Unrequited: Why can’t we force our feelings?

I wanted to like him back. I tried for a while, but I think that almost made it worse. I went on dates with him and I tried to force myself to feel a modicum of what he felt toward me. But, I found myself distracted. He would look at me and smile in that way that says “I am entranced by you” and I would look away. I blushed, not because I was embarrassed or felt the same, but because I knew no matter how much I tried I was never going to feel the same. Everything about him in theory should have worked for me. He was attractive, he did nice things for me, he offered concrete reassurance that after each date there would be another and yet I still left him in the dust of unrequited feelings. I’ve been on the other end of this and it hurts. So, I wanted to change things. But, I realized that perhaps we can only do so much before a relationship just feel likes forcing ourself to feel something we don’t.

I’ve wanted people to force their feelings before. I’ve drunkenly demanded they stop being so wishy-washy. I’ve stayed with someone despite knowing they don’t truly care. It’s nothing I would recommend to anyone. Yet, here I was performing the same cruelty to this guy by going out on dates with him when I knew deep down I didn’t feel the same.

I think the problem is different in every situation, but I think the root of many of these is the sheer lack of mystery. I knew I had him before I even had to try for it. After not being able to go on our first date because of weather, he was bummed and called to let me know. He tried to plan for coffee with me, but I was in my hookup of two months strong’s bed and chose morning sex over coffee with a new beau. But, as I stood at work that morning, guess who waltzes in with a coffee and a small box of assorted chocolates from a local chocolate shop! That’s right, I was shocked at this grandiose display of affection which even my boyfriend of three months whom I dated during Christmas never showed. Hell, we didn’t even exchange gifts! Then, on our next date, he brought me flowers. I was appalled initially as all of these gifts are so simple and cliche which is something I pride myself on not being. They were simultaneously thoughtful in the “wow he did this for me and no guy ever does I feel so romanced” but thoughtless in that “any guy could go out and buy a girl chocolates and flowers” sort of way.

Date after date I tried, but something was off for me and maybe it was from the start. It wasn’t until the last time we went out with another “couple” that shit really hit the fan. We were all standing at this bar and all of a sudden I notice the preschool teacher I’ve been going on dates with. I raise my glass and coyly smile his way. Meanwhile the nice guy is trying to no avail to get me to kiss him or show him some sort of affection, some sign that I care even marginally. It seemed he had forgotten that the last time we were together I told him I wanted to keep things casual or maybe he just never understood what I meant by that. Then, the preschool teacher approached and they shared an awkward bro handshake and I knew I couldn’t do this anymore. He didn’t have a preschool teacher or a desire to. But, here I was, despite having a really nice guy who liked me standing in front of me, distancing myself so that I didn’t make preschool teacher think I had a boyfriend.

In the past, when I’ve been on the receiving end of these situations, it’s been hard to pinpoint what brought on the end of it all. I felt confused and angry. I hadn’t known the person for long, but my feelings were intense and I not only wanted but needed things to work. In the Nice Guy’s case, the main thing that wasn’t working is there was not a single trace of mystery from the start. His actions and words screamed “it doesn’t matter who you are or how you are. I’m yours” before we had even gone on a date.

I wanted to like him and I knew it upset him that I didn’t but I couldn’t force my feelings. As a self-proclaimed “heartbreaker” I’d say, despite my constant boy juggling, I’m usually the one in his shoes. But, here I was, doling out the rejection. I’m willing to give anyone a chance, so I gave him one, too. But, he shot himself in the foot from the start.

It was apparent from his actions that he isn’t happy with just himself. He needs someone. So, he latched on and held on hoping I could be her. But, I don’t want or need to be someone’s “someone” because at the end of the day I already have me.

