What's Your Number? #6

Do you remember your first love?

I'm talking about real love here. I've made the mistake in the past of thinking something was love when it was truly the opposite (see: What's Your Number? #10). I've also tried to convince myself something was love when I knew in my heart it really wasn't (see: What's Your Number? #9). This sort of love that I'm writing about today is the real deal, guys. That mushy, heart-pounding, cheeks-hurt-from-smiling-so-much kind of love that doesn't come around too often. The kind of love you imagined when you first heard that one Taylor Swift song (I don't know, just pick one).

Welcome to my countdown of the Top 10 (and only 10) men I have slept with. I recently reached this milestone and decided that there was truly no better way to celebrate than to take a look back at the best of the best and the worst of the worst. And I'm happy to finally introduce you all to my Simon.

He's not technically MINE anymore. Someone else has the privilege of saying that now. But I'll always think of him as mine because for a long time, he was. And for a long time, I truly believed we would end up together. In my mind, everything that had ever happened to me was just preparing me to fall irrefutably in love with Simon.

This series is sort of misleading, isn't it? I'm sure you've conjured some image of me you keep in mind while you read, and I'm sure it basically boils down to me being a shameless slut who sleeps with anyone that's willing.

I like sex. There's absolutely nothing wrong with that.

But I'm also capable of love.

I don't want you to think I'm this insatiable sex addict. I do have a heart and feelings, and I don't actually want to spend the rest of my life having no-strings-attached hookups. Although I will say, sometimes those are fun. Super fun. But I digress.

Simon and I met while he was working at a media store in the mall. He had this dark, brooding look to him—a sort of tragic hipster, if that makes sense. He wore these big glasses that kept slipping down so he'd have to constantly push them back up the bridge of his nose. His hair was the color of dark Belgium chocolate. He walked around frowning a lot, sort of like everything was just too exhausting to handle. I immediately fell for him.

I began shopping at that store more than I normally would. Every few days I showed up to buy DVDs I would never watch, just so I could have a few moments with him at the register as he rang me through.

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder but in my mind, constant presence makes the heart remember a face and maybe think that face is sort of pretty and maybe you want to take that face out for a decent dinner and then make sloppy love on the floor? Maybe?

I'll be the first to admit it wasn't super sound logic.

In the beginning, I felt like all my attempts to get him to fall for me were useless. He was super professional, and our conversations were limited to the usual "Did you find everything O.K.?" and then a politely delivered, "Have a nice day."

It wasn't until about a month after I first started trying to get his attention that I somehow succeeded.

I actually didn't even expect him to be at the store for this particular outing—the last few times I'd gone there, I'd been disappointed to find he wasn't working. I figured that maybe he'd finally quit the job that made him frown so much. I'd lost my chance with him.

When I walked into the store that day, I habitually glanced over at the register and felt my heart fumble. There he was, standing behind the counter. He looked more miserable than ever as he dutifully unpacked a box of CDs.

As excited as I was to see him there, I still felt this sense of hopelessness surrounding me like a gray cloud. He was never going to notice me. I could walk into that store twenty times a day and he'd never even remember my face. I was a nobody—just another customer he had to deal with at this job he so clearly hated.

I grabbed what I had come there for (an Audrey Hepburn DVD pack) and trudged towards the register. Part of me was even sort of hoping he'd suddenly break for lunch so I wouldn't have to endure another hideously formal "conversation" with him.

I placed the box set on the counter and kept my eyes down, rooting in my purse for my wallet.

"Did you find everything O.K.?"

I gave a single nod. "Yes, thank you."

"Good... You like Audrey Hepburn, eh?"

This was new. I lifted my eyes and met his gaze. He was holding up the DVDs with a wide smile. Also new.

"She's my favorite," I finally managed to say.

His head tilted to the side a little. "Mine too."

I won't bore you with how this conversation went, but I will tell you it was the most amazing conversation of my life up until that point. I left the store with this smile that made my cheeks ache but I just couldn't stop. Everything had gone so amazingly, incredibly well. I still didn't know his name but I had my guesses (mostly hipster names like Beck or Asher). I also didn't have his number but I had hope.

I returned a few days later, significantly more confident than I had been during my last visit. I walked right past the registers and didn't even look to see if he was there. I trusted that if he was, we'd find each other again. Maybe he'd even seek me out. And for once in my life, I was actually right about something.

He found me browsing through the rack of collectible tees.

"Audrey Hepburn," he said, flashing me a stunning smile. "You're back."

I attempted a demure smile in return but ended up grinning at him like an idiot. "I am."

We stood there and talked. About what? I couldn't even tell you. I don't remember our conversation but I know it went on long enough that his manager had to come over and drag him back to the register which, apparently, he'd abandoned to come talk to me. I was so desperate to keep talking to him that I picked up the closest hanger to me and brought that shirt to his register, effectively picking up our conversation where we'd left off.

Later, I was at home and telling my sister about this beautiful boy and she asked me what his name was.

I opened my mouth and then snapped it shut again. "Damn it. I still don't know."

