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New York’s Sex Diaries series asks anonymous city dwellers to record a week in their sex lives — with comic, tragic, often sexy, and always revealing results. This week, a married lawyer upset with her husband for not coming inside her: 42, straight, married, Carroll Gardens.

DAY ONE

9 a.m. It’s the weekend, so I got to sleep a little late. I hop out of bed to brush my teeth and then crawl back under the sheets with my husband. I’m ovulating and want to have sex. I’m 42, so no one knows if this is possible … but we’re going to have fun trying.

9:20 a.m. I kiss him and feel his morning wood. He’s sleepy and not so into waking up right now, I can tell. But he’ll usually accept sex if given the chance. I’ll be real honest here: I don’t love my husband’s dick. I married him for a million other reasons (his sense of humor, overall attraction, wonderful family). I guess the problem is just that it’s basic. Like, medium to small and without much personality. I was spoiled before him, though. My exes all had huge, confident cocks — and I don’t care what anyone says, sex just felt better with a huge dick.

9:30 a.m. It’s not that sex is bad. I end up getting on top of him and riding him until we both come. It’s pretty standard. The only reason I was able to come is because if I ride him in a certain angle, I can get my clit stimulated against his groin area (whatever it’s called). I know how to get myself off; but let him think it’s all him.

11:30 a.m. We both work out. He goes running, I take a spin class.

3 p.m. We have a niece’s birthday party. The Brooklyn kid scene isn’t my favorite these days. I didn’t meet my husband until I was 39, and we didn’t start trying until recently. I have deep regrets about not using a sperm donor in my 30s or doing something (anything!) to get things going earlier. I had a few long-term relationships that led nowhere, I was working really hard, and suddenly I was just old. These birthday parties are joyful, but they do make me feel very sad and mournful, deep inside. I hope those feelings don’t show.

3:30 p.m. My sister asks us how “trying” is going, making my husband withdraw a bit. He’s weird about the whole thing, which makes me feel weird about it. I’m not sure he’s totally onboard. If he were, there are other things we could be doing … I’d be open to looking into adoption too. My husband is just kind of detached — and because we both work so many hours, there’s never a good time to really get into it.

8 p.m. Turned out dinner was definitely NOT a good time to get into it. We went out to a local Italian place and split a bottle of wine. A big fight ensued. He said I’m acting crazy and pregnancy is all I think about. He confirmed that he wants us to get pregnant, but he can’t handle it consuming our lives. What a dick.

11 p.m. I finish watching TV on my computer and go to bed without him. He’s drinking what I think is his third beer in his office. I heard the bottle cap come off. Gross. We already had a bottle of wine.

DAY TWO

9 a.m. It’s Sunday morning and the height of my ovulation. He’s still pissed from last night — I think he crawled into bed around 3 a.m. Sex is going to be tough. I decide to give it a second.

10:30 a.m. He is still sleeping so I go out for coffee. Strollers everywhere. I try to push away bitter feelings, but it’s hard. I pick up some produce at the Carroll Gardens farmers’ market. It’s raining toddlers there.

11:30 a.m. I come home and my husband is awake and smiling. We never stay mad at each other. I lead him to the bedroom and start to blow him. He’s really hard. He’s usually hard.

11:35 a.m. He’s having sex with me from behind — his favorite position, as it is for every guy, in my experience. I tell him to squeeze my nipples hard; it’s the one form of sex-related pain that I’m into. He does. I’m not going to come, I just know it, so I fake my orgasm just to make him feel good. I want him to come inside me, but it’s just not happening. He is not coming. I’m getting raw down there.

12:02 p.m. I detach my body from his. “What’s wrong?” I ask. He says nothing. And then we just stop having sex and start doing other things. I’m depressed but try not to overthink it.

6 p.m. My husband is going to see a friend’s play; I’m staying home because I already saw it. Pretty sure I won’t be ovulating tomorrow, so this was a bust. I don’t pee on the stick but I know my ovulation dates from the “guck” that comes out of me. It’s hardly scientific so I hope I’m wrong.

10 p.m. Bedtime for me. I have an early staff meeting tomorrow. I’m a lawyer; we both are, actually.

DAY THREE

6:30 a.m. I’m in a car to work. I want to get a head start.

3 p.m. Daily grind as usual. I like my job — it’s not a terrible gig, it’s actually pretty interesting. But today I’ve spent a lot of time Googling ovulation calendars and downloading apps. Maybe I am obsessed, but how else am I supposed to take control over the situation? We will make such great parents. None of my exes were fatherhood quality. My husband truly is. I hate that it’s creating tension between us.