Like me many times in my dating history, he found himself yet again not being quite good enough for someone and couldn’t figure out why. I spent years being upset with guys for not wanting me back, because I didn’t like me enough to want to be alone with myself too long. He can’t see it now, but one day he will see that I did him a favor by backing away. Because, who wants to be with someone who is just okay with them? Who wants to stay with someone that just wants to keep things casual when that’s not what they want? Someday he will see that I tried to explain it to him, but he couldn’t get the explanation until he changed. That no amount of explaining or talking will change how I feel. That it wasn’t like a switch being flipped, because the switch was off for me from the start.


This is my story: the evolution of a heartbreaker

The curtains of my open window billow with a soft spring breeze and I feel a slight chill on my shoulders as the weather, which will warm up to 70 today, is still a low 51. It’s one of those mornings where I lie in bed and pull a fuzzy blanket a little tighter around me and savor the beauty of doing absolutely nothing. I opened my computer, put on some music and lie here in complete and utter laziness. Last night, after one of my followers whose blog I thoroughly enjoy and relate to, FUCK ME OVER, liked My Story I went back and reread it. So, the tab was still open this morning when I popped open my laptop and without feeling any true inspiration to write I started to read backwards one post at a time.

Last night when I read through the aforementioned post, I actually started to cry. Because if I met the girl who acted that way now, I would want to help her. If I encountered that girl now I would want to shelter her from all that was to come. All the heartbreak, the vodka fueled nights of bad decision making and sticking around too long with assholes in an attempt to just not be alone. I would tell her that tequila shots are fun when you’re happy, but going out and getting hammered when you’re not in a good place gets you nowhere but crying, sloppy or fucking a guy that you should have told goodbye five ignored texts ago.

As I read back through my blog, the deeper into my posts I get the more distant I feel from the girl I used to be. I’m not always proud of the stories. I’m not always proud of the actions or the outcomes or how I dealt with those outcomes initially. But I am proud of the amount of pure, raw emotion I not only have allowed myself to pour into this blog, but also that I have allowed myself to feel. I am proud that while it took a lot of work, the old me slowly has allowed herself to become vulnerable.

I am different person than the girl who started this blog in some ways, but the saucy, independent spirit has not decreased in the slightest. If anything, she’s even more present as I become more comfortable with myself. I am vulnerable, I am raw, I am a force to be reckoned with. Sometimes people break my heart. Sometimes I don’t let people break my heart. Sometimes I break peoples hearts. Sometimes people abandon me or I abandon them. Always I feel. Because, I’m not numb anymore and reading through my blog again makes me realize I never was.

I started this blog almost three years ago and sometimes I feel distanced from it. I find myself not feeling inspired to write or even knowing what to write. Sure, I still have things to write about. Don’t worry, despite less nights of vodka fueled mistakes, I still have my shenanigans and sexcapdes. The undergrad that I’ve been fucking for two months. The sous chef who fell in love with me after not even knowing me for a month who I pushed out of my life for being too into me. The guy from Tinder that I ended up fucking in a hotel room. How that same guy asked me if I would ever fuck…in a cemetery. The guy who got my number at work who I ended up having a one-night stand with. That awkward text from him a few days later telling me that the condom had broke. The even more awkward text I had to send him, telling him it definitely wasn’t an issue…since I was on my period. These are all a part of my new story navigating through life as a working gal still living in my old college town.

When I cried at the post on My Story page, I couldn’t figure out what brought on the tears at first. I’m not that same girl anymore and I sure as hell don’t care about that guy who broke my heart that one time anymore. But, it’s not just that one guy or that one experience. For me, reading that post was like reading all my posts. I saw myself as a sweet, naive first year girl and in a flash my mind watched the clips of what came afterwards. The mistakes, failures, trimphs and bliss. Reading back through my blog, I realize that, while that page is poignant, it is not my story. This entire blog is my story. Each post, each experience has in some way shaped who I am today.

There is no timeline to getting over a relationship

One string of texts took him from wanting to get dinner with me to not wanting to see me at all. One outburst, albiet a little dramatic, of how I actually felt took him from thinking our breakup was “not a walk in the park for him either” to even colder than he was even at the worst moments of our relationship.

