I’m not a gal who, after doing the deed, collapses panting and sweaty into a man’s arms, stares deep into his eyes and asks dreamily, “what are you thinking?” (though I do enjoy the sweaty, panty collapsing if it’s on offer).
This is for several reasons, the foremost of which is: I don’t want to know. I don’t want to hear “how cool it would be to be a spy” or, “whether Batman could take a Komodo dragon in a fight”. Because, more than likely, that’s what the answer would be. And let's face it: the type of girls who do ask that question only ever want to hear the words “that I’m so in love with you my heart might break”, and that just ain’t gonna happen.
The other question I never ask - again, because I have no desire to hear the answer - is, “so, how many people have you had sex with?”
That right there is a conversation fraught with danger, so when the lovely boys at Blokely wondered whether I’d give a gal’s take on the issue of a man's magic number - in answer to theirs - I thought I’d oblige.
I considered the matter as I sat at my desk, my eyes swimming in Excel budgeting hell.
It’s a question to which there’s no good answer. If you ask, you may get an answer that's too low, and you'll fret that the thing you like to do that ain’t for the fainthearted will have him fleeing for the door. Too high, and you’ll worry that not only are you merely a notch on a well-whittled bedpost, but you’ll probably also itch in the morning. None at all, and you know you’re going to have to put in an awful lot of tuition time into Navigation 101 (either that, or you’re channelling Mrs Robinson, in which case: good luck to you, but do be a dear and check he’s legal).
And, of course, number has very little to do with how Man in Question treats his dalliances. A chap who’s still counting ‘em on one hand is just as capable of doing and ditching as someone more practised. And a figure that might initially seem more phone number than magic number could simply reflect a life well lived: a couple of drunken nights at university; that one time with the two Swedish flatmates he met in a bar (and frankly, if you’re planning on keeping him, that’s a fantasy best out of his system already); and some terribly bad luck.
Really, the number is an irrelevance: anyone’s previous partners are just that: previous. And if they’re not, you’ve got bigger problems than the fact that his number resembles a bank balance.
But if you must ask, then be prepared to hear something you might not like. Maybe stick to what he's thinking instead.
Fenchurch Seafood Bar & Grill, the City
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