Tuesday, December 20, 2005
A woman in her twenties will maintain a diligent record, at least in her head, of her sexual partners. Culturally we’re instructed to keep that number to a minimum. When that same woman enters her thirties, she’s lost track and doesn’t even bother to keep a tab. It isn’t to say she's suddenly morphed from a rather pure damsel to outright slut. Let's face it, ladies. If you enter your third decade solo, it’s fair to assume you've probably broken into the double digits. Plus, you have more important things to stress about like whether the Moschino pencil skirt you splurged on will still fit after you recover from the breakup induced famine. Oh heck. You look fabulous for the time being and you can always fall back on it as an incentive to start calorie counting again. At least Moschino holds its value and can be sold at the nearby consignment shop.
I can easily name my number one and number two sexual partners. Everyone should at least be able to name number one, regardless of your gender. I also can easily name the last two men I’ve bedded. But looking back on the ten years since giving in on sexual promiscuity, I can’t quite recall the men in between. Sort of.
There are two men in particular that I probably will never forget. Not because those were wild nights of passionate and animalistic sex. No. Quite the opposite. It’s more because they had to be two of the worst sexual encounters. Ever. Both were men who had chased me and though I flirted back I never gave in because it just didn’t feel right. I should have followed my gut. When you crave some human touch and a non-battery induced moan, well, gut and good judgment sometimes go right out the window.
The first guy was a charmer. He opened doors, always rose from the table whenever you left or returned, walked on the street side of the sidewalk and would never think twice about entering through any doorway before a woman. He was a good enough kisser. So on a really horny night, I went over to his place and started making some purr-fect moves. After a few minutes of missionary, he was passed out snoring. I then went home to finish what he never started, something I should have done from the get go. It was so bad that after that mistake, when someone asked how many guys I’d been with, my response was a solid 4 1/2. I’d admit to penetration but wasn’t going to be penalized for it.
Then came the other guy to round out my fraction. We’d gone on a few dates many years before. I nicknamed him Seinfeld because he was Jewish, brunette and had shtick like nothing I’d ever seen. To his defense, when I bailed on date number five feigning illness, I received flowers from him the next day wishing me well. I felt badly but not badly enough to subject myself to date number six.
Over the years, I’d randomly bump into Seinfeld. We crossed paths at a bar or on JDate, two places where single Jewish people can be found during the hunting phase. We’d chat, maybe even make a plan. Usually nothing panned out. Then, the night before my 28th birthday, he invited me out to dinner. To minimalize the ridiculousness sitting across the table from me, I started pounding drinks. The highlight of the conversation was him babbling about being lactose intolerant. I'll have another Cosmo, please.
Next thing I know, I drunkenly let my hormones get the better of me. I clearly hadn’t learned anything from my first 1/2. I can sum up this encounter with one piece of dialogue.
Seinfeld: “I’m going to cum.”
Me: [In my head] You’re in me?
Seinfeld: I want you to cum too.
Me: [In my head] Well, you’re going to have to do more than make a verbal request.
Me: Moan. Moan. Moan. Oh yeah. Right there. Moan. Moan.
I tried to stay there that night because I was still buzzed and it was three in the morning. Even with all the effort I put into sleeping, I got up at four and drove home. I had to do it in the darkness of Seinfeld’s neurotic version of night with windows triple covered to block light and even the alarm clock stashed in a bedside table to avoid the invasive glare of digital numbers. I dressed by the light of his VCR’s clock. When I got home, I realized I had one sock and my underwear on inside out.
With that mistake, my number rounded off to an even five. More importantly, I finally learned my lesson. Two halves may make a whole but it's inevitaby a whole lot of nothing, even if you long ago stopped counting numbers.