"What's your number?" Shane reached over and pulled me in for a cuddle. We had just finished round 2 of the morning and I did not feel like chatting.
"I don't cuddle," I informed him, rolling away to my side of the bed. Things were relatively new between us; we were still getting to know these particularities about one another.
He ignored me and crept closer, crossing my invisible line. "Well? What's your number?"
"Huh? What are you talking about? I'm 24, you moron… and I don't believe in scales." I glanced at the clock. 8:13 AM. "Now shut up and go back to sleep." I buried my head in the pillow. Like an ostrich, I tend to bury my head in the sand at the first sign of danger, and we were entering a danger zone.
"You know what I mean!" he demanded.
"I'm not telling you. I don't like numbers… leave me alone," I groaned, flailing around dramatically.
"I'm going to tell you mine…"
"NO. NO. MMMMMMM." I closed my eyes, put my hands over my ears and began humming loudly. When I thought it was safe I stopped and looked over at my personal KGB agent.
"12. I slept with 12 girls," he informed me coolly.
"Oh, really? That's not bad!" I chirped.
"Huh? I was just joking. I didn't sleep with 12!!! I have only slept with 5." He looked panicked.
He was testing me. Tricky, tricky.
I studied his face. He was serious. "Five? Don't worry. I couldn't even tell!"
"Huh?" He looked confused. "What about you? Is it under 10? Just tell me that…"
"Sure." More like 10 is a derivative of my number. I failed Calculus; I have no idea what that even really means (Actually I took a W, then retook it the next semester and 4.0ed it… but I still have no idea what that means, I just slept with the TA. Just kidding!).
"'Sure' as in, 'yeah fucking right'… or sure as in 'yes, less than 10'?" He eyed me skeptically.
"Listen. You want full disclosure? You want honesty? It's a number between 4 and 30. You're smart. You figure it out."
He looked disgusted as he considered the possibility of 30 different penises entering my vagina. "Is it 5? I bet it's 5…" he looked like an expectant child opening his first gift on Christmas morning….
"No. It is not 5. It's more than that, ok?"
…An expectant child who just realized Santa dropped off a half of a lump of coal.
Rather than just drop the subject, Shane started to stiffen up and interrogate me about my "extensive experience" whenever I tried to talk dirty or to seduce him outside the bedroom. "How many guys have you done this with?" "When was the first time you did this?" "How long were you with him?" Blah, blah, blah. "You seem like you've done this a lot." "29 percent of American men report having had 15 or more female sexual partners, while only 9 percent of women report having sex with 15 or more men. Would you say you're more like a guy or a girl???" Dude, I do not want to chit-chat about my sexual escapades when I'm trying to have another one. Sit back, buckle up, shut up, enjoy the ride and get off… or I'll kick you off.
Shane broached the subject for the last time after a few bottles of Coppola (most of which I drank) one Saturday night. "Come on, just tell me. I won't judge you. I promise."
I remembered an exceedingly scientific algorithm my friend Brandi and I concocted one drunken college night to solve the problem of the perfect number. You need to have at least one long-term relationship, or you're a commitment-phobe: 1. You need to rebound from this long-term relationship, because you're normal: 2. You need a few flings because you drank a lot during college: 3 and 4. You must appear ready for a stable relationship so you must have already sowed your wild oats with a one night stand, and also because everyone should have at least one night stand to realize that they should never have another one night stand: 5. Lastly, you have your nosey current fling: 6. 6 is the seemingly perfect, believable number. With 6, you're not so slutty that you'll need to be buried in a Y-shaped coffin, but you're slutty enough to talk dirty and leave your stilettos on during sex.
"Fine. 6. I've slept with 6," I said to appease him.
"Oh man, I thought 6 might be a factor of your real number. That's not bad." Easy, peasy.
Shane didn't cry or appear turned off; rather, he seemed content with 6. Apparently 6 was the perfect number for Shane.
When I returned home later that day, I checked my "list" – complete with helpful illustrations - to remind me who lucky number 6 really was. Martin.
Martin and I met through a mutual friend. He played the guitar, was four years older than myself, and was a student at U of M Law. I went through a guitarist stage, what can I say?
Apparently I was so star struck by Mr. John Mayer-wannabe's guitar and shaggy hair, that I totally missed the cross dangling around his Pentecostal, tongues-speaking neck. However, I did attend the University of Michigan so I'm not a complete dumbass, and so by our sixth date I knew something was up.
"So, what's the deal? You haven't even tried a booby grab yet," I inquired after two hours of necking on my extra long twin size dorm bed.
"Umm… yeah, I have been meaning to talk to you about that…."
"Yeah, yeah, they are fake. Don't worry; you can't pop them or anything," I reassured him. It's amazing how many guys have not come into contact with a real fake boob.
"It's not that. It's just that I'm a virgin."
"Huh?" This has got to be a joke. I waited for the dude from Full House to jump out. Or wait, he doesn't host Candid Camera, does he?
"I'm waiting until marriage to have sex," he confided. "I made a vow to Christ, our Savior." Apparently I had some competition.
