So chatting about my semi-lurid history in Tub Time, Part Two brought to mind the perennial question “How many men have I had sex with?” It’s perennial in that while I never wonder “How many bags of Milano cookies have I knocked back?” I do occasionally try to tally up the number of guys that have gotten across home plate. It’s just something that crosses my mind when I’m not contemplating more noble things.
Here’s the stats to consider: I was a virgin, untouched (except some guy who groped me in a store when I was in high school, but really, that simply cannot count) until I was 21. Almost immediately, I leaped into the sexpot lifestyle of the pre-AIDS homo, one which I’ve clung to with only minor modifications through these thirty years. Bathhouses, bars, sex clubs, and various unsavory venues in Austin, Seattle, New Orleans, New York, L.A. (hey Mauricio!) Chicago, Palm Springs (Cathedral City, actually,) Paris, Rome and, of course, here in our own little cow-town. Over these three decades, I’ve managed to hit one of them on average per week, at the very least. Some of my favorites were the backroom of the Sunday beer busts at Jewels (where I found R Man and true love,) half price Tuesday nights at the New Orleans baths (I’m cheap in every sense of the word. I know. Shut up.) and Blow Buddies here every single weekend for years.
In each of these and all the others as well, I was plenty open to quantity over quality. I figure I connected with a rough average of 6.5 players per match. And this average is very rough. If I was in the back room and somebody just sort of licked it for a few strokes before one or the other of us moved on, does that count? I guess so, although I used to discount it entirely as just sort of an amuse bouche rather than even a true snack. And glory holes. Anyplace with those gifts of the gods were good for better than a dozen “hi-hellos” at a visit, but again they just seem so unimportant. I know some poor closety senator might not get anything better, but it’s hard for me to include them in the grand total. Still, in the interest of scientific rigor, I’m willing to do so. Plus, each Mardi Gras alone is capable of skewing this score pretty substantially upwards. So let’s call it 7.33 per week for 31 years.
Amazingly, I am more embarrassed to admit that I had to go to a calculator to figure this out than I am to admit I’ve been intime with 11,815.96 of my dearest friends. Is that right? I really am terrible at math.
So, am I bragging? Oh, probably, a little. I think whenever anyone speaks about sex they’re either bragging or complaining, but I also think I’m no where near extraordinary in this, for a gay man of my age, anyway. Some straight guy who got married to the first girl he kissed might come up short of that, but face it, most disco queens getting mail from AARP will look at that number and say “Yeah, that sounds about right.”
And so what’s yours? You know you’ve been calculating blowjobs and one night stands and sweaty little moments of magic while you were reading this. What did you come up with? Feel free to round either up or down, whichever makes it easier for you to sleep at night.