How many times have you had sex? 

How many times have you had sex with each person? 

These questions have been uppermost in my mind this week after hearing people talk about how many times they have shared bodily fluids.

Maybe it’s lockdown and, in the absence of other activities, people are turning to their default button, which always happens to be sex.

I’m not going to pass judgement on any situation, but I’m always fascinated by the specifics of the numbers. How many people actually count, let alone remember? Pretty much everyone can recall their first time, and I suspect most can also remember their first time with a new partner. But after you’ve listened to them banging on about themselves (I’m thinking about men here), don’t you just get on with it whenever you choose and forget the time codes? 

Sex is difficult enough to negotiate, both emotionally and physically (not to mention the post-coital laundry), without having to bring sums into the equation.

If you’re not getting it, you can always remember the last time, of course; it’s all the counting between the first and last times that I’m struggling with.

I can, for example, remember my first kiss. It was at a schoolfriend’s party and with a boy called Wyndham. I remember he was wearing a bottle green V-necked sweater and had brown-rimmed National Health glasses. I was 13. I can also remember the first time anyone saw my breasts – so terrified was I, as an innocent in South Wales, they could hear my screams in England. 

More recently, I remember the last time I kissed someone (who shall remain nameless). But as for all the kisses and liaisons in between, who’s counting? As I grow older, most of the time I can’t even remember where my tongue is, let alone where it’s been (I’m missing rugby matches in Wales though, because Welsh men can’t keep their tongues in their mouths after any game).

Speaking as a woman in relation to men, what do we really remember after sex? Not always the guy’s name, that’s for sure, so why would you record the notch on the bedpost? Here’s a list of what I remember (all things relate to the man’s actions, not mine, by the way):

1.     Snoring.

2.     Farting.

3.     Stealing the duvet.

4.     Breaking the door handle in the rush to escape (just me, then? He never paid for the repair, either).

5.     No wine to keep me drunk enough to keep fancying them for the next 40 minutes (at most).

6.     No milk in the fridge for a cup of tea in the morning.

7.     The car registration number (just me, again?).

8.     The registration number of the next car, when car number one is traded in (there’s a pattern emerging here, I can tell. For those of you interested: TB0 440H, followed by MUH 853P).

9.     Choking.

10.  Three licks, followed by the words “My tongue’s tired.”

11.  No licks at all.

12.  Waiting for the early morning wake-up call nudge that all the books tell you guys have, when, in reality, they are already suited up and looking for the car keys to drive to work.

13.  Texts from ex-girlfriends.

14.  The decreasing content level in the baby oil bottle at the side of the bed (advice: mark it with a Biro when you leave, girls).

15.  The bailiffs arriving to take away the bed you are sleeping in.

16.  The police arriving to take away the guy you are sleeping with.

17.  The ex-girlfriend arriving with an axe to chop up the bed and the guy.

18.  Getting rid of him so that you can catch up with Law and Order: SVU on the DVR.

19.  Wondering what on Earth you were thinking the night before.

20.  Another reason why I am never drinking again.

And that’s just for starters. The nice ones. Wait until I get going on the guys I didn’t like.