“Did you used to date so-and-so?”
It’s late, and my boo is asking me about his coworker, who I saw earlier tonight.
“No,” I reply.
“He said you did.”
“Really!” I can tell that my boo does not like that he has to ask this question, but I’m fucking fascinated by what he just said. “That guy said we dated? We never even slept together! I barely even know him!”
“Well, that’s what he said.” I can tell that my boo is confused, probably because he hasn’t been in this situation with me before. But I have been here many times: another random dude in Oakland is lying about fucking me. So funny!
I laugh it off, but I can tell my boo still isn’t very comfortable with the situation. I’m not sure what I can say here that doesn’t make me sound like an absolute harlot, so I take his hand, I smile, and I say, “You know how guys are. They lie about things trying to act cool.”
Yeah. You know how guys are. We all have to live with men in our lives, and, oof, let me tell you, girlfriend, guys lie through their teeth about who they fuck. Constantly. I don’t really get it. Supposedly, women lie about who they fuck, too, but they try to downplay it because society hates a slut. Men, on the other hand, fluff up their numbers – because society loves a stud.
But in the modern era, lying about who you fuck is just trashy. I think we can all agree that who you fuck and how you fuck and where you fuck and all those gory details don’t really matter to anyone you’re not fucking. Even some of the people you fuck probably don’t care. So there’s no reason to be dishonest about it. There’s no point in making shit up.
Having (on multiple occasions) been the victim of some guy trying to fluff up his numbers, let me tell you: you just look fucking dumb. I get that me and also most of my sexually affluent friends have been around the block a few times, so trying to sneak yourself onto my bedpost notch might at first glance seem like something that might go unnoticed. What’s the difference between 57 notches and 58 notches? Between 92 and 93 notches? Some people aren’t counting.
But some people are counting. In fact, I’m counting. I know how many people I fucked, and I remember all their names and all their faces and all the circumstances. Sure, I was drunk for several of those encounters, but never too drunk to remember that I fucked.
So, I remember you. And I remember that we never fucked.
Honestly, I’m offended that you think you can walk around with my name in your mouth trying to improve your ho credentials by saying we fucked. And you look sus around the people that I do fuck, because they report back to me, and they tell me in so many words that they knew you were a liar because you couldn’t even name any of my signature fuck moves. They told me that they could tell you had read this blog, but reading this blog and having an imagination doesn’t mean we fucked. And it doesn’t mean you can talk about having fucked me, especially around the people who fuck me.
Can you quit it with the silly little lies? I’m aware that we live in a society where men have more credibility and more of a voice than women, but, well, what do you think I’m trying to accomplish with this blog?