Partner by number: why are we counting?

            I had an enlightening conversation with a friend recently- we were talking about conversations we’ve had with our current significant others, especially how many partners they’d had before us. I think I was shocked because my friend is younger than I am, yet had a very old-fashioned idea, (in my opinion) of how many sexual partners are too many.

            I think as a thirty-year old woman, my take may be different. I know I already go to my own drumbeat on most things, but am I alone on this one? Does your number really matter? Listen, I would have loved to have the romantic ideal be my reality- meeting my one and only, riding off into the sunset together. Having little bambinos and a dog named Cooter, the works. It wasn’t meant to be for me. Now I’ve been in a couple of long-term relationships, even gave marriage the college try. Now I’m back out on the dating scene, and guess what- (gasp) that means I’ve slept with more than one person in my lifetime.

            Does this make me “less than” others who have had fewer partners than I have? I’m not going through partners the way I mow through a box of milk duds, but I am a woman with urges. Let me further define that- I am a liberated woman in a time when I can see and do things the women before me could not do. This includes my sexual conduct. My body, my choice and all that lot. 

            If I’ve been dating someone awhile, most likely we’re going to have a roll in the hay. I use protection, and get tested. I’m not sure when it became uncool to be tested, but I still remember the ravages of AIDS before all the medications on the market today. That alone was and is enough for me to get tested regularly.  So again, why does the amount of partners I’ve had matter?

            There’s a huge double standard when it comes to being a woman and talking about this subject. Even popular culture can’t seem to make up its mind. Ludacris rapped that he wanted, “A lady on the street, but a freak in the bed.” Um, how do you think most women learn what they do and do not want in the bedroom? Please don’t misunderstand me- I’m not saying we should go around jumping one another all the damn time. Have a little discretion people?!  Whether your number is 1, 10, 33, 74… I’ll ask again, why does it matter?

            There can be a social discussion here, about being the “Selfish generation” and all that. I won’t even go that far. Here’s what I will say- who effing cares? I don’t care how many people my partner has been with. I don’t care if they want to know how many people I have been with. I also don’t care if you judge me for it. If you take care of yourself, and I do as well, then none of that matters. Its all preconceived notions of what sexual experience should be. 

            I don’t regret the people I’ve been with, or the experiences I’ve had. I don’t regret the people I’ve loved, or the people I only thought I loved. They are part of the landscape of my experience. You and I are not defined by just a number, there is so much more to us than that. Ok, I’ve been with a couple of not so choice people. People I’ve stopped and thought, “whoa dude- you know better.” They are my mistakes to bear. I’m not solely defined by that.  Aberrant behaviors happen from time to time. Still- I feel pretty good overall about how I’ve lived my life so far.

So why are we counting again?

***UPDATE- I've already received quite a bit of feedback on this blog post, mostly agreement. I had one friend take it even further. They pointed out that for someone who chooses to wait to have sex, the stigma from their decision is just as bad as someone with a high number.

They went as far as to give me some examples of the things they've heard, "So does that mean you just don't have people interested in you?" "You must be gay or something." "You're putting the dick on a pedestal and expecting too much from a guy." Um...what? To all three of these observations- you can get bent. If someone chooses to wait for their person they should be high-fived, not told there is something wrong with them.

Here's what I find really wrong with the two extremes I've shown here, from lots of partners to none and all- how we go about this subject matter is only for that person to decide. Yes, I wrote this because I did not agree with someone else's opinion. I still respect that person and the way they feel, I just happen to disagree, (I'm also the one who happens to write a blog, so y'all get to hear mostly how I feel). Whenever we try to define an entire person by one act, one decision, one mistake, one failure, one stroke of genius, we are not honoring the whole person, (Please be realistic with my thought process- murder and things of that moral nature are not part of this discussion). Are you really thinking about writing someone off because of a number? 

You've got to have friends... well, at least I do.

            If you look at my social media, I look far more popular than I actually am. Sure, I have plenty of Facebook and IG “friends” but those aren’t the people I talk to every day. They aren’t MY people.

            I have a few very close friends, some have known me all my life. Others have only known me a few years. They are the ones I can call any hour of the day or night, complain like a broken record about the same mundane things, lament about one mistake or another, the ones who give me far away high fives over the phone when something lovely or spectacular happens. They know me, and I know them. They happen to all be smart, beautiful, dynamic, kick-ass, loving people. That’s right- all of ‘em. These are my main squeezes- the ones I’d set the world on fire for.