I want to get over him. But, every time I almost do, somehow his name pops up and I can’t get away. A familiar touch, a taste, a smell. When I close my eyes with my new fuck buddy, I imagine it’s his body grinding into mine. Every time I get close to being done with the idea of him, he flashes in my mind and when I finally rid him from there he texts me. I had gotten so used to him texting me that when it stopped recently I sat and stared at my phone waiting. I realized that I had ruined it and wondered why it even mattered to me so much.

So, instead I texted him. I hoped and tried to get him to have me over or to elicit some reaction from him that showed he still cared. But, instead he told me he didn’t think it was a good idea. I was pissed. I wanted to fuck him so that maybe I wouldn’t feel anything for him anymore. But, he didn’t want anything to do with me.

When he broke up with me, I found out that he had only gotten out of a relationship about a month before starting to date me. The whole time we were together and I thought we were building something, his heart was with someone else. So, when we broke up at first he missed me, but only because he was lonely. At first, we still had sex and sleepovers and he texted me everyday. At first, he even drunk texted me. At first, he would tell me he missed me. But, quickly he’s begun to act just like I expected him to in the first place. Distant and cold. Because he doesn’t need to get over me since he never truly was mine in the first place.

I know we only dated a few months. But, I can’t move past him. I blocked his number and blocked him on Facebook and I felt incredibly juvenile for having done so since we didn’t even date that long. But, I needed to remove him so that I could move past him. I had to get rid of the potential to immerse myself in the toxicity of it all.

We didn’t date long and we’ve been broken up now for almost two months, but I fucking miss him and I can’t help it. Healing is different for everyone and I’m trying to tell myself that’s okay.

Thoughts on being the rebound girl

The moment that you broke up with me was the first moment that I truly knew you were my boyfriend. When I asked you if you didn’t want to see other people I was afraid. Because I’m used to rejection. Because, I’m used to things not working out. I didn’t assume that being exclusive meant you were my boyfriend because my last “relationship” ended when the guy told me “I know in college you’re either dating or you’re not, but in real life there’s a grey area. We’re in the grey area now. I can’t guarantee you I’ll want to be your boyfriend.” I fought back tears as I slammed his car door and acted as blasé as I could, but deep down it stung. So, I didn’t assume anything. I was just happy you didn’t want to see other people either. Because I wanted a chance to really get to know you, without the distraction of playing the field. I had hoped that you would give me that chance. The chance to truly get to know you.

During our relationship, I tried to be all the things I haven’t been before when I’ve been in them. You told me you felt like you’d been walked on before. I’ve been the person who has walked over someone. So, I tried to respect you. You told me that you were afraid, so I handled you with as much care as I could. But, you never asked me if I was scared.You never asked me if anyone had walked on my heart. A part of me was relieved to not have to show you my scars and a part of me, deep down, wondered if it meant you cared as little about me as all the others had.

When you told me that you had only gotten out of a relationship not too long ago, I didn’t know that it was just in September. I’d like to say that if I had known I would have run away, as I damn well should, but I think a part of me needed you badly enough that even if you had told me I wouldn’t have heard you. It’s not the first time I’ve taken second place to an ex-girlfriend. I dated someone for a little over two years who wasn’t over his ex. Well into it, I found out he still texted her- saying he missed her, saying that I didn’t mean anything and all while telling me he cared. So, when you gave me the “it’s not me it’s you” run down, I couldn’t help but feel like it was me. Once again, I spent time building a relationship with someone who would never really share his self with me. I had, once again, entered into a relationship with a person who was never really mine in the first place. Because the whole time you were with me, your mind was with her. No amount of apologies or expressions of how you care and saying this has nothing to do with me will ever erase that knowledge, that feeling.

