“What’s your number?” he asked as I used the straw to rearrange the ice in my glass. Never feeling completely comfortable in gay bars, I spent a fair amount of time seemingly contemplating the liquid/solid ratio of my Long Island Iced Teas.

“Uh…like, in inches?” I responded. Intention and sincerity have a hard time keeping their pants on in places like this. You can never tell with some of these guys if their first question is going to be, “What is your philosophy on life?” or “Are you a bottom or a top?” He wasn’t exactly exuding intelligence, so I assumed the latter question to be poised shortly.

He laughed a bit too hard and placed his hand on my arm, ceasing my stirring. “You are too funny!” he squealed. “I mean like, your number, like notches in your bedpost. How many guys have you been with?”

Up to that point, honestly, I had never considered keeping count; I never quite saw the point of it. The only tally that ever mattered to me was when the number changed from zero to one.

I began rambling off names in chronological order and drunkenly kept count with my fingers. “Well, there was Matthew, first. That was no good, but necessary. Um, John was after that.”

He was keeping count as well; with each name, he pushed the represented finger into the hole of his loose-fisted left hand and made small groaning noises.

“Then came… Mark?  Yeah, I think his name was  Mark…”

“Is there a Luke in there somewhere?” he interrupted with a smile on his face.

“Oh, is that your name?” I asked, squinting at him. Surely I would at least be able to recall the regret from the morning after if we had slept together. He threw his head back animatedly and with such force I was convinced he had hurt himself.

He let out a loud, singular ha! “You are hill-air-e-us! I’m talking about the apostles, silly! Matthew, Mark, John- all you need is a Luke, honey, and St. Peter Puffer would put you on his VIP list. Straight in those pearly gates! Well, maybe not straight in.” He winked and sipped his vodka tonic till empty.

Counting was instantly forgotten as my mind began to wander. Exactly how many male names are in the Bible? How difficult could it be to find a fuckable Luke in a small town? Where can I find an attractive Mexican guy named Jesús willing to ignore my intentional mispronunciation of his name as I scream it? Nebuchadnezzar would be a difficult one, doubtless, but perhaps not impossible. So many questions to answer.

“I know there are more than three, stud, keep going,” he said as he snapped at the bartender, a portly lesbian who lumbered behind the bar with the grace of Donkey Kong on Xanax. He pointed at his empty glass, tilted his head, and smiled at her in a manner that conveys thank you and fuck you in equal amounts. She slowly complied.

I continued with my list. “On vacation there was this Adam guy in Brooklyn. Oh, and this guy in the army — Paul, I think?” I chortled. “Oh, fuck. That’s kind of weird, huh?” I looked at my new friend and smiled nervously. How many had there been? More importantly, how many more were left?

“Shit, sister! You’re like one Joseph away from a fetish.” He took his new drink and tossed it back.

“Joseph Jackson, in his Jeep, summer of ’07,” I said blankly.

“Christ on a cracker, who are you?” he asked, “Mary Magdalene, slutting it up in Jerusalem?”

This made me laugh hard, and he looked as if he had just solved a Rubik’s Cube.

“Fuck it,” I said. I threw some money down for our drinks, and performed the ubiquitous let’s get out of here head jerk toward the door.”What’s your name again?” I asked as we walked out into the humid night air.

“Lucifer” he answered with a smirk, grabbing my hand, “but my friends call me Lucy.”