How many. How often. Who it was
That is not a conversation. That is an audit. And I did not apply for one.
People ask like they are being casual. Like it is just chat. Like we are all adults so the details are public property. They are not. Curiosity dressed as concern still wants a full guided tour of my sheets, and I am not running open house.
I will tell you I like sex. I will tell you I have had plenty. That is the line. After that, you are just being nosy.
The questions never come out clean
It is rarely, “Are you alright?” It is “so how many then.” Said with a laugh. Said like a joke. Said by someone who already has a number in their head and wants to see if I beat it.
Men ask it after they have already been in my bed, which is a special kind of timing. Women ask it with a face that looks worried, which is worse. Concern is a brilliant costume. You can hide a lot of judgement in it.
At work it comes in sideways. Warehouse humour is not delicate. Someone hears I went out, someone else fills in the rest, and suddenly I am a story being passed down the aisle with the radios. I can take a joke. I make most of them. What I will not do is hand over a list so people can rank me like stock.
In the flat it is softer and somehow more annoying. A look. A pause. “You got in late.” Yes. I did. I also pay rent here. Late is not a confession.
What they think they are owed
There is this idea that if a woman is honest about liking sex, she has waived privacy. Like I opened one door and now the whole house is available. I wrote about my drive. I did not issue season tickets.
How many is a trap. Too low and you are sheltered. Too high and you are a warning. There is no correct answer because the point was never information. The point was to put me somewhere they can stand.
How often is the same trick in a tighter dress. If I say often, I am desperate. If I say not that often, I was lying before. People want the number so they can decide whether I am sad, dirty, impressive, or in need of saving. None of those jobs were advertised.
Who it was is the nosiest one. Names. Jobs. Whether you would know them. Whether they have a girlfriend. Whether I should be embarrassed. I am not doing a seating plan of my sex life for an audience that will not be there in the morning.
I have two degrees and a rota and a face I put on in the bathroom mirror before I leave the house. I am not a rumour with legs.
Concern is still nosiness if it wants details
I know the tone. Soft voice. Head tilt. “I just worry about you.”
Do you. Or do you want the story.
Real worry sounds like, “Did you get home.” Real worry sounds like, “Do you like him.” Real worry does not require a body count, a frequency chart, and a cast list. If you need all that to care about me, you do not care about me. You care about the plot.
I had a dad who left a quiet in the house when I was eight. I learned early that people fill silence with theories. They still do. If I do not narrate myself, someone else will. That used to make me talk too much. Now it makes me pickier.
You can think I use sex to feel chosen. You might even be a bit right some weeks. That still does not entitle you to the names. My patterns are mine. My diary is not a group chat.
I can be filthy and still have a door that shuts
This is the bit people cannot hold in their heads at the same time. I will tell you what I like. I will tell you I am good at it. I will be smug about it, even, because I am not doing the ashamed little shrug for anyone’s comfort.
And I will still say no when you ask who.
Those two things live together. They have to, or every honest woman becomes public property the second she stops whispering.
I do not owe an explanation because I went home with someone. I do not owe an explanation because I did not. I do not owe an explanation because I wanted it twice in a weekend or not at all in a month. Desire is not a press release.
If I tell a story on here, I chose the story. That is different from being interviewed at the pub by someone who thinks closeness means access.
What I will answer, because I am not made of glass
Am I safe. Yes, or I would not still be doing this like a person with a job in the morning.
Am I using protection. That is a fair question from someone I am actually sleeping with. It is not a fair question from a bloke on a night out who wants gossip with his pint.
Do I want a boyfriend. Sometimes. Quietly. That one surprises people more than the sex does. They can cope with me being easy in their language. They struggle with me wanting someone to stay after the fun bit. I still do not have to unpack that for a stranger.
Did I like it. If I am telling you, you were there. If you were not there, you do not get the review.
The double standard is old and I am bored of it
A man can say he has been around and it makes him experienced. I say the same and suddenly I need a reason. Heartbreak. Daddy issues. Attention. Revenge. As if a woman cannot just want to get off and go to sleep.
I work a warehouse floor. I want a promotion. I split a flat with two friends. I redo my makeup in bad lighting and I know my way home. None of that is cancelled out by who I have slept with. My competence is not in your inbox.
If you need me to be damaged for the sex to make sense, that is your story, not mine. I am allowed to be happy and horny in the same week. Shocking, I know.
Privacy is not the same as shame
I am not hiding. Hiding would be pretending I am someone else. I am drawing a line.
Shame says, do not talk about it at all. Privacy says, I will talk about what I choose. I like the second one. It lets me be honest without turning my life into content for people who will not sit with me on the night bus after.
You can think I should settle down. You can think I should calm down. You can think I should pick one person and behave. Think it quietly. I did not ask for a committee.
The only people who get more than the headline are the people I let in. Flatmates get the late key in the door, not the play by play. A man I like gets what he needs to know to be decent. The internet gets what I decide to type. Everyone else can live with the gap.
So no
How many. None of your business.
How often. Still none of your business.
Who it was. Definitely none of your business.
I will keep writing like a person who has a body and a mouth and a job. I will keep being cocky when it suits me. I will keep shutting the door when the questions get greedy.
You can want the tour. You are not getting the keys.