"Ok, yeah… I see. Um… why exactly?"
"I believe sex should wait until marriage. What about you?"
"Huh?"
"What do you think?"
"I think I have had sex before…" I sputtered.
"With how many guys?"
I did a quick tally. This was going nowhere good. I decided to look out for Martin's best interest and skim a few off of the top, specifically a one night stand and two flings. They didn't count anyway. "Ummmm…."
He stopped me before I could announce "three."
"No, wait. Don't tell me. I don't think I can bear to actually think of you having sexual intercourse with another guy. If you tell me a number I may not be able to handle it…" he looked down.
"Listen, you're wonderful. If I could go back in time and not sleep with those guys I totally would. However, that's not realistic, is it? No. So let's try to forget about it and concentrate on experiencing new things together…" I figured I could use his virginity to my advantage and convince him certain things were normal since he had zero experience. Also, he was so preoccupied with being the best at everything that I was positive I could get him to do some wild shit I had never done before… "Duh, honey … you will be the best by default!"
However, Martin's relationship with the baby Jesus was the strongest I had ever encountered. "I still want to wait until we get married…" he told me one day. WE. WE GET MARRIED? Great. I would never, ever, ever purchase the ride without going for a test drive. Besides, it was clear from day one Martin was not marriage material. I would never marry a guy who threw himself a CD release party. I had to do something.
Five months flew by of me trying to manipulate Martin into sleeping with me. Come on honey, just the tip, just for a second (and this was before Wedding Crashers)? How about we just put it in and not move? Or you can just rub up against me… Sexy panties, vibrators, role playing… This guy could not be broken!
Right around that sixth month mark Martin came up with a compromise.
"I have an idea that will appease the both of us," my ever so diplomatic future lawyer declared.
"I'm all ears."
"How about we try anal sex instead?"
I looked over at him and frowned. "Aren't you a comic?"
"No, seriously. I think it's a great compromise."
"Ok, let me get this straight. So Jesus doesn't want you putting your dick in my vagina, but he gives you the thumbs up on my ass? I don't quite understand the rationale…" For a moment I contemplated agreeing, thinking I could trick him into mistaking my vagina for my ass… then thought better of it. "Umm… I think I'll pass."
He ignored me and went back to watching golf.
Christmas rolled around and Martin invited me to fly out to Georgia to meet his family over break. I was pretty sure this meant he was going to let me do him too, so when I boarded my Delta flight I was sporting cheesy as grin of anticipation and a new white (how Virgin Mary of me, right?) thong and bra set from Fredrick's of Hollywood.
Although we exchanged gifts that night, I definitely did not receive a penis in my vagina or even one lunging for my ass. Just a few shirts, some speakers and cross necklace of my very own. After our gift exchange, his Mom ushered me to separate floor of the house and informed me that she was setting the motion sensors, so I better use the restroom and get a glass of water NOW.
"Also, we're going to go to church tomorrow morning, so make sure you're up and at em' by 8:30!" she chirped.
The following morning we rolled up to the United Pentecostal Church of Marietta in the old man's Lexus. "I'll drop you two off here and mom and I will meet you inside," Martin Senior said, stopping at the front door.
Martin rushed around to my side of the car to get my door. At least the kook was a gentleman. "So, I wanted to talk to you about something," he whispered, grabbing my arm.
"No, I will not have anal sex with you, for the last god damn time!!!"
"SHHHH!!! God, no. I mean, don't say that here!!" He looked up at the sky, as if expecting a thunderbolt to strike me down.
"Then what?" I demanded.
"I want you to keep an open mind today… and if you feel comfortable, my parents and I would like to have you saved."
"Saved? From what?" I scowled.
"Well, you're Catholic and so you're going to hell if we don't save you. I love you and don't want you to be sentenced to an eternity of damnation."
I didn't respond. I figured I would scream out a few "Hallelujahs!" and "Amen, Jesuses," and that would be sufficient for a first visit.
Now, for those of you who don't know, Pentecostalism is a movement within Evangelical Christianity that places special emphasis on the direct personal experience of God through the baptism of the Holy Spirit, as shown in the Biblical account of the Day of Pentecost. Receiving the Holy Spirit is necessary for salvation and includes speaking in tongues. Fuck. I don't know if you've ever witnessed someone speak in tongues, but I'll take an eternity of leaping around from one burning coal to the next before you catch me pretending to channel God by speaking gibberish.
"Amen, Jesus!!! Hallelujah! Praise the Lord!" I followed along, waving my hands in the air. It was a cinch; I took theatre 101. Then out of nowhere Martin's Mom leapt onto stage and began convulsing.
"Oh my god. Someone help her! She's having a seizure!!" I screamed, trying to get through the thick crowd of crazy people.
"Honey, no!!" Martin grabbed my shirt and pulled me back into the pew. "God is speaking through her…"
"Huh? Well then, God no a-speak-a la Ingles…"
"What?" Martin just didn't get it.
"Humm, babala, ummm… sinegoelk .sgaghalgheh." Martin's mom droned on in a melodramatic display, which my Catholic Grandmother would identify as blasphemy. Religion is a tricky thing…
"She's speaking what? This is nonsense!"
