Karyn Bosnak - 20 Times a Lady

So I feel like Im at a twelve-step meeting

A list. Tony Robbins is telling me I need to

Thump, thump, thump.

This is the craziest thing Ive ever heard!

After slipping a check for one hundred fifty dollars under

Almost heaven, West Virginia, Blue Ridge Mountains, Shannen Doherty River

A week later, as I pull onto the highway in

In my list of twenty, Abogado came after Rod, but

The next morning, as I wait in line to pay

I met #11 on my list, Matt King, also known

Im still in rehab.

Im still in rehab.

Im finally out of rehab.

Its amazing to me how quickly we heal.

Ive been lying in bed at the Viceroy for two

Im still in bed, but Im home. I tried to

Three weeks later I find myself settled into a comfortable

The night of the fight, when I walked away from

The next morning I lie in bed alone at the

Okay, fine. Colin might not be my first, but hes

stop the insanity

So I feel like Im at a twelve-step meeting, like I stood up just as you opened this book. Youre staring at me, waiting for me to introduce myself, waiting for me to tell you why Im here. And Im sweating, sweating because Im nervous, sweating because I dont belong here, sweating because never in a million years did I imagine Id end up this way. But since I did and since youre here, I might as well come clean and explain myself, so here goes:

My name is Delilah Darling. Im twenty-nine years old, Im single, and wellIm easy.

There, I said it. Im easy, I am. Now you know.

Ive always suspected I was easy but never knew for sure, not until about six months ago, when I broke up with a guy named Greg, a guy I like to call Greg the East Village Idiot. Although it was my decision to end things, I was angry about the breakup, angry for two reasons.

For one, I wasted four months of my life on him, a guy who didnt even have a real job. I met him while shopping in Soho one day. He walked up to me, all cute and charming, and was like, Excuse me, can I ask you a question about your hair? Yes, he was one of those guysa young, good-looking stud hired by a local beauty salon to butter me up so Ill buy a bunch of coupons. Needless to say, I fell for his spiel and for him.

But forget all that now, forget that he had the face of a Baldwin (Alec or Billy in their younger days, not those other two jokers)where was he going in life? Nowhere, thats where. I mightve overlooked this minor flaw if he had a personality, but he didnt. Talking to him about anything other than hair was like talking to a box of hair. He was dull, wrapped in a pretty package. He was a foxymoron.

The second reason I was angry about the breakup is that even though I knew our relationship wasnt going anywhere, I slept with him. Normally this wouldnt be a big deal, which, ironically, is how it ended up becoming a big deal. To be honest, I was getting a bit self-conscious about my number. It was getting rather high, and sleeping with Greg didnt do anything except make it higher. When I say my number, Im of course referring to the number of men Ive slept with.

Exactly what number is considered high for a woman my age, you ask. Well, its hard to say, because people rarely tell the truth about their number. They dont; its no secret. Men usually up it, believing if people think theyve slept with forty women even though theyve only slept with four, theyll appear to be a bigger stud than they are. Women, on the other hand, usually lower it, leaving out the guys theyd like to forget. (You knowthe ones they met on spring break, the two who were brothers and the three who are now gay.)

Ill admit, Im just as guilty as the next person is when it comes to fibbing about this. In fact, my number even changes depending on who Im talking to. For example, every boyfriend thinks my number is somewhere around four. (They also think theyre the only one of those four to give me an orgasm, but thats beside the point.) My gynecologist thinks its closer to seven, all done with protection, of course. (Oh, come oneveryones had at least one slip-up, and you know it.) My momeven though I prefer not to talk about sex with herthinks its somewhere around two. (I needed someone to pay for the pill when I was in college.) Even my best friend thinks my number is a little lower than it really is, because no oneI repeat, no onetells even their best friend everything.

All these numbers are primarily the reason I was so worried about my own. It seemed high, yes, but with all the lying that goes on, whos to say?

The New York Post, thats who.

On the very day Greg and I broke up, my favorite newspaper printed the results of the worlds largest-ever sex survey. I had just finished reading a thought-provoking piece of journalism (two blind items on Page Six) and was about to learn how to get the most from my MetroCard (how to find love on the F train), when I ran across the incriminating piece of information. It was right there, nestled in between the average age people first have sex (17.7) and the average time spent on foreplay (19 minutes).

The average person has 10.5 sexual partners in their lifetime.

Yes, 10.5. I almost had a heart attack when I read this because the truth iswellGreg the East Village Idiot was the nineteenth guy I slept with. Yes, nineteen, as in there were eighteen others before him. My number was almost twice as high as the national average.

Quickly realizing that I needed to take control of my number before it got any further away from 10.5 than it already was, I took the advice of my favorite infomercial star, Susan Powter, and decided to stop the insanity. How, you ask. Well, its simple. I decided to stop having sex. Not forever, dont get me wrongI just decided to put a limit on my number, a cap, if you will. I mean, if I kept doing what I was doing, if I kept having sex at the current rate, then my number would be 78 by the time I turned sixty years old. Yeah ewww.

Considering the current situation was so dire, after careful thought, I decided to make my limit twenty. Yes, twenty. I was giving myself one more chance to get things right. If I blew this last chance (excuse the pun) and wasted it on some random Tom, Dick, or Harry (excuse that pun too), then Id force myself to live a lifetime of celibacy.

Maybe setting a limit is crazy, but there comes a point when one drop of water will set a full glass overflowing. I was at that point. Enough was enough. Twenty was it; it was as simple as that.

Twenty.

No more.

Not ever.