3/31/2026 (c)
It’s hard to say what counts.
I don’t think it’s fair to me
to start tallying up
sex partners before the first orgasm—
or without one.
Without orgasm
sex is either practice,
or punishment.
So I won’t count Mike, Charlie, Paul or Eddie.
Counting starts with my husband.
That’s one.
Except Charlie nearly came through for me
thirty years later
in a rare encounter—
two-fifths of vodka
mutual grieving—
the untimely passing of his best friend—
my boyfriend.
Theoretically, do repeats count
as one, or two?
Still at one.
Chris, Warren, and James—
all impotent.
Chris groped me for hours every Friday
in the back booth
at the Fifth Avenue Bar and Grill—
I got home, climbed on my husband,
fantasizing about Chris—
how would I count that?
René is two.
Five years—more or less.
He enjoyed breaking up with me.
It made me pathetic and needy.
I won’t count anyone I was with
while René neglected me.
That discounts Kevin, Al, and Hoyt,
all married
who would probably appreciate
if I didn’t count them.
I don’t count date rape.
I am still at two.
I’d like to count Don—
that relationship was significant.
I can’t add significance—
everyone was—
a grade school crush
a first kiss,
a love letter with check-boxes to return—
we’d be up in the 100s in no time.
I’m sad to say, Alex counts.
It’s hard to count a stalker—
always there to remind me
I stopped thinking he was special.
Alex makes three.
Until I started this poem
I’d forgotten Gavin.
If one is forgettable
they don’t deserve to be counted.
For four years Rick made four.
And you,
inquisitive,
don’t get to be 5.