            One of the best people in my life has known me for twenty-four years. I’ll say that again- she has known me for twenty-four years. They say the test of a lifelong friendship is whether it can last longer than seven years. I think she and I have got that handled. Today we live the furthest apart from one another in all our years, (why the land of Mormon? Why so far?!) and I’ve never felt closer to her. I don’t get to hear her voice as often as I would like, but she’s still there. I leave her ridiculous messages on social media and voicemails, and she sends me snail mail because she knows I love it. She speaks to my more tender side, reminding me I don’t have to be all bravado- she knows I have a soft underbelly. She’s also helped me love wine…

            These three come as a package deal. Two sisters and a cousin,  all of whom I met when I was thirteen years old. All three have personalities all their own, yet compliment each other in the best way. I became a part of their family the minute we met, and vice versa. They are like the sisters I never wanted, (har har).  We fight and bicker, we even borrow each others clothes.  My mother has said more than once she wishes I had grown up with sisters- she doesn’t realize I did.  We made mixed tapes together, talked about boys, (and in my case girls) pinky swore each other to secrecy, and snuck out of the house, (remember combat rolling through the bushes? I do!) I’ve watched them raise their kids, and played the role of the crazy aunt. We love each other the unconditional way siblings should, the best part of all being we chose each other.

            I met this gorgeous lass in high school, when we were both still awkward and figuring out who we were. She and I lost touch, then found each other again in our late twenties.  Her fire burns brighter than most, the courageous way she walks in this world is something every one stops and takes notice of. She and I have marched to our own drum beats since we can remember, and yet together we fall into the same rhythm. She reminds me being tame is lame, my mixed background does make me special, and I shouldn’t apologize for who I am.  She also would help me bury the body, and go to jail with me for the crime- the whole time yelling about how the system sucks.

            I bonded with this tall drink of water the very first week of my internship at San Diego State.  Anyone who can pull off being six feet tall, blonde, smart, and have the ability to cuss the way she does earns my respect, (did I mention she’s an identical twin? Oofta). She really has no idea, but she’s one of the main reasons I got through college. Her friendship was what I needed at a time when curve ball after curve ball was thrown my way. Her sense of humor, ability to keep me on task when we needed to study for an exam, and willingness to talk about inappropriateness right in the middle of us learning origins and insertions… Now we can sit around drinking a beer, (or drinking one of her fantastic margaritas) and bs about anything and everything.  Did I mention her grandma is the reason I showed up to my college graduation drunk? Ah well, that’s a story for another time.

            I met my little polly pocket right before I finished up at SDSU.  She talks a mile a minute, drives me absolutely insane, and gives great advice. She fantastic at making me feel special, about taking the time to letting me know she’s thinking of me- all the way from Missouri, (Seriously- Missouri. The middle of no where, in Missouri).  She’s such a girl, and man I love that about her. Have I mentioned while she can talk a mile a minute, when she’s upset she can hit an octave only bats can hear? She’s very passionate about all she does, which also makes her vulnerable. She wants to love and help everyone. She reminds me regularly to pull my head out of my ass, and be more compassionate.

            I’m putting these three together, because they are the three guy friends who have stood the test of time. One is a ninja, another a protégé, and the last a former flame.  I’ve known two of them since college, the other a student of mine who later became a friend. They give me the male perspective on things, don’t pull punches, and give me the encouragement I need when I’m having a full blown chick  moment. Recently one even told me I was being a dick- some thing I think my girls may not want to tell me.  They have explained more than once to me how I’m not like other broads, and I should use it to my advantage. They tell me I look like shit when I cry, but hold me anyway. They check out chicks with me, give me boy advice, and love me the way I am, reminding me the right person will do the same whenever they decide to show the hell up.

            This little southern belle is the cheese to my macaroni. We met four years ago, and since have had a few adventures together. She’s priceless, her back country advice mixed with her Texas twang would enhance anyone’s day.  We’ve bonded over entire days in bed ( separately- get your mind out of the gutter), food that’s terrible for you, how much dating blows, that pants suck, and weird disgusting injuries, (She and I have the same job. What can I say? We think broken bones are fascinating).  I keep trying to convince her to move to California, so we can share a dog named Cooter. Besides all that, she’s a model of professionalism, drive, and how to be a proper lady. The last being a lesson completely lost on me.

            So my cousin married this lady ten years ago. She seriously is the sweetest woman I have ever met on the planet. I don’t know how she does it. Her capacity to care is greater than anyone I’ve ever seen, her faith and love of everyone around her puts the rest of us to shame. She also is hilarious, can drink me under the table, (a skill she doesn’t exhibit so much these days) and seriously puts up with me falling asleep every time we hang out. I can’t seem to help myself- sorry lady. Her kids call me their Aunt Niki and lecture me when I don’t come around often enough. Anytime I get to spend with her is a blast, and time I wouldn’t trade for anything.

