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Authors: Danny King
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really these days, don’t you? Not fair on the bird,” he said, with
uncharacteristic consideration. “Besides, if you get some disease, you know you
have to contact all your old partners and get them to go for a check-up as
well. Can you imagine? Christ, there’s fifty-seven phone calls I wouldn’t want
to have to make.”
“Fifty-seven!” I exclaimed.
“Yeah, give or take. I lost count around about thirty but I
think it’s sort of around that mark,” Tom pondered.
“Fuck me Tom!”
“Make that fifty-eight,” he winked.
“That’s loads,” I pointed out.
“Not really,” he disputed. “Higher than average I suppose, but
most blokes have had about twenty birds or so they say.” I didn’t offer up
anything more to this as my total fell well short of twenty and left Tom to
consider this one for himself.
“Fifty-seven. Is that a lot? I don’t know, maybe. Still,
there weren’t exactly a lot of quality in there.”
“That’s incredibly generous of you to say so,” I told him.
“I know this one bloke, Martin is his name, drinks in the
Duke of York – you met him that one time – he reckons he’s shagged
over two hundred birds. Can you imagine that?”
“And has he?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t be surprised as he is one of these blokes who’s
annoyingly natural when it comes to women. You should see him at closing time,
they’re practically hanging off of him, I tell you.” Two hundred? Jesus, that
was fifty times the women I’d had and one of my total would’ve been subject to
a steward’s enquiry.
“I expect this Martin would think I’m the luckiest bloke in
the world too,” I said.
“I doubt it. He’s married an’all,” Tom reckoned.
“So when’s he had time to shag all these girls then?” I
asked.
“What are you talking about, he’s still shagging them! Bit
bad to be honest. I mean not phoning some bird after you’ve chucked her pants
out of the window, or bullshitting that you’re an airline pilot in order to
chuck her pants out of the window is one thing, but shagging another hundred
and eighty birds after you’ve walked Miss Number Twenty Five down the aisle is
a bit above and beyond if you know what I mean,” Tom frowned.
“How the hell’s he get away with it?” That’s what I wanted
to know.
“Fuck knows. Maybe his wife don’t mind. Maybe she turns a
blind eye. I mean, he might be banging every old boiler in Camberley but she’s
the one he comes home to every night, or at least most nights, that sort of
madness,” Tom figured. “And besides, they’ve got a kiddy too and women always
go off sex after they have kids.”
“Do they?”
“Oh yeah, that’s well known that is. They’ve done studies on
it and everything,” he said, presumably to show me he was now talking facts
here – not just pub bollocks.
I thought about this when I went to the toilet and concluded
it was a load of codswallop. I mean, women not wanting sex after they’d had
kids? Dirty birds on every street corner? A twenty girl national average? And
Martin from the Duke of York up to his nuts in sluts?
How could any of this be true?
I definitely wasn’t sure about the twenty-girl average. In
order for that to make mathematical sense girls had to have a twenty bloke
average too then, unless of course it was all down to a handful of old boilers
with incalculable totals and broken beds?
Sally hadn’t had twenty blokes and none of her friends had
either. I knew this as we’d discussed it a few months before our wedding.
Sally had slept with only five guys in total, annoyingly two
more than me. I’d only slept with three (girls not guys – and this
included Sally herself) though I’d once enjoyed a spot of foreplay with a
French girl on a campsite and had quickly drafted her into my total when Sally
told me she’d had five.
So Sally was well below the national average too.
At least, she was if she’d told me the truth and I can only
assume she’d told me the
really these days, don’t you? Not fair on the bird,” he said, with
uncharacteristic consideration. “Besides, if you get some disease, you know you
have to contact all your old partners and get them to go for a check-up as
well. Can you imagine? Christ, there’s fifty-seven phone calls I wouldn’t want
to have to make.”
“Fifty-seven!” I exclaimed.
“Yeah, give or take. I lost count around about thirty but I
think it’s sort of around that mark,” Tom pondered.
“Fuck me Tom!”
“Make that fifty-eight,” he winked.
“That’s loads,” I pointed out.
“Not really,” he disputed. “Higher than average I suppose, but
most blokes have had about twenty birds or so they say.” I didn’t offer up
anything more to this as my total fell well short of twenty and left Tom to
consider this one for himself.
“Fifty-seven. Is that a lot? I don’t know, maybe. Still,
there weren’t exactly a lot of quality in there.”
“That’s incredibly generous of you to say so,” I told him.
“I know this one bloke, Martin is his name, drinks in the
Duke of York – you met him that one time – he reckons he’s shagged
over two hundred birds. Can you imagine that?”
“And has he?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t be surprised as he is one of these blokes who’s
annoyingly natural when it comes to women. You should see him at closing time,
they’re practically hanging off of him, I tell you.” Two hundred? Jesus, that
was fifty times the women I’d had and one of my total would’ve been subject to
a steward’s enquiry.
“I expect this Martin would think I’m the luckiest bloke in
the world too,” I said.
“I doubt it. He’s married an’all,” Tom reckoned.
“So when’s he had time to shag all these girls then?” I
asked.
“What are you talking about, he’s still shagging them! Bit
bad to be honest. I mean not phoning some bird after you’ve chucked her pants
out of the window, or bullshitting that you’re an airline pilot in order to
chuck her pants out of the window is one thing, but shagging another hundred
and eighty birds after you’ve walked Miss Number Twenty Five down the aisle is
a bit above and beyond if you know what I mean,” Tom frowned.
“How the hell’s he get away with it?” That’s what I wanted
to know.
“Fuck knows. Maybe his wife don’t mind. Maybe she turns a
blind eye. I mean, he might be banging every old boiler in Camberley but she’s
the one he comes home to every night, or at least most nights, that sort of
madness,” Tom figured. “And besides, they’ve got a kiddy too and women always
go off sex after they have kids.”
“Do they?”
“Oh yeah, that’s well known that is. They’ve done studies on
it and everything,” he said, presumably to show me he was now talking facts
here – not just pub bollocks.
I thought about this when I went to the toilet and concluded
it was a load of codswallop. I mean, women not wanting sex after they’d had
kids? Dirty birds on every street corner? A twenty girl national average? And
Martin from the Duke of York up to his nuts in sluts?
How could any of this be true?
I definitely wasn’t sure about the twenty-girl average. In
order for that to make mathematical sense girls had to have a twenty bloke
average too then, unless of course it was all down to a handful of old boilers
with incalculable totals and broken beds?
Sally hadn’t had twenty blokes and none of her friends had
either. I knew this as we’d discussed it a few months before our wedding.
Sally had slept with only five guys in total, annoyingly two
more than me. I’d only slept with three (girls not guys – and this
included Sally herself) though I’d once enjoyed a spot of foreplay with a
French girl on a campsite and had quickly drafted her into my total when Sally
told me she’d had five.
So Sally was well below the national average too.
At least, she was if she’d told me the truth and I can only
assume she’d told me the
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