There’s the Rub
I can break it apart like this: Thirty-three over the course of eight years is twenty-seven more than my mother and seventeen more than my father. Ten of them were women and twenty-three were men. I drank at least a little before eighteen of them. Nineteen of them were one-night stands. Four of the men didn’t use condoms. Eleven of them were in threesomes. After a fashion, I loved six of them, and I loved one other who I never touched, too. Five of their names began with A. One of their names began with B. Of the two whose names began with C, one went by his last name instead. More of their names began with M than any other letter. One of them was a Republican. One was a Civil War buff. One was a go-go dancer turned middle-school science teacher. One was as insatiable as me so we were able to be friends always.
Or you can break it into superlatives: He had the best smile because it guaranteed compliance from anyone at whom it was directed. He was the best looking but got silly with it and put beeswax in his hair and married cameras everywhere. No one was very likely to succeed, except we made art and so felt that we’d already made it. He was the class clown in a good, warm, Yorrick kind of way, his big lips good for laughing and going down on me. I laughed when he was funny but didn’t think he was a joke.
The oldest was eight years older than me, and the youngest seven months younger. I had three of them outside. Seven of them in my father’s bed, both while I still lived with him and after I had moved out. One of them had been with my brother, too. One of them had been with my roommate, too. Four of them had been in bands together. Fourteen had lived with at least one other of them at some point. Six of them shaved their pubic hair and one of them waxed it.
One was a compulsive liar. One was manic depressive. Three were recovering addicts. I did drugs with twelve of them. I got dressed up for twenty-one of them. One of them sat in front of me in class the semester after, and one of them sat in front of me in a poetry reading after, and I noticed how lovely both of their necks were instead of paying attention.
Or I can remember the things they told me: You’re not doing enough work. You’re the most beautiful girl in the world. You have a diesel ass. (Laughing, now) you’ve got a fat ass but you’re really confident. I didn’t know where I was when I woke up this morning. I don’t have a girlfriend. I don’t have a boyfriend. I just won’t tell my boyfriend. You’ve got perfect tits. You’ve got a red dot on your nipple, did it used to be pierced? You look fine with make-up, just like any other woman running for President.
I wanted seven of them in more ways, seven that went away, or else stayed too long. I wrote poems about fifteen of them. Good poems about a few. I wrote one a poem accusing him of drinking himself impotent, and in turn, he accused me of being oversexed. One or two others also made this claim, but they usually spoke of it with approval. I met people from seventeen of their families. Twelve of them were within four months of each other, when I wanted one of them and knew I couldn’t win.
Best actor was when he convinced me he was kind. Best actress was in between lovers, when she convinced me she was earnest. I was probably the best supporting actress, before they broke up, before they got engaged.
Thirty-four over the course of eight years is twenty-eight more than my mother and eighteen more than my father. Ten of them were women. I remember them all. I can break it a hundred ways to make you understand that their names are not a list, but the wall most sturdily founded in my life. The years I spend meticulously mortaring, glad to have them all in one place, where they can’t chip off one by one, but maintain integrity together. Like strong arms linked in a game of Red Rover, refusing to let the rest of the world come trampling through.
