No One’s Keeping a Record of Who They’re F***ing Anymore

*The names of the men in this article have been changed.

Queen’s Park, northwest London, is peaceful at this time in the morning.

It’s 8AM and I might still be drunk, but what matters is that things feel pretty good right now. I’ve just slept with someone I definitely shouldn’t have, but that’s not weighing too heavy. The inevitable fallout hasn’t yet begun. More to the point, regardless of the horrible consequences of my disgusting actions, I get to log the man I’ve just shagged on “THE LIST”.

While last night’s actions may have burnt various bridges, “number 36” definitely has a nice ring to it.  

1 — where it all started

I’ve been thinking about let’s-call-him-Elijah* a lot recently. You see, I have also been writing an essay that’s just a list of the worst things I’ve ever done, and by virtue of the fact I told the whole school that Elijah didn’t last very long, he’s getting two nods this week. I’m sure he’ll be glad that I’ve now immortalised the incident a total of three times. As if being called “30-Second Elijah” in the school’s yearbook wasn’t quite enough. 

2 — Ben*

When I got caught trying to sneak him out, I told my mum he was gay. I think she actually bought it. He did look a bit gay.

I’ll usually broach the subject of The List around date four. “How many people have you slept with?” I’ll ask. “I’m just curious.” As soon as I’ve squeezed it out I’ll make approximations of both how much I mean to them and how likely it is that I’ve just contracted an STD. They’ll stutter and insist they couldn’t possibly give me an exact number, but I’ll persist and eventually they’ll give in. Below 30? Shopping at Aimé Leon Dore is clearly only a recent thing. Above 70? Top shagger. Suddenly, I’ve got real feelings for the guy. 

Then it’s my turn and I’ll do the same dance around the subject before brandishing The List like it’s a photo of my new puppy. I mean, they’ll never actually see The List. I’ll hold my phone in a way that makes it seem like the number is in the hundreds and they’ll look horrified, like they’re in a furniture showroom’s recreation of Josef Fritzl’s place. Then, the moment of relief: “It’s 36.” As it stands, it’s a great number. I’m clearly not a prude, but I’m not a complete slag either. I am a bit worried about the reception when it hits 40, but we’ll cross that bridge later.

What’s important is that no date of mine is receiving a mere estimate—is left mumbling in a confusing gray area—because I have in my possession, always, The List. 

6 — ‘TRUMPET MAN’

As it took place on the first night of freshers week, it felt easier to tell my motley crew of brand new pals that I’d slept with the trumpet player from Rudimental rather than a random man who was deep into his forties. I did speak to the trumpet player from Rudimental that night. If I’d kept at it, perhaps I could have slept with him. But as far as I’m aware, the man I bedded could not play a brass instrument. 

8  — He once sent me a Snapchat that said, ‘I miss your minge’

Based on anecdotal evidence, it’s about 50:50 when it comes to who has a list and who doesn’t. The ones who don’t are obviously weirdos. They’ll push the narrative that it’s the other way round (that it’s “strange” to make sure you’ve got your date’s surname purely for administrative purposes) but I’d argue it’s weirder to have all your shagees just floating about in your brain, untethered and unsure why they’re there. Anyway: I’m not the only person with a fuck list. Some (like Lindsay Lohan’s) are a little more grandiose than mine. Recently, a woman discovered someone else’s while redecorating. There it was, scrawled on the walls of her home. Dan Brown would have you believe the best thing to find on your wall is some kind of cypher leading to ancient treasure, but I’m much more interested in how someone named “Margaret Bond” was the “best fuck and suck” of this unnamed man’s “entire life.”

9 — Jude*

I can’t really give you any details of the sex itself because I was always completely battered, but I clearly made an impact. When I inevitably got rid of him, he called me a “clapped-out, basic, boring sket.”

11 — the ‘guy from rome’

It was hard to get back from his place because I was only wearing an oversized T-shirt and (according to at least five Italian cab drivers) looked like a woman of the night. 

I’m not going to pretend that I don’t like seeing the number increase. Sometimes I peruse The List and there’s a genuine moment of elation because I think I’ve forgotten someone, and lucky number 37 hangs in the balance. Then, on a second glance, I see their name: pure disappointment. So, I reorder The List. ‘If I have another go at putting them in chronological order,’ I think to myself, ‘I’ll surely find someone I’ve missed.’ I did it again while writing this article. Unfortunately, I still came up empty.

