Can I Have Your Number?

Are we past the point where someone’s number matters? It is a male / female thing? Are you intimidated that my number is bigger than yours? Are you intimidated other things are bigger than yours? Am I dirty for all the places I’ve been and people I experienced? Does this threat to your ego scare you? Is my special attention to you and no one else, not enough?

Being single all my life, I’ve slept with a lot of people—as one can imagine. I fuck who I want to fuck. I don’t fuck those I don’t. I’m not conscious of my number and I have no desire to find out. Even if I did, I have sex with women too. If we constitute that as sex, do I count oral with men? Add sex parties to that mix and things get blurrier. Besides, all I care is that my STI count is at Zero. Rarely do I forgo condoms. I don't trust anyone. More so, I don't trust who they're fucking. 

Allow me to revisit the Madonna/Whore Complex. You want someone who is good at sex, which one only realistically acquires via practice. Though, you also want them to be an innocent. Perhaps you—noble, you—are the one who brings the inner sex demon out of them. Oh, how gratifying. How special you are. We've been waiting for YOU to break the witches spell. If you're allowed this fairytale, then I want my fucking Prince Charming.

So how do we measure up to this unattainable oxymoron? Experience without what is realistically required to gain said experience.

Firstly, fuck your unrealistic expectations. Fuck your expectations, period. We hold men to the standard of being gentleman. Kind and courteous. Yet, we treat women like a collectors item that decreases in value once you take it out of the box. 

What does one's number tell us? You don’t know them. They could’ve been in a relationship for 10 years or eternally single. Did you expect them to stay frigid? Relationship or die. Settle for sex. That seemed like my option. Remain a lady in waiting. Waiting. Waiting for one human to pick me. Pick me as a contestant in their dating game. Pick me for dates and anniversaries. Pick me over others. 

But the last petal fell and landed on he loves me not. So, I went about things my own way, made my own fun and enjoyment no matter who did or did not pick me. No longer a passive participant, I was finally able to understand what I like, what I require, what I desire.

There’s something cathartic about airing my slutitude—my selective slutitude—on the world stage. I’m choosing not to be shamed by owning it. I don't behave how you want or expect. You know that agency you've been enjoying for all these years? I'll take two, please. If someone judges me based on my number—albeit an unknown number—then they don't accept me either.

It's too easy, too simple to write me off in the angry feminist narrative, so I'm going to also own that before you can use it as ammunition. What are your plights? That people won't want to fuck you? That women are just as demanding of certain qualities? List those qualities, side-by-side on paper, of what men and women desire from their partner. Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but Sex and Respect are not on the same playing field. Human decency should not be a desire, but a given. 

Can you think of the other times in history someone said "I am more than a number"? Think about what they were fighting against. Think about that system of oppression or violence and ask yourself if this numbers game really matters.