She had made the mistake of deeming being attractive a worthy pursuit in life. Lying in bed, usually not alone, with an insatiable yen for inhaling some scratchy tobacco & oxygen concoction. But not being able to do that at this precise moment in time, mostly due to the fact that she had probably smoked all her cigarettes last night in a drunken haze and the monumental effort that she would have to put into throwing a jacket over her pajamas and puttering, stumbling across the street…too much. Waiting for a moderate modicum of time so she could be alone, again, instead of accompanied by the mistakes she made last night. Dimming the stomach churning hangover with a handful of brightly colored little pills and forcing herself to chug as much water as possible. Standing blankly beneath the hot water in the shower, trying oh so hard to put the pieces back together.
For some reason, increasing the number of people she had slept with had become a noble pursuit within the last couple of months. She tried to think back to when the number was less than 10, at which point embarrassing memories of teenage fuckery came careening uneasily into her consciousness. Granted, she’s totally out of touch with reality, and she can’t really tell, is 27 too many? Or too few? Well, it’s not 27 anymore, is she closer to 40 now than ever before? Or is it 60? When will it be 100? The thing about the number – it only gets bigger. There’s no way that the number will ever get smaller, so maybe this race to reach some arbitrary digit – well it’s fun for now, but in 10 years will 139 seem like a dirty number?
There’s a question on OK Cupid, “If your partner had more than 14 partners, how would you react?” Her response was, “Oh, that’s nothing,” but it’s always strange to see other adults responding negatively to that question. It’s a touchy subject for most people. As though the number is some sort of badge of honor, or like military awards. Or dollar signs. Or inches, the bigger the better. Some girls will tell you that dicks that are too big aren’t worth it, which is generally just an excuse to not fuck black guys, but she disagrees.
But maybe it’s the quality, not the quantity. Although sometimes it takes fucking a bunch of people to figure out what you like. But after the Catholic school charade of fuckemall party girl mode has dissipated, what then? After a certain number, will she only be able to get off while getting fucked in the ass while belt choked in garters and a fur coat? What happens when she starts dating someone who has only fucked half as many people as she has? Does she just walk around feeling dirty?
When she’s 40, she’ll probably still be fucking 21 year old boys, which is fine, because the 21 year old boys she knows now that fuck 40 year old women are pretty good in bed.