Tuesday, January 22, 2013

My Number

My number represents a huge insecurity of mine. Every time my number rises, I worry. I’m that much more tarnished. That much less preserved. I’m worth that much less.

When I met G, I’d slept with three men. Two of them were drunken impulses when I was sixteen and rebeling. I regretted these repeatedly during my last relationship. How nice it would have been to be able to say my boyfriend was the only man I’d ever been with.

I’m more used to regretting sexual partners than not.

The other night, G and I talked about our numbers. I brought it up. He knew I’d been with three men when he met me. He asked me what my number was now, and I panicked. I was ashamed. It was higher than I wanted it to be. I didn’t want to tell him, and I sidestepped the question.

The truth is, my number is painful for me. It’s a weight. I carry the men I’ve slept with, like they’re a secret shame. Besides G, I regret every man I let inside me this past year. Starting with-

The Burnout.

He was an artist on the Westside. Forty four years old and stoned from the moment he opened his eyes until the moment he passed out.

He had difficulty achieving and maintaining an erection. Which would be fine, except what it meant for me during sex. He used to draw all the way out and slam painfully back into me- over and over in an effort to achieve sensation. A task that would be easier if I let him take off the condom, or so he told me every fucking chance he got. Once he even tried sneaking it off during sex. Is that the filthiest thing you’ve ever heard? I got up and tried leaving, only to have him chase me into the street and tell me his life wouldn’t be the same if I drove away. Highly dramatic.

Actually he was nice, and I felt guilty every time I tried breaking it off. He “wanted to fight for me.” It was flattering and sad, and I was too awkward and nervous to end it definitively.

I’d see him once a week and get loaded every time. So when the sex rolled around, it wasn’t that bad because I was drunk and numb.

But one night I stayed sober. And when he took me, it hurt so bad... Usually when we’d have sex, I’d struggle not to move. Then inevitably, I’d fail. The pain would cause me hips to jump involuntarily, and he’d slam into my ass and crush his penis. Unable to recover, he’d roll over apologizing that the sex was done, and I’d tell him it was ok and to go to sleep. Relieved.  

I remember sober night vividly. I clutched the blankets, screwing up my face and trying not to move. It was terrible! Being sober, the pain was so much worse than I remembered... I was laying there, taking it, and I thought Why am I doing this to myself? I will NEVER put myself through this again.

And I didn’t. But the next man I slept with was much, much worse...

The Bulgarian

He was the first friend I met who was open about his kinkiness. A computer tech in North Hollywood. Having extremely limited exposure to sadomasochism, I was curious about his life. He had a girlfriend, and he enjoyed watchng her with other men. If you recall from One-Sided Fidelity, I toyed with the idea of finding a cuckold myself. So I wanted to learn about his interest.

We met a few times to taste whiskeys and chat. I admit that I flirted with him, but I turned him down every time a serious advance was made. He assured me it wouldn’t be cheating because of his relationship’s unique circumstances, but something about his assurance didn’t sit right.

One night near his apartment, we met for a couple drinks. When we left, I told him I needed to eat something before I drove myself home. Due to my dietary restrictions, he offered to feed me something from his own kitchen. A bowl of cereal.

After I ate, he started touching me.

I didn’t want to sleep with him.

... but I had this series of thoughts... I met him for drinks. I flirted with him. I came up to his apartment... I realized I had given him every sign to come for me.  I hadn’t meant to, but that’s what I’d done. Add to that the fact that I’d already rejected him twice...

It sounds crazy, but to reject him in that moment seemed... rude.

I felt.. paralyzed. Uncertain what to do. Unsure of what to say.

So I said nothing.

I said nothing as he put a condom on. I said nothing as he fucked me. I said nothing when he climbed off.

I remained silent and unmoving the entire time. Not believing it was about to happen.. happening.. happened.

Not lifting a finger or speaking a word to stop it.

He spoke first. Offering to let me stay a few more minutes, but letting me know I needed to leave. I looked at him and said, “Because your girlfriend will be home?”


Oh my god. Now I was a party to cheating AND asked to leave the moment he stood up.