            Last but not least, och well- she’s my main lady.  She’s seen me raw- the really un-pretty stuff. She holds my rose called glasses when I throw a hissy fit, stand by as I act like a prize idiot, and she plays with my hair. Yes, that’s just as important as all the rest. There’s isn’t much to be said that I haven’t already said. She enhances my happiness in a way no one else does. 

            So there they are- my main squeezes. I always thought “Bros before Hoes” was a stupid saying, until I realized I live by it.  I love all these people with everything I’ve got, would throw a blanket party for anyone who wronged them, and even drink with them- these are big things dude, I’m a giver.  I’m loyal to a fault, and carry their loads with them- that’s what we do for one another.

            There are more people I consider important to me- let’s be serious, there will probably be a part deux because I’m lucky enough to be surrounded by some spiffy people. I’m a lucky broad, and I don’t take it for granted.

Mi Padre, my hero.

            My father will be sixty years old this year.  I know you’re thinking, “dude- that’s one way to open this thing,” but stick with me, I’m going somewhere with this.  That means the best example of all a man should be has been walking this earth for the past sixty years, (You like where I took that? You’re welcome).

            Through his many talents and drive, his intelligence and deep running emotions, through the love he has with my mother, and all the experiences in between,  he is the best father this broad could ever have.

            He’s never stopped being mi padre either. I just turned thirty, and he is still one of my best sounding boards- having an ability like no one else to calm me down and help navigate me to the best possible solution. He can tell by the sound of my voice how I’m doing, and either pacify my fears or kicking my ass.

            He did that on a phone call from me when I was ten years old, and visiting Missouri to see family.  I had been called the N-word for the first time to my face, and coping badly. He was back in California, so I called him and told him what happened. He sang to me, a song he hadn’t sung since I was a wee little thing.  My father has a beautiful, rich voice that soothed his little girls fears and made me feel all the better after such a horrid experience. There was another phone call when I was twenty-five, and had failed a huge certification exam. I called him completely destroyed, babbling about being a failure and crying like a prize idiot. He let me cry my little eyes out, then told me to get to a computer. Then and there he had me re-sign up for the exam, and told me I had one week to throw the world’s biggest pity party. After that, I needed to shake this off and rock that exam- which of course, I did.

            He is endlessly encouraging, never the one to drag me down from my place  with my head in the clouds. Push through, strive to be better, believe you can and you will, to fail is to learn, be the dreamer.

            He can be as goofy as he can be serious, throwing a football in the house with my brother and I and breaking a lamp, (yes dad, I remember that. Don’t worry, I think mum still doesn’t know) to comforting me after I had my heart broken, telling me no man who would break my heart deserved a part of it in the first place.

            I have so many fantastic memories of us singing in the car, ( my mum and brother couldn’t carry a tune to save their lives) watching every kind of sporting event together- me peppering him with questions about what the hell is going on, him using instant reply to teach what a 3-5 defense is.  Of us watching every kind of movie- To this day if movies like Ferris Bueller’s Day off, Top Gun, Used Cars, or Caddy Shack come on, we stop what we’re doing and watch. My mother is still at a complete loss why we do this. It would be wrong not to, is really the best answer.

            He showed me fathers don’t have to be stoic and stand on the sidelines of their children's lives. Not only was he a provider, he helped me with my homework, helped get me ready for school, (easy when I was younger- taking his two big hands and pulling all of my lion’s mane back into the world’s tightest pony tail. I of course found a way to destroy his work the minute I left the house). Came to my water polo games in high school, and when I achieved one of my dreams, working with SDSU at Qualcomm stadium- I called him from Jack Murphy field crying, asking him to come to my home games so he could see me work. He did- I don’t think he missed a game.

            He taught me to honor where we come from, him being such a great example of that. He lived through the JFK assassination, the Civil Rights Movement, the Moon Landing, Vietnam, Watergate,  all the way to 9/11, and being able to stand in our Nation’s capital with my mother by his side to see the first black president of the United States take his oath of office. Respect the past so we can be a better future, he taught me that.

            He stands as an example of being better than your circumstances, don’t limit your scope because you can’t quite see where you might end up. I’m sure when he left Pittsburg at the age of ten, he had no idea he would end up in San Diego, meeting the love of his life barely a year out of high school, that he would become a highly respected coach, then teacher, then principal. He had no idea how many lives he would change through his work and good deeds. Whenever the day comes that my father has to part this earth, the lives he touched and changed for the better will be a testament to the man I call my father.

            Thank you daddy, for helping me hone my sense of humor with In Living Color, SNL, Naked Gun, and so many stand up comedians. Thank you for helping teach me to love music, playing me the records of your youth and showing me there is nothing wrong with a grown man watching a musical. Thank you for holding me when I thought I was broken, and for being my champion. Thank you for being a dreamer- your dreams gave my brother and I the opportunity to be who we are.

