Lynn Richards
Sex by the Numbers
“So, I get the low numbers — six, seven, eight, nine, ten — and even the twelve, but what are the others?” Emily Thorton motioned to a man with a twelve on his back and a sixteen on his front. “Why two numbers? Cause let me tell you if you see a sixteen inch penis coming at you, I suggest you turn and run the other way.”
The gaggle of women seated around her burst into gales of laughter. A few snorted, a few cackled.
Her best friend Jennifer just sighed. “You can’t even say it, can you?”
“Say what?” She had a very good idea what her friend meant, but was so not going to say it.
“Cock, dick, jackhammer.” She threw her hands up in frustration. “Anything, and I mean anything, but penis!”
The last word was almost shouted, earning the group some strange stares. Really strange considering the type of club they were in.
A Mandingo Club. Yup, that’s what Jennifer had said. Emily didn’t really get that reference either but she wasn’t about to ask, she appeared naive enough as it was. Which she was. Truly naive. But it wasn’t her fault. Circumstances had forced her to live a very sheltered life. An all girl’s catholic school until college, then, even though she’d been accepted into Harvard, Yale and Stanford — her dream college, three thousand miles away from her parents — she had attend Wesley, an all girl’s college on the east coast less than a hundred miles away from her parents.
Majoring in psychology had been hard, leaving her little time to socialize. While Wesley was not a fortress with moats and drawbridges guarding the virgins within, it was difficult to date. But more important, it was difficult to form any lasting relationships with a member of the opposite sex with the restrictions on her time and the inaccessibility of the college coeds. She knew all she could possibly want to know about the female population — and some things she truly wished she had never learned, but there were so many blanks in her knowledge when it came to men.
The bartender brought another round of drinks. She had no idea who had ordered them this time; she just knew they’d all be paying for them later — literally and figuratively.
They’d agreed to split the bill at the end of the night — cover charges, drinks and food. With the stipulation that if one of them ordered a drink; she ordered a round for the table.
Emily had three pink colored drinks lined up in front of her, reminding her of the one legged flamingos stuck in the front yard of a trailer park. Pretty at first but faded and used looking at the end of the day.
She had hunch she’d be feeling the same way in the morning.
Not wanting good money to go to waste, she picked up a glass and downed the contents in one long gulp. They really weren’t that bad. Quite tasty in fact. She licked her lips. It was the calories she didn’t need. The alcohol she didn’t mind. She’d told herself she needed to get out and experience life if she wanted to become a successful psychologist. How could she possibly relate to the woman who habitually got drunk and picked up a different man each Friday night if she’d never gotten drunk or picked up a man?
Looking over the gorgeous, and some not-so-gorgeous, but all acceptable men, she knew the possibility of picking up a man tonight was slim to none. Her chances being none.
Because she was also surrounded by gorgeous — truly gorgeous women. Against such competition, she fell quickly into the non-acceptable category. She wasn’t ugly. She considered herself pretty. And as all of her family was fond of saying, she’d be a beautiful girl if she’d only lose some weight. And that’s why she was unacceptable in this sea of women — she was the fat one. The one no one wanted to fuck. Take that, Jennifer! Was that plain enough for you? She downed another flamingo.
Wait, was that the name of the drink or had she just made that up? If so, it was a pretty darn, uh damn, good name even if she said so herself. The room started to spin and she reached out to steady herself, almost pushing Jennifer off her stool.
“Okay, ladies, no more drinks for at least thirty minutes.” Jennifer righted herself on the stool. “Our woman of the hour is getting a little tipsy.”
“Am not.” Emily reached for another drink but Jennifer moved it out of her reach.
“Party pooper.”
The other women laughed. It was good to be out with her friends. They rarely had time to get together like they used to. Work, school, families — something always took priority.
She frowned, her thoughts blurry. Why were they out tonight?
She must have asked the question out loud because Deb answered. “Because you are finally a licensed, state of the art, psychologist. You can now officially tell us all what we’re doing wrong and why we’re doing it.”
“Here, here.” All the women around the table raised their glasses in a salute.
Except her. Jennifer had taken away all her flamingos.
“Now where were we?” Sue asked. Emily didn’t know Sue that well. They hadn’t spent much time together or gotten to know each other that well. She was a friend of a friend. “Oh, yes, Emily had asked a question.” She smiled cattily. “What was that you asked dear?”
If she hadn’t been so tipsy, well on her way to getting rip-roaring drunk, she may not have walked straight into the trap.
“I wanted to now what the other set of numbers meant.”
“Why, that’s how big a man is willing to go.” Another catty smirk.
“A man? Is this a gay club? If I were a man, I’d especially run from a sixteen inch penis. Look there’s a man with a twenty-six on his front. Come on! There is no such thing as a twenty-six inch cock!”
After downing her pretty pink drinks she had no trouble calling a spade a spade. Or a cock a cock.
This time the rather loud squawks of laughter and giggles not only drew attention but actually caused a moment of complete silence. At least a moment of silence within a six foot radius. It was surprising how much a slightly inebriated woman’s voice carried even over the ear shattering music blasting in the background.
Jennifer threw Sue a scathing look. Jennifer was her best friend after all. “That’s not what it means, Emily. The number on the back indicates the size of a man’s cock.”
Man, Emily really liked the sound of that word. Cock. Cock. Cock.
Jennifer smacked her arm to get her attention. “The number on the front indicates the size of the woman they want.” She delivered the information as dryly and matter-of-factly as she would have if describing the law of supply and demand to her first year economic students.
Thankfully, the hum of conversation had resumed and no one seemed to notice how this information had stunned Emily.
“But that means. No, that couldn’t mean that.”
She looked around and saw a gorgeous blonde with the number seven on his back and a twelve on his front. That made sense since six inches for a man (no matter how much they protested) was considered average and twelve was a little above the average dress size for a woman.
She looked around again, suddenly realizing she was not the only plus sized woman in the club. In fact the number of women of her size were bordering on being the majority. If other women of size were as self-conscious as she was, or should she say as undeserving as she thought of herself, why did they think they could actually attract a man — especially one with a big dick?
She watched as the man with the twenty-six on his front approach a woman wearing a tight red dress. She was a very full figured woman. Not a twenty-six Emily didn’t think, but larger than her own size eighteen. Well sometimes twenty depending on the brand.
The woman was gorgeous. And she didn’t need to lose any weight to look that way. The woman’s friend appeared to be a size ten or twelve. A woman Emily would have considered skinny, but whom society still labeled as overweight. When the man approached, the smaller woman smiled at her friend and left the table. She didn’t go far, casually circling back around so she was facing her friend but the man’s back was turned toward her.