I picked up my shoes and walked out the front door, buckled them onto my feet in the elevator, and waited until I reached my car before bursting into tears.

I cried the entire way home, those hard sobs when you try to inhale but keep wheezing. I cried so hard my vision blurred, and I couldn’t follow my navigation. It must have rerouted me five times.

I thought about the fantasies I’ve always had. Of being used. My imaginary sex life always involved a man using me for sex, reducing me to a body and nothing more.

But the reality... it was horrible. To be used for sex. To be fucked and then asked to leave. To feel like nothing but a receptacle.

I wished that I’d been raped. Because then it wouldn’t have been my fault. I would have been a victim.

But I was no victim. I’d let it all happen to me. Let it happen, despite not wanting it to. Let a man I didn’t want- fuck me, without even saying the word “no.”

And now he was a number! Forever- forever he’d be a man I had sex with. He was a number in my life. I’d given that to him. This awful, awful man who I HATED NOW! He was a fucking number.

When I got home, I parked on the street. My dog was inside. Every time I got home, my sweet, darling little girl would jump and lick me and get so excited to see me! So happy!

I sat in my car because I couldn’t face her. My dog. I couldn’t face my dog, because she’d be so happy, and I felt crushed, and I couldn’t deal with that.

So I sat in my car for half an hour. Crying and then sitting in silence and then crying again. Like a lunatic. The truth is, I wasn’t thinking rationally. I wasn’t thinking at all. I had this impulse to call G. For some reason. I wanted to call him just to tell him what happened.

I called him. And it went to voicemail, and I hung up. I kept sitting there. Silence. Cry. Silence. Then I called him again. Again it went to voicemail, and this time after hanging up I looked at the time.


God! It was almost one in the morning. What was I doing calling him? He was home in bed with his wife, for Christ’s sake! What was wrong with me?

I went inside and saw my dog. I ate, smoked, and drank myself to unconsciousness.

I never told anyone.

G never asked me why I’d called him. I assumed he didn’t notice the anomaly in his call log. I thought about the respect the Bulgarian didn’t show me. Yes, I assume responsibility for what happened, but the way he treated me wasn’t right.

I wanted to find a man who wouldn’t deceive me about his girlfriend. I wanted to find a man who’d treat me with respect. The next man I met was...

The Con Artist

This is one of the strangest, most diabolical stories I’ve ever heard of. Let alone lived through.

The con artist was a man I met online. He invented a woman and assumed her identity when speaking to me. He convinced me (as this imaginary woman) that he was a cuckquean who desperately wanted me to date her boyfriend.

I fell for it.

He’s an actor who lives downtown. I’d like to say he’s a shitty actor, but any 33 year old man who can effectively portray a 27 year old woman isn’t too terrible.

He was a “catfisher.” I just learned that word. Someone who assumes a false identity online, in order to seduce a stranger.  

This is too long and too horrible a story to tell with any brevity. It deserves its own post, and I plan to write it.

As far as the sex...

The first night we shared, he went down on me. It wasn’t working. I told him I wouldn’t be able to cum that way, and he said, “You’ll cum. You’ll cum.”

The eating wouldn’t stop. I tried telling him it wouldn’t happen! But he insisted it would... I felt so guilty and awkward! I really wanted to cum, but I didn’t know what to do after I’d already said something... So for the first time since I was sixteen, I faked it.

Apparently, I still had the gift.

Anyway, it wasn’t the sex that disturbed me. It was the deception.

I’ll explain more later. The way he lied... but trust me when I say he deceived me more fully than anyone in my life ever has. He left a scar. And now he’s a number, too.

The Friend

G was becoming a hard act to follow. When venting to a girlfriend, I mentioned I was having the best sex of my life, but only sporadically. Dating was a headache and I wanted a break, but more good sex would be nice...

She said, “I should introduce you to Hal!” Hal was a good friend of her’s and since they’d slept together years ago, she personally vouched that he was wonderful!