"You guys talked for that long without actually asking each other's names?"

My cheeks flushed hotly under her teasing stare. "He calls me Audrey Hepburn... I never even thought to tell him my real name."

My brother, who had been listening in on our conversation, suddenly started laughing. "Don't tell me you think this guy actually likes you. He probably works on commission. Think about how much money you've made him just by stalking him and buying stuff to try and look less creepy."

I glared at him. "You don't even know what you're talking about."

"And you don't even know when you've been played."

That night, I was in my room staring miserably at the plastic bag with my newly purchased tee inside. I kept thinking about what my brother said, and the more I dwelled on it, the more I started to believe it. At some point, maybe the guy at the store had realized I was coming there for him and decided to flirt a little to make some money off his crazy stalker. Maybe he talked about me to his coworkers and they all had a big laugh every day at my expense.

Hot tears began to slip down my cheeks and I wiped them away furiously. I needed to return everything I'd bought, starting with the stupid shirt I bought that day. I reached into the bag and pulled the stupid tee out. The receipt came with it and fluttered to the floor.

Knowing I needed that for the return, I snatched it up and felt something hard poking into my palm. Inside the receipt was a rectangular business card from the store, reading its name, hours, and contact numbers. On the back of that, scrawled in messy black pen, was another number with a note below it:

Audrey Hepburn—Shoot me a text. Simon.

The first thing I did before I actually texted Simon was run downstairs and, in a very Good Will Hunting sort of fashion, slap the business card down on the table in front of my brother.

I just wish I'd followed it up with, "How do you like them apples?"

Our relationship was something I still find myself telling people about. It was everything I ever fantasized about in high school when I was all alone and watching everyone else around me pair up and fall in love with each other.

We told each other everything. We cooked together, went on trips, met each other's families and spent long nights alone, drinking cheap wine and watching F.R.I.E.N.D.S. He bought me a Polaroid camera for Christmas and we spent hours hiking together, competing to see who could get the best shot. We talked about the future and imagined it as it would be with us together. There were no independent plans made. Everything was "we."

We would have two cats. We would move to Toronto and rent a terrible little apartment above a restaurant with big windows and basically no furniture. We would go traveling when we had the money and then even when we had no money. We would see the world together.

We were in love. That's the simplest way I can put it.

And let me tell you, there is a huge difference between sex and making love.

Everything felt different. When Simon and I kissed, it wasn't rough or sloppy. It was practiced and sweet—it was soft and eager. We knew each other so well we could predict each other's movements. We could anticipate them. We knew what the other person liked.

I knew that it turned Simon on when I straddled his lap and kissed him, grinding into him softly at first and then harder. He knew where to kiss my neck and what to murmur in my ear to make my eyes roll back.

When we made love, we kept the lights on (a first for me) so we were bathed in a warm yellow glow. We played a record and one of us always had to get up, completely naked, to flip it when it had finished one side. We were always trying new positions, laughing when they didn't work or breathlessly agreeing when they did.

I remember once we were in his bedroom at his apartment and his roommates were in the next room watching T.V. The record we had playing was doing a fairly good job at drowning out the sounds that came from us. We were in the clear.

"I want to try something," Simon said suddenly. "Get on your back."

I complied, always eager to try something new with him. He grabbed my legs and hooked his elbows under my knees, raising my bottom a bit. This new vantage point allowed him better access—when he entered me, he went deeper than I'd ever felt and I let out a low moan.

"Shh." Simon was grinning, clearly pleased with himself. "Does that feel good?"

I couldn't even speak. My hands clawed at his biceps, lips parted as I released a stream of noises I couldn't control. Simon collapsed on top of me so our chests were pressed together and he plunged even deeper than before.

Hips pistoning, he hit a spot that made my back arch and I finally found my tongue. "Fuck!"

One of Simon's hands moved to clap over my mouth. My eyes flickered up to his, and I held his wrist, keeping his hand right where I wanted it. Our bodies rocked together, the pace increasing and our gazes locked. There was something deeply erotic about that moment. When I came, I whimpered his name into his palm and felt him release as well. Our first simultaneous orgasm.

You're wondering why Simon is number six, aren't you?

I'm going on and on about how fantastic making love is, and yet he's not my number one. While I was figuring out my rankings, I found myself constantly flipflopping between a few people. It's sort of hard to rank everyone when sex is so different with different people. Is a hot and heavy fling better than the deep connection I had with Simon? How do you even begin to compare vastly different experiences?

In the end, I decided Simon belongs at number six, based purely on overall enjoyment of the actual sex. I don't particularly remember cumming a lot with him, nor do I remember him going down on me very much, though I often went down on him. I've had better lovers, but I've also certainly had worse.

To put it shortly, and in the least confusing way possible, Simon and I were in love, so our sex was so incredibly different than anything I'd ever experienced before him. But I also know that while our connection was intense, I didn't always come away satisfied. For that, I reluctantly place my Simon at number six.

But of course, he's always number one in my heart.

(Shut up, it wasn't that cheesy.)