My Best Line About Sex is the One Where I Tell Someone to Go Fuck Themselves

I’m knees up in stirrups getting my yearly paps when my new gyno asks me how many sexual partners I’ve had in the past year. I told her I didn’t know.

“What do you mean you don’t know?!” She says accusingly. “How do you not know?!”

My cells came back normal. All my tests came back for negative. My health insurance refused to cover the cost so I refused to pay the bill on principal. I’m not looking to buy a house anytime soon and I don’t believe in using my credit card. If I wanted someone to judge me with my legs up in the air, I would have kept banging one of my casual flings and I wouldn’t have to pay them to do it.

At bare minimum, my gyno is the last person I need to make me feel like a slut because I don’t count my shenanigans in the same way I don’t count on much of anything.

***

My best friend, Abby is a fantastic writer, the person who I respect more than just about anyone else in this world. She has walked me through every breakup, death, move, change, and firefight. I’m not sure I’ve done the same for her, but I would be happy with even half.

On one of our somewhat long distance morning tea rituals we are talking about my writing, after I let her in on one of my latest nights of fuckery.

“Have you ever thought of writing about it?” She asked me in between sips.

“Yeah. I thought about it. Not sure how down I am.” I replied.”

“I just think you have a lot to say about the topic. You have some really good stories and the way you talk about them is genius. You’re like a more poetic Chelsea Handler except you’re not in it for the laughs.”

***

“When I lost my innocence,” began this hippie looking chick at a loft party talking about the first time she had sex. I couldn’t see how innocence was something two consenting teenagers took away from each other, when to me it was something my mom packed in her small suitcase the first time she walked out. You give sex way more power than it needs when you equate it to something like that.

If innocence is equated to purity, than purity should really come from the heart. Pureness of heart is authenticity in being. Cleanliness of spirit does not equate bedfellows in the slightest. It makes innocence seem cheap then, if it’s equated to something strictly physical.

Because of this, I don’t feel like a slut in the slightest because while I enjoy sex and have in probably a higher volume than most, I still feel more attached to my sweetness than any other facet of my being. My tired heart is still young and innocent. I have far better things to give to the world than a rolling of toes and shortness as of breath.

So readers, whoever you lovely people are- this is my vow of authenticity. You, like me, deserve better than my drunken nights at the bar.  While I can’t promise I won’t talk about sex with the voice of a punchline, I promise it will only be in fragments of a much larger picture. My work is my heart, and as long as you read me, you will always know my heart. As long as you know my heart, you will always know me.

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