You said you needed space and since then you haven’t taken it. I’ve tried to give it to you. I haven’t initiated conversation, have kept the ones we do have minimal. I’ve tried to distance myself from you, because I’m not over you and I didn’t chose this. But, instead of taking your space, or giving me mine, you ask me after being distant if you shouldn’t text me. You tell me this hasn’t been a walk in the park for you, either, even though you chose it. You never once considered that maybe I can’t tell you to leave me alone, because while I know you should, I don’t want you to. Each text and conversation just gives me false hope that maybe you will change your mind, get over her and over yourself and want to really give this a try this time. I have to wonder if you really cared about me if you would know that, but then I know that if you did leave me alone I would feel equally tortured. I know that the only way I could feel better about this would be if we were together again, but I also know we can’t go back now. A part of me, the more that I’ve had time to think about it, realizes there was never anything to go back to.

Even when we were together, I was never a priority for you. You didn’t meet my friends. You never introduced me to yours. I only met your sister because the two of you live together. When you’d go to dinner with her and her boyfriend, you wouldn’t invite me, but instead cancel our plans and see me afterwards. I was always just the afterthought, always just the person you fit in after you had done all the important things because I was never one of them. You didn’t want to share your life with me, but I ignored it because I hoped I was wrong. I know now that I wasn’t.

You absolved yourself from the responsibilities of a relationship. Got rid of the need for the upkeep, actually trying to see each, building something. But, you still talk to me when you’re lonely. You still ask tell me that you get the urge to ask me to dinner but then don’t act on it because you don’t know what I would say. The night you broke up with me, you even asked me to stay over.

I have to wonder if you miss me, or you just miss having someone. You said that was something you worried about, right? That you might just be a serial monogamist. You told me that you missed having someone next to you at night. But, you never said you missed having me next to you. You may as well have called me a placeholder. You breaking up with me was never about me, and I realize that now, because none of this ever was. Our entire relationship was always just about you. Because I was always just the rebound girl.

The Not Quite Break-Up

I got into his car after dinner and asked the question I was dreading-

“Did your day get any better?”

Earlier we’d had a rather brief text conversation which went something like

Me: How’s your day going?

Him: It’s going

Me: That bad eh?

Him: It’s a long story.

Me: Gotcha

I knew from his terse words I was about to have a bomb dropped on me. So, as we sat in his car and I inquired about his day yet again, I knew exactly the piece of the equation that made his day a “long story” and it wasn’t a bad grade or a spilled coffee. The reason was sitting right fucking next to him. The reason was me.

We sat on his futon under a blanket and I felt my body physically trembling. I fought back tears as he told me he “needed a break to think” and “take care of himself” then listed out a slew of reasons that had nothing to do with me. “I feel like I haven’t been a good boyfriend to you.” It was funny to hear him utter those words. Words we had never said. Until the moment he was breaking up with me, I had never even known I had a boyfriend. Guess he was a pretty shitty one then.

Including the fact that that ex gf he hadn’t broken up with that long ago had only been in September! Including the fact that the ex gf I had thought he wasn’t over was one from a long time ago and the one it actually was had flown completely under my radar. In fact, she was in pictures with him and his family from August and I hadn’t even noted her as an ex or competition. I had thought she was just his slightly overweight cousin. Little did I know she was my competition all along.

I was lonely and afraid and broken. I felt a cyclical pang reverberate through my body. The two month relationship. The guy not over his ex. The toxicity of it all. My inability to walk away. The not quite break-up.

Nonetheless I traversed up to his bedroom in the pursuit of what had to be the worst excuse to get a girl you sort of just broke up with to your bedroom – “can you help me look for my slippers?” I knew I should respect myself more and leave. But, I could be alone and cry and miss him. Or I could use the one person who was making me sad to make everything feel right again and just be with him- which is what I wanted after all, right?

That morning, when I left, I told him “If I don’t see you again, have a great semester” to which he replied “of course you’ll see me again silly.” As if he hadn’t just broken up with me. He kissed me goodbye and hugged me like he had every other morning of our relationship. The day after next he texted me asking how I was doing and after talking in circles for hours about how I was “always invited” I ended up back at his place. Then, the next day he texted me about how my trash cans were blowing all over the street in front of my house. It was like he was fishing for any reason to talk to me, like he wanted me to be there but he didn’t care enough to put in any effort, like he just expected that he would see me again “silly.”

