After a one-night stand last night, I spent the morning how any self-respecting hungover woman would: I slept until 2, took four Advil, and tried to the list out all the men I’ve had sex with. I’ve always thought my bedpost notches a point of pride, and adding one to my mental tally has always been an enjoyable sign-off. It’s the same thrill as entering a finished book on Goodreads—you add your trophy to your collection, and start looking for your next long-term project.
A friend of mine once said it’s creepier to keep count than to not, but I disagree—knowing my conquests' names and my number gives my madness a method. Listing helps me remember, functioning as my own perverse scrapbook. At the very least, it meant I was organized.
Somewhere along the line, though, I lost my devotion to upkeep, and this morning, I realized I’d completely lost count. I was used to forgetting some last names, but my number entirely? I was disgusted with myself. Not remembering made me feel like more of a whore than my 20-30 sexual partners ever have. Each liaison turned into a forgotten, unworthy blur.
As I picked up my pen to write them all out, I realized I didn’t even have the patience. Many had slipped my mind or were better left forgot. I’d have to come to terms with my new, numberless identity. Best not think about it too hard.
Do you keep track of your sexual partners?