What's Your Number

by Karyn Bosnak

  As we got to talking, I got the feeling that Roger was a little more shocked about the layoffs than he let on at the meeting and started to look at him in a different light. I saw his vulnerable side, and it made me like him a little bit more. He’s just a person, after all, who does what he needs to do in order to get by.

  After talking a bit more, Roger asked me to dance and I said yes. To be honest, I didn’t expect much more than two left feet, but Roger surprised me. He might clodhop his way through the hallways at work, but he was as light as a feather on the dance floor. He was smooth—he spun me around like a ballerina. He kept doing this thing where he would send me whirling out into the crowd and then quickly snap me back in to him at the last second. He was like Tony Manero in Saturday Night Fever and I was like . . . I was like . . . I was like the girl in the movie . . . whatever her name was. Gosh, it was so much fun!

  After a while of dancing, I remember coming in off a whirl and landing in Roger’s arms. With my back to him, he held me close while we danced as one. I don’t even remember what song was playing. I just remember the beat of the music: Ba dada ba da da. Ba ba! Ba dada ba da da! Ba ba! When the song ended, I turned around and looked into Roger’s eyes. He looked sweet . . . and lonely.

  The next thing you know the two of us were outside, hopping into a cab. Our plan was to go to another bar, but when the driver took a sharp turn and I ended up in Roger’s lap, those plans changed. What happened after that is somewhat of a blur. I remember being carried up a few flights of stairs on piggyback, I think . . . and then . . . and then . . . and then it happened. Yes, it. A little mattress mojo. Twice, I think.

  Oh, God.

  I can’t believe I did this. I can’t believe I did it. I’m so stupid—I’m so, so stupid! I didn’t just sleep with Roger last night, a man who wears a braided belt, a man who doesn’t wash his pants as frequently as he should—it’s worse than that. I didn’t just sleep with Roger last night, a man who owns a musical Rudolph tie, a man who owns a pilgrim hat—it’s worse than that. In sleeping with Roger last night, I screwed him and myself!

  Roger was #20.

  He was it.

  IT. IT. IT.

  How could I have blown my last spot—the spot I was supposed to be saving for my future husband—on him? On Roger? What in the hell was I thinking?

  While trying to block the photographic memories of the previous evening from my mind, I stand to wash my face. I’m so ashamed at my lack of self-control that I can’t even look at myself in the mirror. I feel like a failure.

  But then, while getting dressed something suddenly occurs to me. What if I’m supposed to marry Roger? What if last night was a sign from God, telling me Roger wasn’t the fat pig I always thought he was but a nice guy who just needs to start counting points or controlling his carbs? Maybe last night happened for a reason. We were listening to Destiny’s Child after all. Maybe last night was destiny.

  After quietly opening the bathroom door, I look at Roger lying on the bed, heavily breathing in and out. As his whole body rises to the occasion and then sinks back down, I wonder if I could learn to love him. Thinking about this, I watch him for a while. I watch him lie there. I watch him roll over. I watch him scratch his back. I watch him scratch his ass.1 And then I watch him bring his scratching hand to his nose and . . . smell his fingers?

  Ewww!

  I mean, really . . . ewww!

  When Roger smelled whatever he . . . smelled, the corners of his mouth turned up in a half-smile—I think he enjoyed it! That’s so disgusting! I quickly slam the door shut.

  Who am I kidding? Roger’s not the one! Last night was no sign! I can’t believe that I blew my last spot on him! For the love of chocolate, what have I done?

  Suddenly I realize—that’s it. This happened because of chocolate, or, I should say, the lack of chocolate. This happened because I threw all those bonbons out the window and didn’t have enough endorphins in my brain when Roger came-a-knockin’! Those endorphins were my patch. I was patchless!

  Why, oh why, oh why me?

  As I plop back down on the ground and curl up into a ball, I think about what I’ve done. I’ve had sex with twenty men—twenty—and I’m never going to have sex again. Never, ever.