In the days since our not quite break-up, I’ve heard more from him and seen him just as regularly as we did when he was my “boyfriend.” But, I know I need to end it. He can’t just put our relationship on pause because of baggage he always knew he had. If he truly cared about me, he would let me go, but I’m starting to think he doesn’t know how to care about anyone but himself at all.

The Biggest Barrier to a Happy Relationship: Communication

I know it’s not fair to be mad at him, but I am. I’m frustrated at him, but I’m even more frustrated at myself for being frustrated in the first place. Because I know that there is a part of my feelings that stem from entirely trivial things. Yet, I know, too, that if I were able to express myself properly I could highlight the less trivial reasons to him and maybe find some relief to my frustrations.

But, I know that if I mention it, he will latch onto the parts that are trivial. He doesn’t make time for me, he doesn’t communicate with me, it seems like he’s making excuses and he sat there. The last time we were together he texted his ex when I got there while ignoring me when it was only the second time he’d seen me after being apart for a week.

He’s busy. He’s in med school. When he does get free time, that might be time he chooses to spend with friends which means maybe I’ll catch him sometimes only in glimpses if at all. So, yes he hasn’t been making time for me all the time, but how can he? I can’t be mad at him for wanting to spend time with friends, too.

He doesn’t always know his schedule or the demands of his studies week to week until he sees what’s difficult for him, so how can he tell me when he will have free time? And better yet should he really give me the play by play of his weekly itinerary?

He’s only telling the truth about his situation, why would he in his right mind pick studying over seeing me. He can’t change his circumstances and shouldn’t have to constantly reassure me.

Yeah, he’s texting his ex. Because she just got into fucking dental school and they’re obviously still friends after dating for three years. Am I really that insecure and jealous? Do I really not trust him? They’re not just going to stop being friends after knowing each other for over three years when I’ve barely been dating him for three months.

I know these are things he might think if I bring up how I’m feeling. And a part of me sees merit in these hypothetical responses. But, I also can’t help but feel something is off. I can’t shake the feeling that he’s just another blip in the string of failed relationships I’ve had and I want nothing more than to be wrong. I’m starting to think the biggest barrier to a happy relationship is communcation- and I’m not sure he and I have that.

A Boyfriend By Any Other Name

In a world of euphemisms and appropriations, the hallowed “boyfriend” word is hard to come by. But, just because a guy isn’t stamped with the title “boyfriend” doesn’t mean they aren’t basically the boyfriend. “Not seeing other people” and “monogamous” often serve as stand-ins for the dreaded “B” word. But, if in casual conversation I have to say to someone with hesitation “yeahhh…the guy that I’m seeing exclusively” instead of “boyfriend” do I sound like a free-spirited rebel who breaks societal norms and uses convoluted language or a girl who has a monogamous fuck buddy? I found myself wrestling with this question last night as one of my old fuck buddies stood in front of me ripe for the taking. If I’ve never said the word “boyfriend” do I have what is basically a “boyfriend?” Should I honor my titleless situation the same way I would a relationship that has one?

“I’m just going to go meet up with him for a little bit, it’ll be fun. Besides, my girlfriend I haven’t seen in a while is there, too,” I said rationalizing my choice to go see my previous fuck buddy.

My friend thought it was a bad idea for me to meet my ex fuck buddy downtown, but I convinced him it was harmless even though I wasn’t sure. I was friends with my fuck buddy, but I knew that’s not why he texted me.

When I got there, he wrapped his arm around me and whispered in my ear so his voice didn’t have to beat the crowd. I laughed, nonchalantly and felt like I should maybe pull away. But, I didn’t. He put his face inches from mine swiftly. I darted my lips to his cheek and wriggled away.

A part of me wanted to kiss him. A part of me wanted to go home and drink red wine with him and have a night of incredible hate fucks with him. But, the guy that I like, my “not quite boyfriend” kept flashing in my mind.

