk is the one place in my apartment that i feel any kind of dominion over, despite it being a total eye sore. the hulking, offensively square IKEA workstation is home to various treasures, including my collection of journals and planners. the journals are stuffed to the gills with horny sad girl ramblings and the planners stay perpetually empty—aside from the first two or three pages. there’s always one week in january where i convince myself this is going to be the year i get really into doing laundry and seeing people.
beyond my library of slut thoughts and failed commitments, the desk is adorned with collectible figurines, small cans of thinking slime, way too many pens, and a framed portrait of phillip seymour hoffman. when i sit there i am surrounded by some of my favorite things. and when i kneel under it while my boyfriend doug pulls my hair and pretends to take a zoom call, i am surrounded by all my favorite things. but when he sits at it to work, write, or play online dnd for six hours, that’s where i draw the line in terms of degradation.
no boyfriend of mine is going to use my writing space to further his own creative endeavors while i laze about on the couch and refresh my instagram notifications!
11:21 am
a lot has happened within the last fifteen minutes. (i read one substack essay). every time i read any sort of article i act like a different person for four days. this particular piece is called “how to get smart again” and it’s about reconnecting with your intellectual curiosity. a goal that has been at the center of my vision board ever since i described the imported sausage that doug’s well-traveled parents served me for dinner as “giving jimmy dean vibes in the best way”.
between surrendering my workspace to talking in scroll speak, i feel like i’ve fully succumbed to psychic rot. in my twenties i used to read or write one philosophy paper a day and drink three cold brews by noon. now in my thirties, i’m lucky if i read one book a year or drink half a coffee without having heart palpitations in a beacon’s closet dressing room. i yearn desperately for my old writerly life, but can’t seem to do anything other than open instagram and fall for the hot topic plus size section’s latest targeted ad.
perhaps this is why i’m so bothered by my lover sitting at my desk all the time. he wouldn’t be using it if i was there.
5:32 pm
it’s officially the weekend for once. doug and i are on our way to a sex shop by my place to pick up some kink stuff. on our second date back in november he told me he wanted to put me in a cage. it’s june and we’re just now buying handcuffs. that’s not to say our sex life is boring—things have been delightfully pervy since day one. but it is funny to me how quickly us two sick freaks devolved into a cozy, domestic life together. i’m used to cuddling and conversation being filler activities in between spankings and spit play. but with doug, the two worlds exist in harmony.
5:40 pm
doug is rifling through a bunch of riding crops and paddles while i comment on which ones are corny. anything that leaves a “SLUT” or “BITCH” imprint are not my taste. it just feels so buzzfeed vibes: on the nose and unoriginal. like when an overpriced salad place is named “harvest bowl” or some shit. anyway, we landed on a paddle that leaves an “XOXO” mark. far more romantic (humiliating).
5:48 pm
i bought a new vibrator. woman in tech vibes!
5:55 pm
doug and i are debating whether or not we need bondage tape when we have duct tape at home. this is what happens when two people with jewish parents go sex toy shopping. i can hear my mother’s nagging voice in the back of my head saying “don’t you dare pay retail price for that butt plug!”
saturday
1:14 pm
it’s a gorgeous 78 degrees outside and i am trying to eat ribs like lady while surrounded by decent people. every summer doug’s parents host a big family barbecue at their house in queens, and they were kind enough to invite me. growing up, my dad used to have family barbecues often in the summer. except ours were just him drunkenly eating fifteen hot dogs outside on the porch and occasionally throwing a plate at my mom. being around doug’s family whose idea of conflict is arguing over the answer to a trivia question feels like i’m in the twilight zone.
2:31 pm
doug’s aunt and i are talking about ketchup. she’s the kind of woman who you know is a badass even if her life now revolves around spoiling her grandkids and wearing a blouse. loud laugh, warm energy, desserts that might as well come with a mic drop. i ask her how she and doug’s mom became friends (they’re not blood related) and she tells me stories about growing up together. it’s always refreshing to find out you’re not the only one who believes you can choose your own family. a toddler screams and i think of my best friend lucy who i met in kindergarten and how if i ever have kids i’ll just tell them she’s my sister.
8:34 pm
the barbecue is winding down (people are full). i only retreated to doug’s bedroom four times to process the culture shock of a family who sees the best in each other. we huddle around the tv monitor in his parent’s living room to watch his brother and fiancé go over the guest list for their wedding next winter. the tv almost feels out of place among all the eccentric antiques and artifact-adorned walls.
doug’s father is a flea market fanatic with a knack for finding treasure in a pile of junk. this has been a boon for me because instead of awkwardly trying to make conversation i can just point to a trinket and say “what’s that?” i’m sure he’ll eventually get sick of feeling like he’s on an episode of architectural digest if he’s not already, but for now it’s the best i can do. i don’t know him well enough to just say “sorry for being weird in your house. i love your son and want you to like me.”
10:23 pm
after we eat a victory round of ribs, everyone starts saying goodnight. his mom hugs me. no one is mad at anyone. i sleep well.
sunday
2:14 pm
at a french café doing one of my favorite performance art pieces: Interesting Woman. in front of me is half of an apple croissant i ate alarmingly fast and a david sedaris book that i will certainly spend more time taking instagram photos of than i will reading. i stole the book from doug’s childhood bedroom. well really, he gave it to me. but saying i stole it makes me feel like i’m a girl in a poem.
6:18 pm
i just casually turned on the oven and started reheating leftover corn on the cob from doug’s barbecue. not very girl in a poem. being in a Normal Relationship for once in my plus size icon of a life has me doing shit i assumed was only for people who go on LinkedIn a lot and have clear skin. some days it feels boring and artless, but it’s better than the hurricane of tragedy my life used to be. i suppose that’s why i feel like such an imposter around doug’s friends and family—it’s like i’m trying to hide a decades-long storm behind my back as i greet them with an honest smile.
7:05 pm
doug and i finish our corn. he heads to the bedroom. i head to my desk. it starts to rain.
-Rachel