Actually, Hal’s become a good friend of mine. And we did embark on the “friends with benefits” experiment. The thing about Hal is, he’s the least kinky person I’ve ever met in my life. I mean, ZERO kink. Nothing. Nada. I questioned him extensively, and there was nothing there. I don’t ever use the word “vanilla,” but that’s the only word for him.

I asked him what kind of porn he looked at. Just a penis and a vagina. That’s all he needs. He doesn’t waiver or vary or wonder. Just a penis and a vagina. There’s something charming about a pussy being the only thing he needs in the bedroom. It’s the same quality that endeared my ex boyfriend to me. Simplicity.

… But I need more.

So I asked him to tie me up. I’ll give him props for trying. He tied my legs together by winding one rope around them over and over, like I was the pole of a candy cane. I remember thinking, “Why is he tying my legs together?”

He reached the same conclusion a few minutes later. Whoops. It got awkward, and he had to readjust the ropes, essentially untying me again. But here’s what surprised me...

We tried the rope on another night, and he did the exact same thing!

I’ll say two things for my friend Hal. The first thing is that he made me cum once. Which considering we slept together four times, gives him a 25% success rate. And that ain’t bad, because making me cum is extremely difficult. I dated the artist for months, and he made that basket twice. The Bulgarian- no, obviously. The con artist- nope. So my friend Hal’s batting average is nothing to sneeze at.

The second thing I’ll say for him is, he always treated me with respect. Which is more than I can say for...

The Date Rapist

What is the problem men have with condoms?

With the exception of the one-time-Bulgarian, every single man on this list gave me SHIT about condoms. While we were having sex. I tell you what, fellas, nothing gets a girl wetter than hearing the following:

“I can’t feel anything with this on.”

“I can’t wait for you to let me fuck you without a condom.”

“Will you at least let me fuck you without this for a few seconds?””

ALL of this was spoken to me DURING SEX. What is wrong with everyone?? Didn’t they know that was the most insulting, least sexy thing I could possibly hear? God!

The Date Rapist lived in Brentwood. He originally told me he was 43. A few dates later, he was 45. The next week he was 51, at which point I checked his license. 

I told this gent that protection was a must, and he did nothing but try negotiating with me during our first few (chaste) dates. We had dinner with a doctor friend of his, and he actually said to the doctor, “Tell her it’s ok to sleep with me without a condom. Tell her how clean I am.”

After the good doctor assured me this was true, I said, “And what’s your specialty?”


Like I’m so much of an idiot, I’ll believe your buddy cardiologist’s sage medical advice to go fucking without a condom. Also, a heart and a penis are the same thing.

Men have this tendency to assume I’m stupid.

When we did finally fool around, he began heading in that direction.. sans condom. I said, “You can’t.”

I placed my hand on his chest, but I didn’t push. I just left it there weakly, like this “No Entrance” sign weathered and hanging from one nail. An indication you shouldn’t go forward, but not an intimidating one.

I said, “You can’t you can’t you can’t.” But I said it in this timid little girl voice. I didn’t speak firmly or sharply. I didn’t yell. Later I’d wonder if my protestations were taken as foreplay.

Because he fucked me.

I froze. That same shock, that paralysis I exhibited on the Bulgarian’s couch. Something was happening. Something I didn’t want, and I froze like a deer in the headlights. I literally stopped moving.

He asked me if I liked it.

I didn’t say anything.

He asked, “Do you want me to take it out?”

A window opening. I said, “Yes. Take it out.”

And he did.

For a few seconds.

Then without a word, he fucked me again. And again I didn’t yell or push or swear. I felt unsure of what to do... struck dumb.

I didn’t want him to cum in me. When I knew he was close, I told him to cum ON me. And his charming response was, “It’s too late. I’m cumming.”

And then it was over.

Here’s why that was the worst part. No one had ever cum in me. I’d been with my ex boyfriend for almost a decade, but I was never on the pill. We always pulled out or used a condom. He never came in me. So no one ever had. And... I liked that. I thought it would be something special when it happened. We grownups don’t have a lot of firsts left. That seemed like an important one. And he’d taken it from me.

I immediately went to his bathroom and cried. Then I booked it to his freezer, where I started shooting his schmancy tequila.

