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“I can’t sleep with any more boys who have a name starting with the letter J,” I told my roommate and official pimp. I listed off all of the J names that have been in my life and bed.

“Oh Jesus,” she said.

“No, I haven’t done him.”

But I probably would. Despite major differences in our philosophies, I think we would get along quite well: We both enjoy drinking wine at a table with twelve men.

 

I have no problem with how many people I have slept with. There is no appropriate perfect number, because as far as I am concerned it is all relative. When you look at it mathematically, there are six billion people on the planet and three hundred and sixty five days in a year. The fact that my number is only in the double digits is practically virginal.

I had one boyfriend react in an interesting way when I told him my honest magic number, which was up to and including him and has since increased.

“What?” I questioned. “Do you think I became good by sitting on my ass alone reading the Bible on Friday nights?”

 

But I am a believer in quality verses quantity. Which may be why I have never had a threesome despite having no moral objection to them. But other people make a moral judgement call over promiscuality.

“I am a very moral person,” I often remind them, while I feed the homeless, donate a kidney or simply don’t judge someone else’s private life. “I just happen to enjoy sex.”

 

I was introduced to frequent sex by having a two-year-long relationship that started when I was eighteen. As far as I am concerned, sex is supposed to be enjoyed in the morning, in the afternoon, at night, at night again, and in the middle of sleeping when you wake up bored. But since I haven’t had a relationship in over a year, the frequency of sex has had to be forsaken along with quality while I meet everyone from Johnny to Jeramiah. 

 

The main J in my life, my last boyfriend, terrified me of relationships so much that I decided that I would rather sleep with random people for the rest of my life or become a nun.

“They are very different extremes,” AM responded when I shocked her with the reality of my life, which I religiously do. “Why don’t you just get over the fear and have a relationship?”

 

For a long time, I didn’t think that would be possible. I gave my last J a year of my life, trying to make him into a good person but in the end I crucified myself and simply had to accept that I made one relationship mistake, just like I have made many sex mistakes.

 

But now I have resurrected myself and shed the fear of relationships, just like I have shed my clothes numerous times getting to this point.

“I actually think that I could be open to the idea of sleeping with just one person and actually getting to know Him,” I told my friend.

“It’s a miracle!” She responded. “Do you have anyone in mind?”

“Is George Clooney single?”

 

Everything gets old eventually, and the tradition of sleeping with young twenty-year-old boys for fun has lost its appeal (a difference between me and the religious folk).

“Halleluiah,” AM rejoiced when I told her of my new found maturity. “Now we just have to get you over the Californian Surfers and you will be the perfect daughter.”

 

After spending my weekend with a gathering of Californian Surfers, and therefore having one of the most promiscuous times of my entire life, I think that I have now reached a stagnation in exploring single life. There is nothing more for me to learn at this stage. I know that I can survive on my own. I know that I don’t need anyone. I know that I can still be happy when there is no one to hold me at the end of a horrible day. And I know that it is OK to sit at home alone on Friday nights. But I don’t know how to be a girlfriend. And I don’t know how to let someone In and just care for me. 

 

Constantly on a quest to better myself, whether sexually or personally, I decided to celebrate my new decision to take off my belt full of notches.

I sat down by myself with a philosophy book and a glass of wine, ready for a night of quiet.

 

And then my crush messaged me. I couldn’t say no. His name doesn’t start with J.

 

Post By Salium.