So, did I not kiss him because I couldn’t? Or because I didn’t want to?

It’s a tough question, but upon some more sober self reflection, I realize that I didn’t want to not because I feel obligated to my “monogamous friend” but because all night he was all I could think about. Because, I wanted him to be the one there. I wanted to hear his voice. I wanted to have sweet, vanilla, passionate sex with him. I wanted to rest my head on his lean, smooth body afterwards as he kissed the crown of my head.

I missed sitting on his bed doing “work” together. I missed watching stupid documentaries with him. I missed him playing guitar naked for me. I missed the feeling of our bodies close and intertwined in the morning.

But, most of all, I just missed him.

Part of the reason I was there was because I missed him. But, I also was worried. What if, in the same situation, he wouldn’t honor our verbal agreement to exclusivity? What if, back home in town with his ex of three years who he is still really close friends with, he chose to pretend I didn’t exist? What if, momentarily, he forgot what we had in a fuel of lust and booze?

These fears, these deep, hidden insecurities were staring me in the face as a guy I used to love banging tried to lure me from the bar. My fuck buddy was my security blanket. A reminder that I could if I wanted to. A test to myself.

A test that, somehow, I needed. A test that proved to me I truly cared. In the past, I would have made out with my fuck buddy. I would have maybe even slept with him. I would have cried about it the next day and asked myself why did I do that? In the past, I thought those moments were mistakes and that I had ruined a good thing with so and so good guy. But, I know now that’s not the case. Because, as temptation swayed to a banjo laden tune in front of me, I walked away. My ability to walk away showed me what I have is real.

So, is a boyfriend by any other name still a boyfriend? Maybe he’s not my boyfriend. Maybe he never will be. Maybe I’ll have an angsty post about him on here a week or so from now. But, I know one thing for sure. I actually fucking like this guy. Like, sit on the couch and dick around our computers together and strong desire to tell him about the minutiae of my day comfortably like him. Boyfriend or not I don’t want to mess that up.

Are you my boyfriend?

When I was young, like any gal, I enjoyed a good Dr. Seuss book. This morning, I found myself thinking about one most people have probably read before. “Are you my mother?” In the book, the kid just wants answers. Who is their mother? I found myself feeling the same way last night and this morning with my new possibly tinder “boyfriend.” The words pooled on the tip of my tongue “are you my boyfriend?” Was this really real? Would he change his mind tomorrow? Like a child I felt like I needed convincing, reassurance and answers to know the truth. Because I couldn’t decide if our DTR had really accomplished anything.

As we lie in bed, I looked at him with tears brimming in my eyes, because I realized that I hadn’t genuinely cared this much about anyone or been this comfortable with someone since my ex from first-third year. He told me he was afraid that I’d get bored of him because he’s too nice. That he was afraid that I’d walk all over him like people had in the past. That he didn’t want to throw himself into something just to get hurt again. I told him not to make excuses that if he really didn’t want this, then he should just say so. I tried my best to quell all his fears and to make him want what I wanted. But I couldn’t tell if he was just agreeing with me.

I didn’t just sit there and try to make him feel better because I wanted him to agree with me, but because I didn’t want him to think that of himself. He isn’t boring and anyone who would take advantage of him being a kind human is a cruel one. I was shocked that anyone could find him boring at all frankly because I find him so dynamic.

We ended the conversation on a good note, but I still feel anxiety. Because every time I attempt a DTR, I hit a bunch of walls. I never get a “yes I want to be your boyfriend, too.” I get a list of reasons why they’re unsure if they want to, should or could handle that responsibility. The last time I truly obtained a boyfriend, he literally broke up with me the next fucking day. So, forgive me if I need about a week to make sure this is really real.

We never said the bf/gf words, but we did agree we don’t want to see other people, I guess it’s a step in the right direction?