  For a moment I try to imagine what life as a celibate woman will be like. I try to imagine myself as one of those born-again ladies who goes on talk shows and travels around the country lecturing teenagers about the evils of casual sex. Maybe I can do this; maybe I can.

  Oh, who am I kidding? No, I can’t.

  I can’t handle this—not alone, not in my condition. My head is pounding. My ears are ringing. I need to talk to someone. I need to talk to someone now.

  papa don’t preach

  I can’t believe I’m here. I didn’t plan on coming, it just happened. On my way home from Roger’s, my taxi driver started eating something curry, and the smell made me nauseous.2 We were somewhere in Little Italy at the time, which is pretty close to where I live, so I paid him and hopped out. I intended to go straight home, but when I turned around, I found myself standing in front of a Catholic church. I mean, what are the odds, right? It had to be a sign from God, no doubt, so I walked inside.

  I don’t know what I’m looking for, maybe a solution to my problem or a divine intervention of some kind to make my number twenty become nineteen again. I don’t know. All I know is that things can’t get much worse than they already are, and I need to talk to someone. Going to confession isn’t exactly what I had in mind, but it’s my only way in to see the big man.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” I say. “It’s been . . .” Twenty-nine minus eighteen equals . . . “Nine years since my last confession.” No wait, that’s not right. “I mean eleven.” I’ve never been good at math.

  “What are your sins?” the priest asks. Although his voice is soft and he sounds nice, I’m still nervous. Thank heavens there’s a screen between us because I don’t think I’d be able to tell him if this was one of those face-to-face confessionals.

  “Well, Father . . .” There’s really no easy way for me to tell him other than to just spit it out, so I close my eyes, take a deep breath and go for it. “I’ve slept with twenty men.”

  There, I did it. I’m already beginning to feel relieved. I wait for a response.

  And wait.

  And wait.

  The priest, however, does not give me one. The longer we sit in silence, the more I begin to worry, but then something dawns on me . . . maybe he misunderstood my confession.

  “Not all at once,” I clarify. “Twenty separate men at twenty separate times.”

  There, that’s better. That should get him talking.

  But it doesn’t.

  As more time passes, as the priest still says nothing, as the silence weighs heavier, something else dawns on me . . . maybe he knows I’m not telling the whole truth.

  “And one girl,” I add. “But I’m not counting her. It was college, strictly above the belt, and well . . . you know how that goes.”

  You know how that goes? Why did I say that? Of course he doesn’t know how that goes—he’s a priest! Jesus, I’m so stupid! Oops! Sorry for taking your name in vain!

  Since the priest still doesn’t respond, a vicious cycle begins: I become nervous, which makes me sweat, which makes me smell like liquor, which makes me more nervous, which makes me sweatier, which makes me smell like liquor more. I feel like I’m in one of those “and so on and so on” commercials. Suddenly out of nowhere, Madonna songs begin running through my head and I go with it because it takes my mind off the silence. Papa don’t preach, I’m in trouble deep. Papa don’t preach, I’ve been losing sleep. Like a virgin (hey!), touched for the very first time. Like a vir-hir-hir-hir-gin . . .

  Oh, who am I kidding?

  I wonder if he’s still over there. “Hello?” I ask quietly.

  The priest clears his throat. “I’m here,” he says. “I’m just thinking. Let me ask, are you sorry for sl
eeping with these men?”

  I think about it for a minute. “Well, some of them were tragic, for sure. But no, I’m not sorry for all of them.”

  “Then why are you confessing?”

  “Because I’m sorry for them as a whole. I’m sorry for sleeping with twenty men, you know, collectively, but I’m not sorry for each of them individually.”

  “Well then why did you come here today?”

  I think about it for another minute. “Because I don’t have a therapist?”

  Obviously unhappy with my answer, the priest exhales loudly. When he does, I realize this was a bad idea. I don’t need to be judged, not right now, now today. I’m going home. I stand up.

  “Wait, wait, don’t go,” the priest says, hearing me. “I’m just a little confused because, well . . . I’m not sure why you’re here.”

