I have written about this topic before, The Magic Number. I am neither proud nor ashamed of the number of men I have slept with. It does however bother me that anyone would ask me just how many men that is, outside my close circle of friends.* I figure that if you are in a relationship or starting one with someone that that is what is important, you and your partner. Let’s live in the now, shall we?
I don’t care how many women a man has slept with or even why he did, I care that he was safe and clean, but the actual number is unimportant. I have had men ask me my number and I always answer the question truthfully because I pride myself on how open I am. I also love the, often, surprised look on their faces when I answer the question. I love watching them take my answer in and their shock at the readiness with which I respond. In most instances I feel that if they are going to base the longevity of our relationship on my past then we might as well get it out of the way early on and if they cannot deal then it is best I find out sooner rather than later.
But really, why do men even want to know? If you are concerned about who is more experienced, being intimate will likely answer any questions you might have. I find that in most instances it is more about ego. I don’t care about ego. If I want to be with a man then I want to be with him. I have even found in situations where the sex was lacking, I could still have a pretty solid relationship. There is always the potential for improvement. Sex is the best when you care about each other’s needs and are willing to take the time explore what appeals to both parties. Truly fulfilling sex takes time and a willingness to learn what your partner needs. No amount of partners is going to teach what an individual wants.
Numbers don’t mean much to me. I hate being asked. How is my past relevant to my present? I am in a place in my life where I just want one. I want one for a good long time but sometimes things don’t work out the way we want and I may just increase my number. It doesn’t bother me. I am looking for someone to share my life with and that means a few more notches in my bedpost. If that means I have more experience then any sane guy should appreciate that as much as a woman appreciates a man who is fantastic in bed.
I always liken inquiring about one’s number to slut shaming. Like my number of partners says something terrible about me rather than what it means to me. My number means that I have been looking for someone amazing for a while, who could be amazing in many aspects of my life and I just haven’t found him yet. That is what my number means. It doesn’t make me feel like I am a slut or that I am too promiscuous. What it means is that I am still looking and trying to find the right man for me.
And I do like sex. I especially like sex with when I see the potential for something more and if I see it then the last thing you should be doing is asking me how many partners I have had. You should be making sure I don’t kill bunnies or I don’t hate babies. You should be inquiring about my plans for the future; you most certainly shouldn’t be worrying about who I was sleeping with before I found you.
*One of my friends asks me about my number based on the idea that once you have had twenty partners you will never get married a la the movie “What’s Your Number?” She always asks me,”How many guys until you are never getting married?” I think it is hilarious!
As I lay in the dark, scanning the vast barrenness of my bed I run my hand over the empty landscape where he would sleep. Who is he? I don’t know. Last night as I dreamt he was a celebrity I had seen in an interview earlier that day. That wasn’t really who it was of course. Really he was just one of the muddy puddles in my memory, a puddle that used to be an ocean of love, joy and ultimately sorrow. He was the puddle I still occasionally dip my finger in, swirling it furiously trying to create a storm, a wave, something. Of course it never yields the desired results and as the puddle slowly dries up I lose interest.
When I can’t bear thinking about it anymore I roll to my other side and stare at the other silhouettes in the dark room. The furniture is just a collection of shapes in the quiet, lightless room. This room feels foreign even in the light. It isn’t really my room. I haven’t built my room, my bed, not yet. I assemble my room and space in my head. I begin my plan to rebuild. Things are falling back into place. Everything is nearly reassembled.
