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When in the course of human events a man begins to fall in love with a woman, there is one thing that he must know about her.
Her number.
We’re assuming this isn’t some stalkerrific “Conspiracy Theory” relationship where the man assumes Mel Gibson’s role and is attempting to discover her telephone number. No, more likely than not he’s just obsessing over the number of sexual partners she’s had. Of course, women also fret about this bit of knowledge. But for the purpose of this entry, we’ll limit the why and wherefore to the male perspective.
When the question comes up for me, I deflect it by offering to show the results of my yearly physical exams, which include the whole battery of STD tests. Of course, that answer has sparked all sorts of reactions, including utter shock that I wouldn’t reveal the information under any duress. And it’s a prickly thing to run into that hidden streak of insecurity that a man might have when he finds out you’ve got him beat.
I don’t know why there’s the invisible delineation between good girl and good girl gone bad. What makes three okay and thirty something to gossip about? The only person to whom that information should mean anything to knows all about it