“Okay, fine. If that’s all that matters, then tell me. I don’t care. I’m just curious.”
“Well, a lot.”
“How many is a lot?”
“Do we have to have this conversation now?”
“Yes, now. How many?” No answer. “Over 100?”
“Yes.”
“Over 200?”
“Yes.”
“Over 500?” I was joking.
“Yes.”
I gasped.
He grinned.
“Over 1000?” Please say no.
“I’ve never counted.”
I felt sick. I twisted my head to look out the window, as if the farther I moved away from him, the farther I could get away from the truth. What if he’d given me AIDS? What if I’m going to die from it? What kind of person sleeps with over 500 people? I must be dating a young (significantly taller and better looking) Ron Jeremy!
“Honey, come on,” he said, trying to lighten the conversation.
“Come on what? What if you’ve given me something?”
“Most of it was ages ago! In college. You know, one in the morning, studying, another in the afternoon, smoking a joint at her place, another at night, after the bar. It just happened.” He snickered, seemingly unbothered by my horror. “Hey, that was back in the day, pre-AIDS. I’ve got some years on you. Remember?”
“Then why are you with me? If you’re Mr. Mega-Sexed Alpha Dog, who conquers countless women, why me? Huh, Craig? Why’d you pick me?” I asked, my anger masking my tears.
“Jane, stop. You’re smart. . . and beautiful.” He slid his hand along my chin, as if I should have understood that all men slept with an entire college of women. “And, you’ve got a lot going on. You’re a super good producer. You’re pure. You’re honest. I like that.”
“Pure and honest? I’m not so pure,” I retorted, as if purity was a bad thing. “Well, maybe next to you!”
“Hon, seriously, it’s not a big deal. It was just sex.”
“But a thousand?” I said, my voice weakening, my breath now short.
“I was messed up back then. You know, insecure.”
Silence. I could barely breathe.
“It probably wasn’t a thousand,” he said sheepishly.
“Have you been tested?” I said, leaning forward and gasping for O2. How could the most abundant element on Earth be so shockingly unavailable?
“Yes, when I worked for Pal. And you’re the only one I’ve slept with since.” He reached over to grab my leg. “I swear. . . swear on your life.”
I gasped. “Never swear on my life unless you mean it!”
“Honey, I swear!”
I slid away from him, imagining whether to end our relationship, right here, right now. I hate him!
But I knew a breakup would be stupid, and I hoped that my declining willpower would allow me to say no to him, at least tonight. Not give him what seemed to come so easy to him, as if through abstaining, I could somehow make him pay.
Craig and I both curled into bed in silence, me on one side of the bed, Craig on the other.
“Hon, don’t be mad,” he said quietly. “I love you.”
I didn’t respond.
“Hon,” he said, rolling towards me, “you’re my everything— the most important person to me in the world.”
Three minutes later, I was his.
After leaving Craig in a heavenly pile of sheets, the early morning sunbeams glimmering through his hair, I found myself somewhere in Valencia in what looked like Planet Corn—row after row of thick green stalks, cropped and manicured into a quagmire of dead-ends and crooked paths. The perfect place to get the goods on Lucy (my newly assigned task), I thought to myself, and record three nudie models on a very unlikely date with a country rocker who has no clue what he’s in for.
It was 9:00 a.m. and we were already an hour behind schedule.
“I want pigtails!” Lucy shouted from behind a row of corn.
Minutes away from rolling our first shot of the day, Lucy was already losing it. On the sidelines were Chaz, our leather-vested cowboy crooner, and Brit and Leah, in sexy sundresses and cowboy boots. They awaited the glamorous task of fumbling their way through a corn maze and into our chariot, an ultra-stretch black limo, pimped out with a hot-tub, jets firing, water swirling, and a disco ball.
“Well, go get them,” spat Lucy, referring to the elastics that our resident hair/makeup girl had forgotten to bring.
I wasn’t sure who to be madder at: the hair girl for turning up without the most basic of professional tools, or Lucy for freaking out because Brit had these “adorable braids” and she had only a “crappy, boring ponytail.”