Last night, I invited my chiclets over to my Upper East Side apartment for one of our famous martinis-and-masturbation sessions. We lounged on Jonathan Adler furniture in strategically elongated positions, nibbled on sushi, and compared our numbers. I'm not talking caloric intake, our Hot or Not scores, or the number of Hermes scarves we wanted to own by age thirty. I'm talking lovers, phuck buddies, one night stands. The odd bathroom rendezvous at a club opening.
My sister worries about her number like she worries about her weight, chewing away her manicure at three am, nerves frayed like split ends. She drunk-dials her ex-boyfriends: "Keep me company tonight, I'm alone, aching." What she means is, of course: "Keep my mouth busy so I won't think about freshly microwaved Krispy Kreme donuts dripping with sugary satisfaction." Annie would sooner taste the familiarity of a formerly-loved penis than a strange, possibly uncircumsized one. She rationalizes: "It doesn't count if he's already spent days stretching my rosebud, does it? What's one more assphucking?"
I don't care enough to memorize my number; shiite, I can't even count that high. I've opened slender, freshly-waxed legs for men I phucked once or twice in the meat packing district, thinking it was safe without regard to how many of my friends they've slept with in the meantime. It was never done just to see if I still have it, and I'm absolutely positive those MILSM (men I let sodomize me) care about me just as deeply as I care about them, but it still seems a tad risqué.
Because so many of my exes are still in my little black genuine crocodile leather book, they will all be hereafter referred to as MILSMs. It's also because I'm tired of sending the same reply message to all those is-that-anal-sxe-post-about-me? emails. "No, it's about me. What else could it be about?" I'm no stuck-up JAP, clearly, but now is not the time for bathroom lovers to start thinking they're phuck buddies.