“It may seem odd to you that I’ve never asked your number,” she said across the dinner table. She kept her voice a bit low, as there were other diners within earshot, even though the restaurant wasn’t particularly crowded.
We had been seeing each other for several months, and I had managed to hang on that long precisely because there had been so few questions. If there’s one thing Uncle Scott has learned, it’s the importance of saying as little as humanly possible in a relationship!
But with this question, she seemed to be entering the territory of information exchange. I felt my stomach tighten.
“I’m sure that question has come up at some point in your past,” she said, trying to keep her tone light. “I know women just love to ask it! And men never ask it. I suspect men are curious in general, but on the other hand they don’t like answering themselves, so...”
I opened my mouth to speak – prematurely, because I hadn’t yet thought up any words – but she went on: “Here’s why I held off on asking,” she said. “Now that we’ve gotten to know each other a little better, I thought it would be fun to guess!”
“Guess... each other’s number?”
“Exactly! Won’t that be fun?”
“But...” - I took the leap - “We already know each other’s numbers. Otherwise, how could we have been texting all this time?”
She threw back her head and laughed. “You’re so silly sometimes!” She leaned forward and looked at me meaningfully, smiling a knowing smile. “You know what number I mean!”
“Ha, ha,” I chuckled, “Well, of course I do!”
“My thinking is, it feels like our numbers may be, well, changing sometime soon!” She said in a sultry tone. “So I’m feeling curious. And it will be fun!”
As we parted, she repeated her plans for this odd little game, and implored me to be ready to guess when we reconvened the following weekend. She also suggested we write our number and our guess down and seal them in an envelope, so we couldn’t change them on the fly.
I was dreadfully grateful that she hadn’t pressed the matter in the moment; I needed time to apply my considerable powers of deduction to puzzle out the question before I would have any hope of mustering an answer.
My number... well, not just mine, because apparently in her mind we both had one.
I pondered the problem deeply the following day as I gave the cat his quarterly shaving. She had offered several key clues: the number was sexual in nature, she’d made that clear; the number was about to change for both of us, which fit nicely with her allusion to what I could only surmise as our impending consummation; and it had to be a number that was guessable based on things our refining impressions of one another.
I rallied my considerable reasoning resources. Was the number our greatest number of simultaneous partners, perhaps? I’d heard tales of such exploits on barstools and in locker rooms, but my own number there, sadly, was zero. I dismissed the possibility: if we were approaching consummation, surely there would be no additional parties there on our first go-around!
What else? Maximum number of climaxes in one lovemaking experience, perhaps? No, very unlikely; as a male, I am naturally severely handicapped in that regard. The meaning of the number was most likely gender-neutral.
Hm, she was very focused on how long we’d been seeing each other and had remained chaste. Could that be it? Maximum number of chastity days prior to consummation? It seemed a possible fit; it was sexual in nature, and if we were soon to copulate, the number would then be fixed. But it didn’t seem a number that was guessable based on our knowledge of one another; so many things can delay the premiere doing of the deed!
Okay, what personal sexual statistic could be divined from deepening knowledge of a potential partner’s personality, something that was gender-neutral? An answer presented: maximum nights of copulation in a row! It was a personal sexual statistic, subject to occasional up-tick; and perhaps she was suggesting that we were not simply about to consummate, but that we would keep things rolling night after night until we set new records! I could only hope...
Now we’re getting somewhere!
But no; our circumstances were not practically configured for such marathon endeavors, due to the travel her job required of her. It must be something else.
I wracked my brain, which was beginning to experience fatigue. Both the number-of-nights-in-a-row solution and the days-of-chastity solution were too subject to the vagaries of day-to-day providence to have any significance. The number had to refer to some sexual activity that could happen anywhere, any time, for either gender!
That’s it!!!
It wasn’t a number about our sexual experiences with someone else, a number to be tossed hither and yon by the winds of chaos; it was a number about our sexual experience with ourselves!!!
It was a hand-in-glove fit. Yes! It was gender-neutral, as I am authoritatively informed that women do in fact indulge, some quite often; it was a number about to change, for we would both be ending long dry spells; and it was a number that could be divined through deepening personal knowledge – after all, she was hinting at the consummation more and more, and her lusty energy was increasingly on parade. My guess at her number would be based on my growing awareness of her zesty sexuality!
Moreover, it fit with her need to talk about our numbers now, on the precipice of our carnal knowledge: a person’s number, if it means what it clearly must, is a measure of that person’s sexual stamina: the maximum number of contiguous nights of lusty self-knowledge!!!
I was ready to go.
We met at the same restaurant, requesting the same table. We each had our envelopes. She placed them in the center of the table, leaning them against the candle holder.
After we’d ordered and enjoyed several minutes of clever banter, she returned us to the subject of the numbers.
“Here’s what I thought would be fun,” she said. “Before we open our envelopes, let’s explain the reasoning behind our guesses. What do you say?” Confident in my own analysis, I readily agreed.
“You might find my number a little modest,” she said, a bit hesitantly. “I know I might come across as very forthcoming, but in fact I’m very choosy and I take things slow. That’s why it’s been a few months and we still haven’t... you know...” She almost blushed!
“Anyway, my number reflects this choosiness and caution,” she said. Eureka! This was making perfect sense. If she was very choosy, then she’d have had many long stretches of flicking the bean, months on end, between choices. I had correctly deduced the nature of the number! Now it remained to see how close my guess was.
“As for my guess about your number,” she continued with a slightly embarrassed grin, “I’m certain yours must be higher. You’re a very worldly man, and it stands to reason that you’re very experienced.” Well, that was true enough! “...but I don’t think your number will be that much higher than mine,” she hastened to add. “I think we both consider quality over quantity in that particular area, and I can imagine that you’re the sort of man who brings great energy and flair to the experience when you decide to go for it!” Once again, true enough!
She smiled and squeezed my hand. “Your turn,” she said with twinkling eyes.
“Okay,” I said, taking a deep breath. Here goes! “Everything you said about me, I would have to agree with; you’ve got me pegged. It’s uncanny!” She grinned. “And as for you, yes, I think that quality over quantity would very much be your priority as well. I can imagine that when you decide to go for it, you muster all the energy you can and go whole hog, so to speak...” She giggled and nodded. “I can also imagine that your choosiness has led you to cultivate very emphatic approaches to how you get there, and probably a number of them involve your vivid imagination!”
“Oh, you so know me!” she beamed. She picked up her envelope and handed it to me. I opened it.
Her number was five. Her guess for my number was eight. She beamed.
A chill ran down my spine. Really? Only five days in a row, lifetime? And did she seriously think mine was eight? Geez, I was whacking off eight days in a row when I was 11!
“Now yours,” she grinned, opening the second envelope.
She stared at the paper. A look of horror passed across her face. Her mouth dropped open and she struggled to speak.
“You think my number is one hundred and ninety-seven?” she almost shrieked. People started staring at us.
Then her eyes really bulged.
“Your number is nine hundred and seventy-nine???” She tried to calm herself and failed. Gathering up her purse, she stormed off, but not before demanding that I delete her from my phone.
Now, women are a puzzle, it’s true, but I sat there immersed in a bafflement that transcended all previous peaks. What was wrong with my numbers? My guess at her number spoke to what I perceived as a randy vivaciousness I had long since sensed, and if anything, I’d have expected her to feel complimented. As for me, well, men are men, right?
I quietly finished my wine and paid the bill, careful to retrieve the envelopes and guesses. When I got home, I put them up on the refrigerator, as a cautionary reminder of the unpredictability of the human female. Go figure!
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