Have you ever noticed how our whole lives seem to be defined by numbers?

We’ve got a driver’s licence number, tax file number, phone number, payroll number … the list just goes on and on.

But when it comes to relationships, there is only really one number which seems to count.

THE number.

There comes a time in every relationship when you have THAT discussion.

When the number is disclosed for the first time.

It is an awkward moment in any relationship.

Seriously.

Especially if one person has had more partners than the other.

Especially if that person has a significantly higher number than the other.

Especially if that person with the significantly higher number is a woman.

Now I am not going to tell you my number.

It’s none of your business.

Not even Alex knows.

What he does know, as of the other day, is that when we first had the number conversation, I may have been a tad liberal with the truth.

That is, I didn’t so much lie, as slightly fudge the numbers.

Lower.

Why did I do this?

I guess for the same reason women all over the world do. Because we know most men want to hear that we are as pure as the driven snow.

Or, in slightly more crass terms, that they are one of the first explorers to head down that particular valley.

While most men are more than happy to be the recipients of your prior experience, some part of them is still stuck in the dark ages, where men were men and women were virgins.

Which always struck me as kind of strange, because if all the women were protecting their virtue, then with whom were all those manly men sowing their wild oats?

Anyways, back to the numbers.

The idea that a man is taking a virgin to his bed is a fantasy which has been passed down the ages.

And if she’s not a virgin, then as close as possible is the next best thing.

Which is ridiculous.

Because no one expects a man to remain as chaste as possible. In fact, it is the opposite.

While a man of experience is a hero, an experienced woman is labeled a harlot. Or worse.

Not that Alex thinks I’m a harlot.

He’s just upset that I didn’t tell him the truth all that time ago.

And I can understand that. I shouldn’t have lied, because I don’t regret what I affectionately refer to as my hussy period. And I’m certainly not ashamed of it.

I call it my hussy period, because the best way to fight a term is to claim it for yourself.

Anyways, I tend to think of it as Mae West did. That I was just like Snow White … until I drifted.

Not that I went on the prowl every weekend.

But you know what?

If someone did choose to change their men as often as their underwear, as long as they were safe and doing it because it pleased them and not to fill some sort of emotional hole, then I think, more power to them.

Because the number of partners you have shouldn’t matter.

And that is simply because you are more than a number.

And a number should not be used to define you.

Alex doesn’t need to know how many beds I’ve shared in the past.

He just needs to know that there is only one bed I am sharing in the present.

And I’ve chosen him to be in it.