“will someone ever show me love 

won’t somebody give a fuck 

cause I can’t keep up”

What’s Your Number and Why it Should Never Come into Question

I’ve heard and read all the time about girls who sleep with one guy and get pregnant or someone who makes one slip up with a condom and gets an STD. Maybe they were reckless and it caught up with them. Maybe they were careful and it didn’t even matter. But, either way they didn’t sleep with innumerable amounts of people. They slept with one or two. Hell, maybe they even slept with seven, which is the number oft deemed “average” and thus acceptable for the amount of people a woman could have slept with before. What made the difference wasn’t how many people they had banged, but the circumstances. Something, somehow, went wrong. So, why does it matter how many people I’ve slept with?

Recently at a pre-game with my undergrad housemates, I was lured into playing old college drinking games and asked a question that for some reason made my blood boil. As we played Kings, I got stuck with the hot-seat. Most of the people in the circle know all of the darkest, juiciest “secrets” I have. I was asked what the craziest thing I’d ever done was. Without hesitation, I said going to Europe to visit my British guy after only knowing him two weeks. The girls all got mushy and asked if I loved him and my wine hazed mind said that I guess it was puppy love, but it was real at the time. It was easy for me to share those things. In fact, I’m a pretty open person. But, with the next question I had some hesitations.

“What’s your number,” asked a girl I had just met a matter of thirty minutes ago. I paused. Should I lie? No that would go against everything I stand for. Should I tell them the truth? Did I really want everyone in that room to know? If I didn’t tell would they think it was really high? If I did tell would they think it was really high? Should I stay silent or would that be acting like the number matters? But, if I told wouldn’t that be affirming that it did indeed matter? I felt trapped in an endless whir of conundrums. I was a slut if I told and a slut if I didn’t. I was going against my principles either way because of the nature of the question.

“I don’t care to share that with you.”

When she asked that question, she didn’t ask because of a sense of camaraderie or as a way to bolster sexual empowerment in women. She asked to be nosy. She asked to expose me. My answer, while I could have explained that it should never matter how many people someone has slept with, would have mattered.

I know this was a small moment and I possibly made a bit too much of it in my head, but it brought this issue back to the forefront of my mind. What’s sad is that I even had to think about it so much. If I was a guy, I’d be able to say my number and get fist bumped and maybe even asked which girl was best in bed. As a girl, if I say I’ve slept with 27 people, no one will say it to my face, but most people would think I’m a slut. They wouldn’t know or care that a lot of those were only once, so the amount of actual sex I’ve had is on par with someone who’s been dating a guy for two years and some change.

The question bothered me, not because it was a preposterous question, but because my number should never come into question. I didn’t share that night because it didn’t feel like the right time to. The number of sexual partners I’ve had is mine and, so long as it isn’t pertinent to someone’s sexual health, no one else should ever need to know (other than my gyno).

I’ve slept with 27 people and I’m not ashamed because it’s not the number that should matter, it’s the circumstances. Some of those guys I would like those bro high fives for. I consider some of them to be trophies and I have some I’m ashamed to say happened at all. I have a long term boyfriend and a couple one timers/one nighters. I have a virgin and I have a man whore. I have two Greeks, a Brit, an Armenian, a few black guys and hopefully soon I’ll add some Hispanic spice to that mix. I have hipsters and athletes, a married man and one that could possibly be gay. Frankly, my sexual history is a bit of hodgepodge clusterfuck.

At the end of the day, I am still a happy, functioning human with a clean sexual health bill and no children. I’ve slept with 27 people, and I give zero fucks about who fucking knows how many fucks I’ve had and neither should you. If you’ve slept with none, one, 15, 50, 100s, it should not matter. What matters is if you are enjoying your life and, in this case especially, your sex life.

What are your experiences with people asking about sexual partners? Do you usually share? I’m always interested to hear insight from readers!

How to be more than just a hangout girl

You’ve all heard it before- a string of “let’s hang out”s without any real commitment. Things that seem like dates, but aren’t. An inordinate amount of time spent with someone who is basically monogamous with you, except they aren’t.

Interesting article I stumbled upon on Thought Catalog today