Thank you. I love you. You’re a hard act to follow padre- anyone who stands by my side will have some big shoes to fill. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Wanna piss me off? Ask and/or tell me this sh*t.

These aren’t the only things that piss me off, but I can only go for so long on a rant. I’ve been told I don’t seem to get pissed off easily, but here are a few things that give me an eye twitch.

1.    So, what are you? I’m an American. I’m a woman. I’m an android. Ok, not really the last one. Oh- you’re asking me about my ethnic background? That’s a different question entirely. Now you’re shuffling your feet and nervously smiling at me. Now I want to tell you to sod off, but I’ve been taught to be nice and not high kick you in the knee. I answer I’m half black, half white. You sigh in relief because I answered your question. I’ve mentally written you off because you couldn’t find a better way to ask me that.

2.    You’re so exotic- Do I look like a rare bird to you? Maybe something that belongs in a cage? I hate being called exotic. I know you think you’re paying me a compliment. You’re not. I’m not your walk on the wild side, nor your case of jungle fever. You think by pointing out I look nothing like the usual Barbie dolls you date I’ll be flattered. Not flattered. Exceptionally annoyed. Stop doing that.

3.    You’re queer? How many threesomes have you been in? – I already dislike you to such a great extend for going down this road. Just because I’m attracted to both men and women doesn’t mean I want to sleep with everything that moves, and sure as hell doesn’t mean I want to live out your porn fantasy.  There are still certain people I am and am not attracted to, I don’t jump everything that crosses my path. When it comes to threesomes- listen, if you want to get up to those kinds of shenanigans, all power to you. I happen to think that would be far too many limbs being tangled together, would be concerned about what was going where… if you’re catching my drift, I’ve thought a lot about this. It’s a big fat no. No. Again, no.

4.    You’re a massage therapist? How many happy endings… Stop. Just stop. I’ve heard this so many times. You are not funny. Not even kind of funny. No, I won’t make an exception for you. Also, if you asked me this on a date, most likely I will not be hanging out with you again.

5.    Do you dress like that all the time? Yes. Can you just internet stalk me already and answer this question for yourself? I’m not dressing like this to impress you. Be flattered if you get to see me in a dress. Back to my normal attire- I live in workout clothes. Not dressy enough for you? Too bad.

6.    You’re opinionated. - The way you stated that to me, like it was a big surprise… I am an intelligent woman who yes, has formed quite a few opinions. Dear dude, (only dudes take issue with this) just because I didn’t jump to agree with you, since you must only spout golden nuggets of truth- you can get bent. I listened to you carry on about whatever, and then I happened to disagree and had arguments supporting my statement. Just because I have candy colored hair does not mean I am filled with sugary goodness that will cater to your bullshit opinions.

7.    You want kids? I never would have guessed. - Let me get this straight- because I am a small business owner who yes, has a tendency to work a bit too much, you thought I must have ditched the feelings I may have about motherhood? I’m 30, not on my deathbed. Did you ever think my priorities may shift whenever I meet my person, and family would hopefully come after that? I love my work, but I am not married to it. 

8.    What is your opinion on, (insert black or woman’s issue here) – If you’re asking me because you actually value my opinion on this subject, then spiffy. When you ask me as the token women and/or black person you know- that’s obnoxious. What makes you think I want to be the mouthpiece for so many people who may or may not agree with me? Don’t take what I say as gospel, spout it for the world to hear, then turn to me after and let me know not everyone agrees with me. What. The. F***. 

9.    You’re whitewashed- You’re an asshole. Just because I’m not living up to your preconceived stereotypes of how I should be acting, dressing, moving through the world, I’m not living up to being half black?  I don’t like you. Moving on…

10.  Are you this up front all the time? Um, yes. I don’t feel like I need to hide much, (I write a blog I publish publicly on the internet. Seriously.) I’m not going to tell you everything at one sitting, but one of my favorite games is 20 questions. Read between the lines. I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable, I’m also not asking you to divulge your deepest darkest secrets. There just aren’t many questions I’m unwilling to answer.

11.  So I have a girlfriend, but… - Let me stop you there. Gross. I’m not the other woman. Someone already has claimed you, (possibly with the cunning use of flags. Thank you, Eddie Izzard). The sad thing is, this must work for you because you ventured to use it with me. I’m gonna go home and take a shower so I can rinse off your icky cooties now.

So you can make black jokes, but I can’t? – Duh. I also get the nod, and you do not. You can’t have everything, ok? Often times if I make the joke first, it means I’m holding the power. There's nothing worse than the feeling of being singled out because of something like the color of your skin, when you weren't prepared to fight that fight. You can’t catch me off guard or throw me if I set the precedent- also, my jokes are way better than yours. Have you heard the one about the black guy flying the plane?