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Authors: Annabelle Costa
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back, Bullshit.
I giggle, and Larry looks at me in surprise. I quickly put my phone down next to me on the couch.
I really want to make this work with Larry, but I feel like I’m at a loss. We don’t seem to connect even on any of the most basic things. I guess this is why such a decent guy is still single in his mid-thirties. Obviously, other women had the same issue as I did.
I guess this means I need to break up with Larry.
“Would you mind if I shut this movie off?” Larry asks me, a pained expression on his face.
“Um, sure,” I said. Except once the TV is off, there’s going to be nothing left to do but break up with him.
I turn the television off with the remote control. Larry turns to face me and wipes his palms on his slacks. “Tasha,” he says, and for a second I’m sure he’s going to tell me he wants to break up with me, which would have been a huge relief, but then he kind of does the opposite when he leans forward and kisses me. I’m shocked. Someone getting his face blown off in the back of a car doesn’t seem like a good segue into kissing.
A few minutes later, we’re doing slightly more than kissing—we’re actually making out on my couch. And I have to admit, this is not entirely unpleasant. Larry is not a bad kisser. He’s not amazing or anything, but he’s okay at it.
And I like that he’s respectful. He doesn’t push me to do anything I don’t feel comfortable with. I know I’m not going to have sex with him today, although I suspect that would also be a not unpleasant experience.
***
Every woman has a secret number: the number of men she’s had sex with.
Very few people know my secret number. Actually, the only person aside from myself who knows it is Jason. I first revealed it to him a few years after we reconnected in New York and we were out drinking at a bar one night and had The Sex Talk. Not that Jason and I never talked about sex before, but this was probably the most explicit conversation we’d ever had.
I had just broken up with another guy—a musician with a pierced ear and too many tattoos. As I had my fourth whiskey shot of the evening, I moaned to Jason, “I can’t believe I slept with that asshole. I feel like I’ve slept with half the guys in Manhattan.”
Jason laughed. “Half? Are you sure it’s not more like three-quarters?”
“Shut up,” I slurred. “It’s not that bad.”
“Is that so?” he retorted. “Well, how many have there been?”
“Hey, that’s personal!” I cried. Then I lowered my voice. “Okay, I’ll tell you if you tell me.”
“That seems fair.”
I took a deep breath. “Eighteen.”
Jason let out a low whistle.
“Oh, stop it,” I said, slugging him in the arm. “Okay, now you tell me.”
That’s when Jason’s face colored slightly and something terrible occurred to me. “Oh my God,” I said. “You can have sex, right?”
“Tasha!” He colored even deeper. “Of course I can.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I just . . . you know, since you’re paralyzed and all. . . . I mean, I wasn’t sure if you could even feel your . . . you know . . .” Somehow I couldn’t bring myself to say “penis,” even though I was drunk and he was at least a little drunk.
“Well, I can’t,” he said.
I gasped, “You can’t?”
“It’s not a big deal,” Jason said quickly. “I mean, it’s always been that way for me, at least as long as I can remember. Like you said, I’m paralyzed, so . . . you know, I can’t feel anything from the mid-chest down.” He took a drink of his beer. “To be honest, when I was twelve-years-old, my pediatrician told my mom I wouldn’t be able to have sex. Ever. You know how much that sucked? Twelve-year-olds are totally obsessed with sex. I spent most of my teenage years thinking I was some kind of freak who’d never be able to have sex. I didn’t even want to think about dating because it felt like there was no point.”
“But you said you can, right?” I wanted
I giggle, and Larry looks at me in surprise. I quickly put my phone down next to me on the couch.
I really want to make this work with Larry, but I feel like I’m at a loss. We don’t seem to connect even on any of the most basic things. I guess this is why such a decent guy is still single in his mid-thirties. Obviously, other women had the same issue as I did.
I guess this means I need to break up with Larry.
“Would you mind if I shut this movie off?” Larry asks me, a pained expression on his face.
“Um, sure,” I said. Except once the TV is off, there’s going to be nothing left to do but break up with him.
I turn the television off with the remote control. Larry turns to face me and wipes his palms on his slacks. “Tasha,” he says, and for a second I’m sure he’s going to tell me he wants to break up with me, which would have been a huge relief, but then he kind of does the opposite when he leans forward and kisses me. I’m shocked. Someone getting his face blown off in the back of a car doesn’t seem like a good segue into kissing.
A few minutes later, we’re doing slightly more than kissing—we’re actually making out on my couch. And I have to admit, this is not entirely unpleasant. Larry is not a bad kisser. He’s not amazing or anything, but he’s okay at it.
And I like that he’s respectful. He doesn’t push me to do anything I don’t feel comfortable with. I know I’m not going to have sex with him today, although I suspect that would also be a not unpleasant experience.
***
Every woman has a secret number: the number of men she’s had sex with.
Very few people know my secret number. Actually, the only person aside from myself who knows it is Jason. I first revealed it to him a few years after we reconnected in New York and we were out drinking at a bar one night and had The Sex Talk. Not that Jason and I never talked about sex before, but this was probably the most explicit conversation we’d ever had.
I had just broken up with another guy—a musician with a pierced ear and too many tattoos. As I had my fourth whiskey shot of the evening, I moaned to Jason, “I can’t believe I slept with that asshole. I feel like I’ve slept with half the guys in Manhattan.”
Jason laughed. “Half? Are you sure it’s not more like three-quarters?”
“Shut up,” I slurred. “It’s not that bad.”
“Is that so?” he retorted. “Well, how many have there been?”
“Hey, that’s personal!” I cried. Then I lowered my voice. “Okay, I’ll tell you if you tell me.”
“That seems fair.”
I took a deep breath. “Eighteen.”
Jason let out a low whistle.
“Oh, stop it,” I said, slugging him in the arm. “Okay, now you tell me.”
That’s when Jason’s face colored slightly and something terrible occurred to me. “Oh my God,” I said. “You can have sex, right?”
“Tasha!” He colored even deeper. “Of course I can.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I just . . . you know, since you’re paralyzed and all. . . . I mean, I wasn’t sure if you could even feel your . . . you know . . .” Somehow I couldn’t bring myself to say “penis,” even though I was drunk and he was at least a little drunk.
“Well, I can’t,” he said.
I gasped, “You can’t?”
“It’s not a big deal,” Jason said quickly. “I mean, it’s always been that way for me, at least as long as I can remember. Like you said, I’m paralyzed, so . . . you know, I can’t feel anything from the mid-chest down.” He took a drink of his beer. “To be honest, when I was twelve-years-old, my pediatrician told my mom I wouldn’t be able to have sex. Ever. You know how much that sucked? Twelve-year-olds are totally obsessed with sex. I spent most of my teenage years thinking I was some kind of freak who’d never be able to have sex. I didn’t even want to think about dating because it felt like there was no point.”
“But you said you can, right?” I wanted
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