  “You already told me that,” I say loudly. As the “and-so-on-and-so-on” cycle starts once again, my face gets hot. Honestly, I’ve had a hard day—why couldn’t this have been easy?

  “You’re right, I did,” the priest says. “And I’m sorry. Why don’t you tell me the reason you’re upset instead.”

  “The reason?” I hesitate before continuing. “Well . . . there are a lot of them.”

  “I have time,” the priest says. He sounds sincere; he sounds nice; his voice is comforting. “Come on, I’m here to help. Tell me everything.”

  “Everything?”

  “Everything.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Okay.” With that, I plop down on the floor of the confessional and begin to tell him everything—everything. I don’t think about what I’m saying or who I’m saying it to; the words just pour out of me. Pour. I tell him about 10.5, multitasking, chocolate, and endorphins. I tell him about Tony Robbins, Elisabeth Sterling, bonbons, and Roger. I tell him about Norma Rae, Destiny’s Child, my mother and her friends. And I tell him about Edward, Daisy, and her magical number four. I tell him everything—everything. In one big run-on sentence, I tell him. When I finish, I once again wait for him to say something—anything—but he doesn’t. At least he’s consistent.

  I think I know why he’s silent this time. The thing is, I bet I’m going to hell and he doesn’t want to tell me. Yep, I’m pretty sure that’s it. After taking a deep breath, I accept my fate: a lifetime of celibacy followed by hell.

  I once again stand up and gather my belongings. Just as I’m about to walk out of the confessional, the priest finally breaks his silence. But he doesn’t say what I’m expecting him to say. He says . . . my name.

  “Delilah?”

  I’m frozen with fear. Not only have I never been to this church before, but I didn’t even know it was here until today.

  “Um, how do you know who I am?” I ask slowly, nervously.

  “Oh uh, I uh . . . I’m sorry, I just . . .” He can’t answer.

  Suddenly I realize something. The priest’s voice isn’t comforting because it’s kind; it’s comforting because it’s familiar. “Do we know each other?” I ask.

  “You could say that,” the priest responds. I’m shocked.

  “How?”

  “Well . . . we went to school together.”

  “School?” I’m confused. “What school?”

  “High school.”

  “High school?” I don’t believe him. “In Connecticut? We went to high school together in Connecticut?”

  “Yes. It’s Daniel. Daniel Wilkerson.”

  Daniel? Daniel Wilkerson? The Daniel Wilkerson? A priest?

  Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no.

  “You’re a . . . a . . . priest?” I ask.

  “Yeah . . .” he says quietly.

  My stomach drops.

  “It’s been so long, Delilah,” he continues, “the last time I saw you we were—”

  “Having sex!” I screech, cutting him off. We were. We were having sex in the back of his mom’s wood-paneled Wagoneer. Oh, God. Oops! I mean—shit!

  You know how Greg the East Village Idiot was #19 and Roger was #20? Well, Daniel was #2.

  Suddenly I feel faint—How can this be happening? How is this possible? Of all the people to hear my confession that I’ve slept with twenty men, it’s one of the twenty? I’m mortified! And oh yes, I’m so going to hell! After standing up and grabbing my purse, I exit the confessional and head toward the front door. When I do, I hear footsteps behind me.

  “Delilah, wait,” Daniel says. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything, but I wanted to stop you before you said too much.”

  “Before I said too much?” I laugh. “Then you should have stopped me at ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned!’”

  “Yes, you’re right, I should have, but I didn’t realize it was you until you started talking about your mom and Daisy.”

  Arriving at the door, I stop walking and turn around. I can’t believe this. I can’t believe Daniel is a priest. Standing in front of me with his dirty blond hair and green eyes, he looks the same as I remember. Well, except for the outfit.

  “I’m so sorry, Delilah,” he says softly. I can see the remorse in his eyes. “Really, I am.”

  “Yeah, so am I,” I say, turning back around. As I reach for the door handle, I feel his hand on my shoulder. As I do, thoughts of our one night together rush through my mind like flashbacks in a movie. The images play one after another like a slideshow.

