If a chick that had never been a stripper, a porn star or a prostitute told me that she had fucked over 200 dudes, I would think that number was a little high.
That wouldn’t necessarily stop me from dating or ultimately marrying her, but I would think it’s a little high.
I’m still wrestling with whether I could marry a former stripper, porn star or prostitute.
Now, I realize that while a very select crowd would consider me a prude, the overwhelming majority of people, dudes most especially, would consider me an idiot.
200? The, uh, “body count” maximum that most guys can tolerate is about 10.
And since that’s what they can tolerate, of course, that’s what the women that date them give them.
I don’t give a shit what anybody says, there’s no ” Rule of 3″ you can’t “tell by her eyes” fuck what you “heard” there’s absolutely no way anybody other than the woman herself knows the exact number of men she’s slept with.
And what about the girls she’s slept with? Do they count too?
Now, I used to work with this dude, former HBCU guy, met his fiancé there. He worked with me in New York while his fiancé lived in Detroit.
All I did was raise an eyebrow.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Dude said. “But she’s not that kinda girl.”
Ripe, nigga, ripe for exploitation, but I chilled. Just nodded.
“Only been with one nigga before me.”
This time both eyebrows shot up. Couldn’t control it. It was a reflex action. I don’t think he noticed tho. So by the time he was looking at me again, all I was doing was nodding.
“Yeah, her whole family’s like that,” Dude continued. “She has one ho aunt. But her other aunt is married to the only nigga she ever slept with, her mom married the only nigga she ever slept with; the whole family was raised that way.”
Deep nod now. Solemn. I was like the muhfuccin Buddha at this point.
Of course, the old me woulda slashed his whole shit to ribbons with a quick, derisive, “Nigga, how the fuck do you know?”, but I’ve become a bit romantic and sentimental in my old age.
And I understand that oftentimes, in order for love to flourish, a little bit of illusion or maybe even deception is necessary.
Lord knows I’ve fucked up enough relationships by asking the most magical and unnecessary question you can ever ask a chick you either are or are about to fall in love with; “So, uh… how many?”
Like Chris Rock’ll tell you, it’s never the right number.
And the worst part is that the shit doesn’t matter at all.
The oxymoronic idea that makes men consider themselves the “stronger” sex while expecting the most ardent practitioners of sexual restraint to be women is grounded at the root of all attempts by men to control a woman’s bodies from female circumcision, to abortion to slut shaming to, at its most extreme, rape.
But let’s be real: dudes can’t help but think about how they’d behave if they were women with the same sex drive that they have as men and they’re scared as shit they’ll meet their match.
Or their better.