13 — has a baby now

I’m writing about the nuances of a fuck list. It’s nice to reduce your condition to a number. It’s certainly easier than having to explain the headspace you were in when you invited your mate’s 21-year-old cousin back to yours. If it were to manifest IRL, The List might function as a kind of trophy room: Thirty-six stuffed, disembodied heads, each with a pithy story that you’ll later mine for a VICE article. There’s the ones I’m proud of, the nights I’d rather forget, and the ones I’d have completely forgotten if it weren’t for The List.

Seeing certain names makes me gag, but that’s par for the course. It’s better than them slipping through the net entirely. That would fuck up my stats. 

18 — the actor

He’s significant because he unlocked a whole other list: all the people I’ve shagged by association. It’s hard to explain, I guess it’s like six degrees of separation but for shagging. Anyway, I’m five links down the chain from Michael Cera. Two from Matt Smith. 

19 — the chef

He cooked me this mussel dish. It all felt really romantic until I found out he’d done the exact same with another girl about two weeks prior. He always had a bag of mussels in the fridge.

20 — I just brought him back from the pub one night

21 — took me to soho farmhouse

On the way there, he told me he liked hairy porn. Not just a bit of armpit hair—Ewok-style women. 

Some fool might try to tell you The List should have a ratings system, but I think that’s sociopathic. You can’t reduce the abstract experience of sex to a numerical value—it’s the same reason I’m boycotting Letterboxd. Obviously I’m reducing actual men with rich inner lives to numbers and arguably I wouldn’t even be able to do ratings given that half of them were shagged while paralytic, but that isn’t really the point. If you were a true visionary, you’d shag strategically: build in little Easter eggs for the reader to enjoy. You could consecutively bed men with certain names so there’s an acrostic poem in your list. Liam, Ollie, and Luke for “LOL” for instance. Ian, Max, Michael, Ethan, Noah, Tom, Alex, Levi, Leo, Yannis, Isaac, Logan, Lincoln for “I’M MENTALLY ILL.”

It might be hard to find a Lincoln in London, though. 

22 — leo*

Leo’s technically a repeat offender but since I’m not about to log every guy who’s looked in my direction and/or fingered me, you’ll only see him once. Obviously I could, but I’d only be cheating myself.

26 — had a micropenis

29 — my melbourne prince

We gave it another go on home soil but ultimately I decided that being in the company of someone who wears platform shoes is only alright if you’re not going to bump into any of your mates.

34 — called me a ‘nightmare drunk’

35 — a drug addict but not in a chic way

There was talk of needles, which makes the fact I’ve never had an STD even more impressive. You might even call it a miracle.

When will The List reach its final entry? When I decide to join a convent, or when I stumble across the person I’ll go on to marry? What number will that be? It could be 62 or it could be lucky number 37, but I’ll never know because of the core thesis of films like The Butterfly Effect and Sliding Doors. I’m not closing the door to a gay phase either. Imagine how sick it would be if The List suddenly pivoted to a bunch of girls’ names. It’d be the kind of thing historians pore over when the analog version (scrawled on a bit of paper on my deathbed) eventually goes to auction. Some socially maladjusted girl in her twenties might write a Substack theorizing why it was that I’d hidden my performative bisexual phase. She might end up pitching it to whatever the equivalent of Polyester Zine is in 2090. 

At this moment in time, The List still only exists on my iPhone’s notes app. It’s pinned for easy access, but it’s yet to be scrawled on a wall. If I had any gall, it’d be carved into a tree, and every time I shagged someone I’d have to descend into the woods like Jessie Buckley in Hamnet. Wall is probably easier, though. That’s the logical endpoint of this article, and I’m so disconnected from the spiritual consequences of what’s essentially clipfarming my personal life that I’d probably do it if there was even the vague suggestion it would go viral. I do think it would go viral. Or, I’d get sectioned. I guess the two aren’t mutually exclusive.

36 — startED out as a mate

He told me if anyone else had laughed in his face when he tried to kiss them, he would have left. Quite sweet, really.

I’d like for number 37 to have those pouty, Mads Mikkelsen-esque, slightly Simpsons-y lips. I fucking love them. They’ll be tangentially creative, a bit grubby and perhaps the love of my life. Looking at another note I have called “THE ROSTER” (which is essentially a “to-be-fucked” list) none of them fit the bill. Number 37 will most likely be a Welsh rapper, or this guy who designs really impractical-looking furniture. It might be art? I don’t really care to know.

It’s probably going to be lucky number 38. 

Follow Amber on Instagram @amberawlings