  It’s fall 1993. I’m home from college for a weekend. My friends and I are laughing. We’re at a Santana concert at Jones Beach. We’re laughing because we have no idea who Santana is. (This was long before he had the big comeback.) We’ve only gone to the concert to chase boys. I’ve only gone there to chase boys. A boy. One particular boy. Not Daniel. I sleep with Daniel only to make that boy jealous.

  It’s so awkward.

  Daniel and I have left the concert early and are pressed up against each other in the back of that Wagoneer, that wood-paneled Wagoneer. He can’t look at me—his eyes are closed, his face is all scrunched up. For some reason he can’t look. But I don’t ask why, prefer not to know, pretend not to see.

  Remembering this now and learning how he ended up, makes me wonder: Did Daniel not enjoy having sex with me because he knew he wanted to become a priest? Or did Daniel become a priest because he didn’t enjoy having sex with me? Turning back around, I reach up and touch his little black and white collar.

  “Did I do this to you?” I ask. I need to know.

  Daniel shakes his head. “No, no, you didn’t do this to me, Delilah. I swear.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive.” Taking both my hands in his, Daniel pleads with me not to go. “Please, please, come back and talk to me,” he begs. “I wanna help you work this out. I do.”

  Looking at Daniel, I feel sorry for him. I feel sorry for me. I feel sorry for both of us because this is so incredibly awkward.

  “I already know everything,” he continues. “You might as well.”

  I let out a sigh. He’s right. “Fine,” I say softly, after a bit. Hearing this makes Daniel smile. As he leads me toward a quiet area in the back of the church to talk, I can’t help but point out, “You know, I’m usually much cuter than this.”

  Daniel smirks. “I’m sure you are.”

  For the next hour Daniel and I talk about my problem a little more in-depth. Although I didn’t initially come for forgiveness, I find myself getting angry because he won’t give it to me. Even though I keep saying that I’m sorry, Daniel keeps insisting I’m not.

  “Delilah, if you didn’t have sex with Roger last night, then you wouldn’t be here today confessing. Am I right?”

  “Well, yeah, probably.”

  “Exactly—you weren’t sorry for any of them until you slept with the last one. And the only reason you’re as upset as you are about all this is because you’ve hit some self-imposed limit.”

  “So what? I’m still sorry now. Isn’t that the point?”

&nbs
p; “No, because if you set your limit at twenty-five, then you wouldn’t be here and you wouldn’t be sorry. You’d be at home, nursing your hangover, trying to forget about the gross man you woke up next to. You’re not truly sorry.”

  I look down, Daniel’s right.

  “Listen, there’s a deeper issue here that you need to explore, and until you do that, until you figure out why it is you keep going through men, I’m not going to forgive you for any of these guys.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?” I ask, beginning to sulk. I mean, this hardly seems fair.

  “Well, you could start by going home and making a list of the twenty men.”

  “A list?”

  “Yes, a list. Figure out why you slept with each guy on it and then analyze why things didn’t work out.”

  “Analyze?”

  “Yes.” I shake my head.

  “That’s not gonna work. I have undiagnosed ADD. I mean, I can make the list, but that’s about it. The whole analyzing part isn’t going to happen. ”

  “Okay, then,” Daniel shrugs. “Just know that one day you’ll become that sixty-year-old woman who’s had sex with seventy-eight men.”

  Okay, that’s not funny.

  “Del, there’s no quick-fix to make this go away,” he continues. “There’s no easy solution. You’re gonna have to work at this, or you’ll keep making the same mistakes over and over again. Make the list, will you? Then come back and see me.”

  “Okay, fine,” I say, giving in. I sigh loudly. “Gosh, confessing was so much easier when I was a teenager, you know? When the worst thing I did was swear every once in a while.”

  “You’re forgetting we grew up together,” Daniel jokes.

  “Hey, do you still talk to Nate by the way?” I ask, changing the subject.

  Daniel shakes his head. “No, we lost touch years ago. How about you?”