I’ve dated my fair share of ladies’ men.
One in particular was a self-proclaimed male model who seemed to be allergic to shirts. "Ricky" was the type of guy that any sighted woman would find physically attractive and therefore the type of guy I should have stayed as far away from as humanly possible. Instead, I made a solemn vow to not develop feelings for him. Because that almost always works sometimes.
One night, after casually dating for over a year, we somehow stumbled onto the topic of each other’s “number." Yes, that one.
“What’s yours?” he asked.
Was he crazy? “You first.” I actually had no problem telling him how many men I had slept with but there was principle involved. I wasn’t giving him that bit of information unless there was some reciprocity.
“Guess,” he said.
Ugh. Knowing Ricky I’d need NASA’s help to accurately tabulate that figure. I remembered reading somewhere before that the average man slept with about 20 women in his lifetime. But Ricky was not the average man. Ricky loved the ladies and the ladies loved him. I mean he was a model, for Christmas' sake. Ricky had probably slept with dozens of women. Maybe even *gasp* scores.
So instead of just throwing random numbers at him, I tried to develop some reasonable equation. His age minus the age he lost his virginity times the square root of the number of Saturday nights each summer, carry the 2, and I estimated that he could have slept with approximately 70 women. Give or take a dozen or two.
“I dunno. 50?” I asked. I undershot the figure that I’d come up with because I didn’t want to overtly accuse him of being a manwhore. I would hate to offend the guy, with him being so pec-tacular and all.
My lover winced and squinted at me through one eye. “236.”
Right now, I want you to imagine the sound you’d make if you’d just gotten air after being trapped underwater for two solid minutes. Now imagine that that water was filled with herpes. That’s how loud I gasped.
“Eww, eww, eww, eww, eww,” were my first five words after sucking in all that shocked air. I remember them distinctly. I shrieked them and I rubbed my skin and hair hard enough to start a fire. It felt like worms were slivering over my entire body, but mostly inside of my vagina.
“Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my God.” I wasn’t sure if I was being dramatic, but I didn’t care.
Scrambling to find my clothes seemed like a legitimate response, especially since he reserved this subject for a post-sex conversation. Freaking the fuck out was a visceral reaction and happened without me even thinking. So you can only imagine how I acted once I started thinking.
“Dude. That’s like--” 236 divided by the total number of years he’s been having sex minus... Jesus, I don’t have time for this! I’m a writer damn it. We don’t do maff. Where the hell is a Texas Instrument when you need one? Or at least an abacus... “That’s at least one new woman a month.”
Ricky collapsed all his perfectly symmetrical features into his “my bad” face. And then he flexed. And then I forgot where I was going with this. What the hell was I saying? Something about long division? Oh right.
“Dude that is a lot of women.”
I didn’t mean to slut shame the guy. I really didn’t. It’s in violation of my own constitution when it comes to sex and sexuality. I am completely of the belief that if you’re a consenting adult, then what or who you do with your own genitalia is entirely your business and no one else’s.
Ironically, hearing gossip about other women’s “high numbers” has yielded a complete different response from me.
“So? That’s a grown ass lady you’re talking ‘bout. Mind your Goddamn business.” But from someone whose penis had been inside me only moments before? Whoa. It made me uneasy knowing that the only thing that separated me from the residuals of 235 other lady parts was a thin, albeit magnum-sized piece of latex. I’m just not that evolved yet.
But the intercourse was only a tiny part of the problem. The biggest issue was that the accumulation of 236 partners had womanizer splattered all over it to me. Over 200 and the man was still able to keep count? He wasn’t just sleeping with women, he was collecting them.
And while I truly believe that's completely okay for anyone else, male or female, him being that “seasoned” just wasn’t okay with me. If that makes me a hypocrite, I’m kind of okay with it.
So even though Ricky was sweet, and honest, and fun to be with, and scorching freaking hot, I gathered my things, kissed him goodbye, and left his bed for the last time.
Okay, okay it was the fourth to last time. But you catch my drift.