"Vanessa, listen to me. The truth is she's speaking in the most intelligent, perfect language in the universe. She's speaking God's language."
Enough with the bullshit, I thought. I determined right then and there I was going to get laid no matter what it took.
After services Martin took me to a high schoolish lookout point for a picnic. He fumbled around nervously while we ate our food and drank our wine.
"So what's going on? You're being weird." I asked. Perhaps my look of horror at church caused him to reevaluate his religious beliefs?
Yeah, right.
"Why do you always do that? You always ruin the moment with your crude questions. Can't you just relax for a minute? I'm trying to make this special." He looked genuinely hurt.
Special, huh? I looked around at the passing by hikers. There was no way we were going to get it on here.
"Ok, so I wanted to bring you up here to tell you how much I love you and how important you are to me. Accordingly, your soul is very important to me also. It would mean a lot to me if you would allow me to save you…" he looked at me expectantly.
I shoved a piece of cantaloupe into my mouth. "Well, it would mean a lot to me if you would have sex with me. You want me to give my soul up to your church? Well then, you need to give your virginity up to me."
"Huh?"
"Seriously? Which is a bigger deal? A soul or virginity?"
He looked thoughtful. "Well, I think my virginity is part of my soul."
"Can't you just go to confession and have Jesus absolve you from your sin after we have sex?" I thought I learned something about this in Catechism.
"No, that's you Catholics," he spat.
I ignored him. "Well, deal or no deal?"
"Do you love me?"
"Yeah, I think so." I had gone 6 months without sex; I was delirious at this point. It was time to get this show on the road.
"Fine. Now come here and let me save you."
He grabbed my hands and had me repeat a bunch of garbage about accepting Jesus Christ into my heart. After he finished he kissed me on the forehead and I allowed me finish my cantaloupe. I didn't mention the fact that Ashley Hasselback had already saved me in fourth grade in exchange for her mood ring.
Later that night after Mom and Pops went to bed Martin snuck into the living room and shut the motion sensors off. We crept up to his bedroom, lit some candles and got naked.
"Am I the biggest you've ever seen?" he whispered. Here we go again….
"Huh? Biggest what?"
"I want to be the biggest penis you've ever had inside of you…"
"Yeah, sure, I guess…"
"No." He grabbed my hands to stop me from ushering his penis along to its parking spot. "I need to know."
Oh my GOD! Seriously, who asks that? "Yes. It's fucking enormous. It's so rock hard…." I decided to bust out my porn star alter ego, Veronica and talk dirty so I wouldn't have to actually answer any of his questions directly.
Our sexual encounter was about as smooth as a jungle safari in a rusted out 1989 Jeep Wrangler. I faked an orgasm after 10 minutes and he rolled off of me soon after. I gave my soul up for that? I thought.
After winter break, we returned to school and Martin began to leverage giving up his virginity to guilt me into going to church every Sunday. Often times Martin would get up on stage and play the guitar and sing along to some Amy Grant song.
After one of these services he looked me straight in the eye and asked: "How did it feel today to know that all of the other girls in the room wanted your boyfriend? Wasn't I great today? Jesus really did bestow me with an awesome talent."
I decided right then and there that I had had enough "Amen, Jesuses," "Hallelujahs," "Lord, lift me ups," and enough of Martin's bullshit to last me through my eternal damnation. "Martin, I'm done."
"Done what?" he asked, straightening his tie.
"Done with church. Done with you. I can't handle this shit anymore."
"Calm down… we can talk this out…"
"No. Listen: you do not want me." I realized Martin and I were a mismatched pair trying to save one another. I wanted to save Martin from a life of sexless gibberish and he wanted to save me from eternal damnation. The only thing we had in common was that we both loved a good old fashioned challenge. I had won and so I was done.
"Huh??" He started to panic.
I pulled a reverse Shane. "I've slept with three people besides you," I revealed, skimming a few off of the top to prevent him from spontaneously combusting.
"What?" Martin's face went white and tears began to well up in the corners of his baby blues.
"Tell me you have allergies…"
"Three? Are you serious?"
I really don't think three warrants tears… If you only knew, pal. "Yeah, three. I can fucking add, ok?" And subtract.
He looked sick. "But you made me break my vow with God!" he cried.
I tried so hard to be nice. Who was he to make me feel badly about sleeping with three people? "And you know what else? Ashley Hasselback already saved me in the fourth grade!!"
"Get out. Just get out. OUT!!! You whore!" he screamed, pointing at the door.
Unfortunately there is no universally perfect number, nor is there a way to calculate the perfect number. 6 translated to "normal" for Shane; 3 translated to "demonic whorish Jezebel" for Martin. Divulging any numerical value - honest or glossed – is more often than not relationship suicide… and you know what the bible says about suicide: "Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own, you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your body (1 Corinthians 6:19-20)." Thus, I think Jesus would even agree that when it comes to your number of sexual partners, honesty is never the best policy. It's best to keep mum.
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