Sexual Partners: The Magic Number

A friend recently asked me over beers if there’s a specific threshold that a woman needs to pass, in terms of the number of sexual partners she’s had, for me to say “woah there, there’s no chance in hell that you and I are going to work out!”

(Of course we all know this question, when addressed to me, is pointless because I’m pretty much going to sleep with anyone regardless of their age, gender, financial standing, let alone the number of sexual partners they’ve had.)

But yeah, guys generally are sensitive about their girl’s former sexual partners–guys who aren’t are either, good-looking, rich or just glad they’re getting some action.

As far as I’m concerned, I don’t really care much as long as the girl I’m dating didn’t do it with someone famous, someone I absolutely loathe or someone whom I consider to be a close friend (Again, low self-esteem here). Most of the time, I manage, because let’s face it, my moral compass as far as sexual conduct would go doesn’t really point true north. I just think “Hey man, no matter how you think about all the crazy shit she’s done in the past, you’ve probably done much worse. Remember Baguio in 1998? Does the El Cielito Inn, four underage girls who can’t speak Filipino nor English and six thousand Pesos sound familiar?”

So yeah, as far as numbers would go, I’d much rather remain ignorant to the number of men the girl I’m dating has slept with.

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Today’s post is brought to you by my ginormous credit card debt

There is really nothing more awesome than spending 3 hours of your Monday morning begging the credit card company trying to get an extension for your monthly credit card payment. I swear to god, it’s so fucking sweet. It sends your self-esteem and general perception of self worth through the roof, especially when the phone representative you’re talking to pulls up your credit record and asks “Are you sure you’re going to be able to pay us? I don’t see how an extension of 5 days can make a difference seeing that you are neck-deep in debt and your monthly minimum is close to 5 digits” and you have to plead and cry and say “Dude you totally don’t understand–I’m Mike Villar, I’m really famous bro, I’m pretty sure you’ve heard of me. If you read my blog, you’d know that I recently got a promotion and although my payslip doesn’t really reflect it yet, I was given verbal assurance that I will soon get an increase. I will be rich bro. Just please, do me a solid here and give me this extension, I do not have enough money to even eat. Please bro, I’ll put your bird in my mouth. I’ll even buy you beers, I know this place in West Avenue that offers like 6 bottles of San Mig Light for 140 pesos on Wednesdays. Help a brother out here bro. Please. [cries]”

The good thing is that they eventually agreed to give me an extension.

Now what?

Anyone here interested in buying some old Nike’s? Or a 2 year-old Laptop? (It has like Gigabytes upon Gigabytes of music, porn, and some unpublished drafts for my blog that, in the future might be of significant value.

I would also like to take this opportunity, as I am very desperate and under duress from the credit card company, to thank the European companies I did freelance work for in the last couple of months. I’m really proud to see that the usability/web consultancy projects, which I finished four months ago, are doing wonders for your online businesses.

It’s also nice that you guys gave me 20% of my contract price–monies which went straight to the credit card debt I accumulated from purchasing 100 Peso an hour WiFi cards and overpriced coffee concoctions from Starbucks where I usually work on your projects. Again, thank you, you guys are great.

Now, when do you think you could send over the rest of my monies? I’m sort of starving here.

(The good news is that the weird-looking effeminate guy who flips burgers at the Burger Machine beside my office apparently resigned. If things don’t work themselves out soon, I might pick up three shifts a week to help me alleviate my cashflow problems)

Narcotic awesome. Also, sad

The milder(compared to the previous one prescribed to me) anti-anxiety pill I’m taking reduces me to a steaming heap of messy, conflicting emotions. Sure, I do calm down when I pop one of these babies but for some reason, after I do, I get cloyingly nauseous and I feel a myriad of emotions ranging from lust and hunger to extreme sadness.

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Promotion. Or something.

There are only a few things I’m unambiguously against: Polio, couples who show blatant disregard to bitter, single people by holding hands in public places, men kissing other men, and you really should know this by now: Hard work.

(Wait, on second thought I shouldn’t hate seeing men kissing other men because I myself have kissed other men a couple of times. Like that one time my best friend JL accidentally wandered into my room in drunken stupor and mistook me for the girl he was making out with a couple of hours prior. But whatever, that only happened like 2 times and it’s not like I didn’t pay him 200 pesos on both occasions. So yeah, whatever.)

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The great underwear dilemma

I am not a very big fan of briefs. I mean, I do not see anything wrong with wearing them it’s just that, and any of my ex girlfriends (or the “sex professionals” whose services I availed) can attest to this, I look abhorrently worse than I really am in them.

I do wear them sometimes and they kinda do feel comfortable (If you’re working and haven’t yet tried tucking your shirt in your briefs and putting your pants on just high enough for your briefs’ Bench waistband to stick out, you sir, do not belong in the corporate world. You belong in prison). But the sad fact is that somebody as fat as I am should not have any business rocking briefs.

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