Scrappy Little Nobody(33)
Second, I wanted to exact my revenge on men in general. I realized that modern flirting was essentially just being mean while smiling. I hadn’t mastered the whole getting people to like “the real me” thing, but insulting someone to their face? That I could do. And it seemed like the more attractive the guy was, the more he liked being insulted. We’d meet, I’d be charming (i.e., unnecessarily mean), we’d go on a few dates, I’d trick him into thinking he was in love with me, and then I’d stop returning his calls.
I wanted to punish someone for how I felt, but it never helped. It was stupid and unwarranted. I guess I felt more in control for a while, but soon I realized I was no better than the cliché “geek” from high school who grows up and bones as many girls as possible out of spite. Which really took the fun out of it.
By twenty-two, I was back to business as usual love-wise: alternating between being contentedly alone and scaring off anyone I actually liked with my intensity and desperation. I did, however, implement a new rule: no discussion of “the number.”
I’m happy to say that only a few years on, guys stopped thinking it was okay to ask me how many people I’d had sex with. I don’t know if that change was a reflection of my age or the quality of men I was seeing, but there was a time when, if a guy had known me for more than twenty-four hours, he thought it was his right to know my complete sexual history.
This is a trap for girls. I always felt embarrassed about my late start in the sexual world, but the fiasco with Landon had taught me that you could be labeled slutty after having only one partner. Was my number too low or too high? And what did this information measure? An STI is an absolute; you either have one or you don’t, and while a doctor can tell you that, knowing someone’s number cannot.
Outside of a health concern, the question seemed designed only to shame and discourage promiscuity. And if that’s the case, why just intercourse? Why did no one ask “How many people have touched your boobs?” or “How many penises have you seen?” or “Did you ever hump a swing set in first grade when no one was looking?” The logic is: I must avoid (even responsible, protected) sex with someone new, because it affects my “number,” but this dude can go ahead and stick his face in my vagina because . . . who’s counting? I decided that I would not engage with this ridiculous and arbitrary metric.I
The first time I implemented this new rule, I’d been seeing a guy for a couple weeks. He asked and I said something like, “I’ve decided to stop answering that question, because I think there is no answer that a woman can give without being judged. If it’s a health matter, because you’d like to have sex with me, I can get tested and show you my results.” I fully expected that when I said this, the guy might assume I’d had so many partners that I was embarrassed to reveal the number. But I figured if it weeds out the kind of guy who infers shame from reticence or thinks sexually active women are disgusting, all the better.
He took me up on the offer and we both got tested, which I respected. So far, so good! What I didn’t count on was him pretending to be cool with me not answering while letting it fester and take on a life of its own. He brought it up several times in the following months. He never asked about my previous relationships, or my attitudes about sex or intimacy or fidelity. He wanted the number. I understood that if I simply told him that by his count he was number three, it would have brought him some comfort. But I didn’t want to give it to him. He wanted some assurance that I wasn’t “too” experienced, but I didn’t want to comfort someone who found that objectionable.
When we had our first big fight, his true colors came out. Slut. Whore. I’ll bet you were molested when you were little. Charming, right? He was barking up the wrong tree in terms of trying to hurt me, but at least now I knew who I was dealing with.
In related news:
[INFOMERCIAL VOICE!]
Ladies, if you ever date a guy who shows up at your apartment uninvited, or calls you from someone else’s phone when you block his number, or inspires you to attach a little can of Mace to your key ring, tell your friends! They will help you! If a guy threatens self-harm, or tells you that you are the crazy one and all your friends are on his side, they aren’t! Your friends want to help you! And if you start talking yourself out of it because you’re worried about looking overdramatic or vindictive because, I guess, he hasn’t ever hit you . . . No! Don’t do it! Don’t talk yourself out of it! Your friends don’t need you to get hit to want to help you! Yay!!!
Moving on.
Back on the Horse
More recently a friend of mine tried to play matchmaker for me. She proudly told me that the guy was reluctant to be set up until she showed him my picture. Of course, the picture she showed him was from a GQ shoot where I happened to be blond, backlit, and half naked. I texted her.
Me: Dude. Please get back to him and tell him to prepare to meet, like, a human woman. I did not know I would be attempting to live up to the expectation of a solid three man hours from a team of hair, makeup, and lighting professionals.
Sarah: Oh my god, stop, you’re being ridiculous!
Me: Let me do my impression of this guy’s evening: “Oh, I don’t know if I’m ready to meet anyone right now—wait! You didn’t tell me she was a half-naked blonde with baby oil all over her legs! Let me Febreze my “going out” shirt and call an Uber!”