I told G about this experience, and he used the term “date rape.” That’s not the way I envisioned a date rape scenario. I still don’t know if this counts, technically. It seems like a grey area. But a really shitty shade of grey.

The strange thing is, I felt compelled to keep seeing him after that. I hated what happened, and I thought, if we wind up together, none of this will matter. If we end up in a long term relationship, he would have been the first one to cum in me anyway. And I wont look back at this experience with regret and shame. It would be just a misunderstanding.

So I tried. And tried and tried... Tried up until we were staying in San Diego and got into a late night shouting match. Tried up until I used the phrase “date rape” during said shouting match. At which point he screamed, “Get the fuck out!” And I obliged

Anyone reading this will probably think I’m a blubbering mess. That I revel in drama and cry frequently. I don’t.

But I was crying when I picked up my car. This thoughtful teenage valet said, “Are you ok?”

I nodded, sniffling. Then I apologized.

He said, “That’s ok. I have sisters.”

To this day, that strikes me as the sweetest, most adorable thing he could have said. Whoever marries that valet is a lucky girl.

And so that’s my story. Those are the men I’ve slept with.

Where was G during all of this?


He was the constant. There when I started seeing someone, there when I ended it. There in between.

I would text him from my dates. Check my phone from restaurant tables. If G ever called me while I was out with someone else, I would have gone to him in a second.

It was never a question where my allegiance lay, but that's not because I'm a bad person. I went out with every new guy in an effort to find a legitimate relationship. f tried. I wanted them to work out.

I kept looking for someone to help me transition out of my kept arrangement. It felt like the right thing to do. My next step. The healthy choice. That's what any psychologist would prescribe, right? Find a normal relationship...

Imagine my consternation when every man I met only highlighted the rarity of what I had with G. After every time I suffered from an unfortunate sexual encounter, G would pay me a visit. Roll me around, make me cum, hold me... I'd feel beautiful and sexy and taken care of. He'd tease me until I begged him to take me. Begged him for more. He made me happy. The difference was so great... this stark contrast between him and everyone else who touched me.

I felt safe. And appreciated. And valued.

It’s ironic that the least seedy, most honest relationship I had was with a married man. And the man I felt most respected by was the one who did the most scandalous things to me...;-)

He could come into my apartment, use my mouth, slap me on the ass, and leave. And I’d feel more valued after that encounter than after a night long rendezvous with a man I was legitimately dating. Because there was always an underlying respect. A care. I knew if I ever became uncomfortable or unhappy, he’d fix it. If I was hurt or in trouble, he’d help me.

Sex with G never pinches or stings. I never apologize. I’m never distracted or guilty or afraid. It’s fun. I think about it... I want it.

And I know it’s difficult to make me cum, but he does it all the time! Good cums, too... the really hard kind I can’t do to myself.

I made a comment to G that ALL the other sex I've had was bad... he shot me this look like, “Yeah, yeah. Shovel it somewhere else.” Which is kind of insulting, because I’m not in the habit of stroking my lovers’ egos. I certainly never did this for any of the aforementioned men.

I don’t think G can relate, because he doesn’t have bad sex. If i had to guess, I’d say 5% of the sex he has is mediocre. Just ok. The other 95% is super duper. Yay for G.

Sex never meant much to me before now. I had sex, and it was good, and I got off. But before this year, I never knew how great it could be. And I never knew how terrible it could be. I’ve learned sex is important.

Sex has effects on us that are greater than seem reasonable, for a basic physical act. There’s something about sex...

It can do anything. Bring us closer together, drive us apart, make us deliriously happy, or devastate us irreparably.

I shouldn’t regret any of my sexual partners, because I’ve “learned from them all.” But that feels like bullshit. I wish I could buy into it, but... I regret. I regret every man but two.

I hate my number.

I hate what my number represents. I hate that now, any man I might meet and fall in love with will ask. And I’ll tell him. And he’ll know..

I don’t like what my number says about me.

It feels high. I increased my number by 200% in the last year.

I tripled my number.

I hate my number.


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