He rolls off me and does the awkward condom removal maneuver before he climbs back in my bed, nestles in a bit and asks, “So what’s your number?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you seem like this isn’t your first song and dance. What number am I?”
I don’t know. At this point it’s all a statistic.
How many did I love? 3.
How many was I actually in a committed relationship with? 2.
The year I lost track of the number? 2012.
Does it matter if you’re safe about it? I get my tests yearly just to make sure a mistake wasn’t a terrible one. I no longer go into these trysts feeling dead inside, trying to get something more out of it than what it is. I don’t think it’s anyone’s business to know my number, especially when I’m not so sure myself. Why don’t I know? Because…
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