SEX AND THE ZENFO PRO: The Numbers Game, Threesomes, and the Well-Intentioned Elderly

Why oh why has everyone and their mother, in the offline world, become so damned fascinated with my sexual history?

* * *

Last week, somebody asked me, point-blank, how many women I've, well...you know...

Apparently, I guess I give off this vibe that I fuck just about anything that moves.

I didn't answer the question. Only a few select people know the answer to that question, actually.

I used to answer the question openly and honestly. Then, I got burned a few times in relationships for answering sincerely.

Last summer, I was seeing this girl. It was one of these rather passionate affairs. At one point, she blurted out that she'd been with five people. Then she asked how many women I'd been with. She had a rather cute, michievious grin on her face asking the question.

She wasn't smiling after I answered the question. Things went downhill from there...

For some people, sex is about quantity over quality. When that quantity is too large a figure, the whole aspect of quality gets lost. Quality of one's sex life - measured not in numbers but examined holistically, over time - is so much more important.

I've only asked one woman how many sex partners she's had.

She nonchalantly replied with a rather large number, broken down by years she'd been sexually active (75 per year, male and female, over more than a decade), excluding any sex act that did not involve penetration of orifices below the waist.

She also admitted that she'd only gotten off about 20 percent of the time, about 30 or so were pity/sympathy fucks, and quite a few were completely worthless, quick-release sorta things.

Who cares how many people you've slept with when you're just going through the motions 80 percent of the time?

Sure, I've been passed around only slightly less than a tent revival collection plate - the majority of those experiences occurred when I was in my younger.

But what the hell does a number prove, anyway? That a guy/gal can fucking count?

* * *

While out for lunch earlier this week, somebody - a regular at a bar I frequent - asked me if I was screwing one or more of female bartenders. A conversation about a certain project at my library went from professional to junior high in under 60 seconds.

Apparently, he'd heard things. Something about a threesome, strip poker, and Jack Daniels.

My first thought was Dude, if my love life were that exciting...

Besides, if anything like that had happened, well, it's not like I'd tell some 50-year old guy about it. I'm not too big a fan of guys who use the phrase get some pussy in casual conversation. A woman is so much more than a vagina, and sex is so much more than simply a penis entering a vaginal wall.

I've figure there's a reason why guys like this exist - somebody has to be the asshole.

Hell, and I'm a guy saying that...

* * *

Last night, I had to drive out to the local Wally World to pick up some allergy meds...

At one point, I'm standing in front of this bodywash section... hadn't noticed I was standing next to the Wall O' Condoms.

This elderly woman - out of the fucking blue - taps me on the shoulder and tells me that it's very responsible of me to be buying condoms and that I shouldn't be embarrassed, because sex is a beautiful thing.

We're talking a very elderly woman, easily in her 80s, maybe early 90s, wearing a sweet-old-church-lady hat with a big ol' red purse.

She insisted on helping me pick out prophylactics and told me she did the same thing for her grandsons.

I feel very sorry for her grandsons.

When I was younger, I'd get embarrassed buying condoms. I'll admit it. The first time I bought a box of condoms, I was 19. The first time I actually acquired a box, I shoplifted them from a drugstore at 16.

But there is no embarrassment quite like having an elderly woman say, in public, that you're a nice looking young man that needs something to make my girl feel special.

I told this woman that I wasn't exactly looking to buy condoms. She completely ignored me. I mumbled something and she stuck a box - a big friggin' box - in my hand. And then she went back to shopping and left me standing there, looking like a complete dumbass.

The worst part is that I know this woman. She frequently attends functions held by my library. I've even helped her carry books to her car last year.

I'm honestly hoping this is some wierd Granny fetish and that I wasn't singled out because of where I work.

I do not want to have a Did the Supras Fit Right, dear? conversation at my library's next big gala...