I wanted that to be the end of it, to leave the past firmly in the past, but when we got to my place, I could tell the conversation wasn’t over. Looking glum as she sat on my couch, Kiera confessed that she was curious about the women I’d been with…specifically about how many women I’d been with. It was such a loaded question for me, one I couldn’t possibly answer without looking bad, and I desperately didn’t want to talk about it with her. More uncomfortable than I’d been in a long time, I begged her to let it go, begged her to ignore it, told her it was ancient history, I’d changed, and it didn’t matter anymore…but she wouldn’t cave.

Her voice sympathetic but firm, she told me that we couldn’t have a solid relationship if we ignored things. She wanted us to talk about everything, and while I agreed…it was really fucking hard to talk to her about this. I tried one last time to sweep it under the rug, but it didn’t work. She wanted more from me, she wanted me to expose all my dark sides to her, for the sake of our relationship. I was a little proud of her for wanting to face this head on, but more than that…I was ashamed. Because I didn’t know how many girls I’d been with. I’d never kept track. Getting a high number had never been my goal when it came to women, it was just a side effect of my…desperation. My overwhelming need to connect with someone.

“I don’t know how many, Kiera. I’m sorry.” I hated myself for admitting that, for confessing how reckless I’d been, how sad, how lonely. I absolutely hated painting myself in such a bad light in front of her.

But knowing I should at least give her something, I started mapping out some rough estimates. “I suppose if you did the math…I’ve been having sex for about a decade, with two or three different girls a week…” Shame washing over me again, I peeked up at her. “On average.” I focused on my hands as I mentally added that up. “So that’s…” When the number came together for me, I was stunned…and sickened. “Crap,” I said, looking up at Kiera. “That’s over fifteen hundred girls. That can’t be right,” I muttered, letting my gaze fall to my hands again.

But even as I redid the math, I knew my estimate probably wasn’t too far from the truth. Some weeks were less, some were more, but because I’d started so young, and because I’d given myself to anyone who’d wanted me…the numbers had added up on me. Fifteen-fucking-hundred.

God. Now I knew why I hadn’t thought about it much. “Jesus…I really am a whore.”