4:30 p.m. In a client meeting, someone mentions an amazing Vietnamese restaurant that’s also sexy and dark. I text my husband about meeting there after work. For us, that usually means around 9 p.m. He’s game.

9 p.m. By now I’m a pro at going from “day to night.” I’m all freshened up even though I haven’t been home since 6:30 this morning. I decide to make a conscious effort not to talk about babies or ovulation.

10:30 p.m. Dinner was great. I ask if he wants to take a shower with me. He does. We get busy in the shower, but it’s always hard to really fuck in there. We move it to the bedroom. He bends me over the bed and makes love to me really hard and passionately. He comes inside me.

11 p.m. I lie in bed, praying it worked.

DAY FOUR

7:30 a.m. I rush to work, giving him a juicy kiss good-bye. There’s definitely wind in my sails today.

7:30 p.m. My day is all work and nothing else. I did have a FaceTime session with my parents, who live in Vermont. They are so sweet. They never pressure me. They love my husband and don’t interfere.

10 p.m. Pretty sure I’m not ovulating anymore so I try to find This Is Us on my computer but fall asleep before I can find anything. My husband is still at work …

DAY FIVE

6 a.m. I’m not happy this morning. My husband didn’t get home until 4 a.m., and it just doesn’t sit right with me. He says he was at work. That is really, really late, even for a corporate lawyer. I’m not a distrustful woman. I’ve never snooped on his phone. I don’t know or care about any of his passwords. I feel suspicious and upset and I’m not sure if I’m being crazy or not. He’s still sleeping when I get dressed and go to work.

8:30 a.m. I grab my co-worker, who’s divorced and a good friend, and tell her how late he was out. It feels related to the pressure around sex and babies this week. Again, am I being crazy? Am I already pregnant and these are hormones? (I wish.)

2 p.m. I’ve been anxious all day. I do some light Googling about this case he’s on (which I never have the energy to listen to). It’s a shitload of work. Maybe he really was working. I’ll ask him to his face tonight.

8:30 p.m. We are both home. I tell him I feel weird about his hours last night. He’s all, “Babe … stop. Are you even being serious?” His reaction doesn’t feel sketchy. My intuition doesn’t pick up on anything odd. I decide to drop it.

11:30 p.m. We don’t have sex. I’m still anxious. I hope I’m not losing my mind.

DAY SIX

7 a.m. He’s rubbing up against me as we both wake up. His morning wood is ready and willing. We have very quick, so-so sex. He comes and I have a little orgasm. Is it just me or can orgasms range from super-slight to epic? Been a long time since those epic ones. Even when I masturbate, I don’t come so hard. I‘d like to change that but I have no idea how?

3 p.m. Not going to lie, I walk around all day long praying I’m pregnant. I’ll take a test in like ten days. My mom had my brother when she was 40, and my doctor told me her average new-mom patient was 39. I hold on to these strands of hope like they’re gold.

8:30 p.m. We meet at a new restaurant on Chrystie Street. We used to be a lot more social, but these days we’re literally the only couple without kids. We don’t even try to fit in with the parental schedules. It’s usually just us — and that’s usually enough.

9 p.m. Dinner is delicious. We talk about winter travel plans and where to spend the holidays. We talk about work a little — his case does sound fucking brutal. I kind of think he’s strategically making it sound awful to cover up for the other night but again, that could be my mind playing tricks on me. I just can’t help myself and I say, “Babe, maybe we got pregnant this month?” He says, “I hope so” and we cheer our wine glasses.

DAY SEVEN

8:30 a.m. I have a breakfast meeting with a client who used to flirt with me a little too much, but not enough that it was an issue. Everyone is talking about the Weinstein stuff at breakfast and there’s a bit of an elephant in the room since this client is very, um, friendly. It’s hard to know when lines are crossed. I don’t feel violated by him at all, but I wonder if he’s been shaken by all of this, knowing he’s borderline a sexual harasser.

I was assaulted once by a colleague. Very similar to the Weinstein stories. Trapped in a room with him while he hit on me way too hard. I was petrified, and finally ran out of there. I reported it to our female boss and she never did a thing. He works somewhere else now. This was years ago and I realize that I never even told my husband about it.

11 a.m. I put #MeToo on my Facebook page, but I have to be careful because of my job. I try to limit social media anything.

10 p.m. Over dinner at home (I made pasta), I tell my husband my assault story. He is really upset about it. More upset than I am, or was at the time, if I’m being honest. He comes over to hold me. He asks if I want to do anything about it. No! No, I assure him — it was years ago and I was not raped. My husband gives me a lot of extra love and affection all night, which he doesn’t have to do and it’s not why I mentioned it. But I love this man, I really do. And I hope we get the happy future we deserve.

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