Few things in life are more painful than having “the talk.” Seriously, I’d rather go to the gyno and have someone stick metal prongs up my vagina every day if that meant never having the “previous sex partners” discussion. What makes it even worse is that it always comes up out of nowhere.
Scene: You’re cuddling in bed post-sex and he’s rubbing your head in a way that feels even better than the orgasm you just pretended to have. He asks about your first kiss, and you make fun of the fact that he didn’t know what it meant “to eat someone out” until he was fourteen. Jury is still out on whether or not he actually knows what it is now, considering his, uh, “skills.”
Then, all of a sudden, BAM. He’s actually talking to you. Sadly, I don’t mean a “Do you want to order pizza?”-type of conversation, either. That would be way too easy, because the answer is always yes. No, he wants to have an honest to God Judy Blume moment. You don’t even have the chance to cover your tracks, do some Facebook purging, and calculate what the appropriate number of sexual partners a college girl should have (Four? Twenty? None?). Before you know it, you’re both talking about when, where, and with whom you’ve gone all “fifty shades.”
Shit.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m just as curious as the next jealous intrigued girlfriend. Were the other girls he hooked up with as pretty as I am? Were they funny? Where did he learn that tongue thing? Ugh, I get it. You need to know, and you need to know RIGHT EFFING NOW. Unfortunately, once you know these answers, your life, relationship, and general opinion of him will completely change. Say goodbye to pretending he was just a naturally talented virgin and say hello to jealousy, disgust, and mental bitch-slapping.
- Every single girl he knows will be on your “possible slut list.” It doesn’t matter if she’s a mouth-breather and wears a purity ring. You still wonder if they hooked up.
“Just friends” my ass. - When he confirms they hooked up (because yes, duh, they hooked up), you literally have to stop yourself from punching her in the face every time you come into contact with her — or at least you have to stop yourself from passive-aggressively liking all of her shit.
“Oh, your car broke down and your life sucks?” LOL. Like. - Even though you hate her, you stalk her on every form of social media back to 2007 on an almost-daily basis.
“I looked so much better in multi-colored braces than she did.” - You ask your friends needy questions nonstop.
“Do her boobs look bigger than mine when she uses the Lo-Fi filter?” - Once he says his number, you’ll make a mental (or physical) list of verified sluts and calculate how many unknown sex partners of his are out there.
“He says he’s hooked up with twelve girls and I know of four, so that means there are eight vaginas that have been home to my man’s penis just wandering around without a care in the world? Not okay.” - You have to scramble and compare your number to his to decide if it’s too high, too low, or just slutty enough.
“No, but really, can I just say I’m a virgin?” - You’ll always wonder if he was telling the truth or if he did some sneaky, last-minute recalculating, too.
“He should have the decency to tell me his actual number, even though I subtracted, like, twelve from mine.” - You’ll feel weird about how many people you’ve seen naked.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have had so many drunken hookups. Maybe I should have had more drunken hookups. I’m such a slut. Or wait, am I a prude?” - It’s harder to have sex without thinking of him having sex with other people.
“Visions of his exes will dance in your head.” - It will end badly.
“You’ll both lie about your numbers, find out you were both lying, get into a fight about ‘trust,’ break up, and wind up alone with a dried up vagina and six cats all named Fred.
Don’t wind up alone with a dried up vagina and six cats all named Fred, and choose not to have the “what’s your number” talk. Besides, we all know that the only number that really matters is the one on his bank statement..
Image via Shutterstock
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Rachel Varina
(yeahokaywhat) Aspiring to be the next Tina Fey, Rachel spends her free time doing nothing to reach that goal. While judging people based on how they use "they're" vs. "there" on social media, she likes eating buffalo chicken dip, watching other people's Netflix, and wearing sweatpants way more than is socially acceptable.
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