The Living Legends of Sex

While the late NBA man-whore Wilt Chamberlain set the standard with 20,000 booty calls, a number of up-and-comers are making a run at the record. Check out the living contenders.



In 1965 the Rolling Stones calculated that in a two-year period, Mick Jagger had mounted 30 different women, Keith Richards six, rhythm guitarist Brian Jones 130, drummer Charlie Watts none, and bassist Bill Wyman 278. “You used to have three or four a night sometimes,” Wyman said recently. “You’d spend a couple of hours with them and say bye. Then about half an hour later you’d say, ‘That one in the red dress.’”



The 1,000-plus number for the hard-court wizard who led the Los Angeles Lakers to five championships is a conservative estimate. One report puts the total at up to 500 shtups a year for a dozen years—much of it done, as we all know, without the benefit of condoms. Still, Magic has stayed strong in the face of adversity and proved that an HIV-positive man can survive and even host the worst talk show of all time.



Most guys on this list can be described as handsome. Not Mötorhead frontman Lemmy—unless you have a thing for James Gandolfini–size facial warts. Yet this rock god is pure catnip to the ladies. His secret? Maybe it’s his technique: “I like stroking rather than banging.” Thirty years after founding Mötorhead, he has 1,200 conquests and a Grammy, proving that music lessons are a tremendous investment.



He’s one of the few people to win multiple Oscars and also do multiple Oscar winners. Kim Basinger described Jack as “the most highly sexed individual I ever met.” He also showed his Oscar to Academy Award–winning actresses Anjelica Huston, Faye Dunaway, and his One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest costar Louise Fletcher. And he’s plowed through a number of Oscarless celebrities, too, like Michelle Phillips, Candice Bergen, and Lara Flynn Boyle, not to mention hundreds and hundreds of regular gals for good measure.



This Romanian was a good tennis player (he won two grand slam titles in the ’70s) who would’ve been forgotten (the man played frickin’ tennis) if not for his wicked behavior. “Nasty,” as he was called, had a real knack for gaining access to the ladies’ love shacks, as 2,500 chicas can attest. Recently, he mused, “A lot of sex in those days was like taking a shower. You take one, it feels nice, then you forget it.” Let’s hear it for cleanliness!



Who knew? The strangely named soft-rock sensation has had more ladies than Kid Rock and Chris Rock combined. Born in 1936 as Arnold Dorsey, he switched to the stage name Engelbert Humperdinck and achieved an endless supply of hoochies with the hit song “Release Me” in 1967. His memoir, What’s in a Name?, includes a chapter where his wife of over 40 years discusses how his many betrayals made her feel (not good), to which Engelbert replied, “Forgiveness is one of the greatest things you can give.”



Enrique’s randy old dad set out to be a soccer goalie, but when a car accident damaged his spinal cord he needed to find a new line of work. He settled on music and intercourse. After winning a Spanish singing contest in 1968, he went on to sell 200 million records and boink nearly as many ladies. Iglesias is usually credited with 3,000 notches on his bedpost, but in 2004 he called the number into question, musing, “That probably was until 1976, so they didn’t count the other women.”



In 1973 Gene started his band Kiss with two goals: make tons of money and score hordes of foxy tail. “I was a 24-hour whore,” he once said. “All I ever thought about was sex.” The long-tongued man-slut has led his group to cash in on all possible merchandising angles (get a Kiss-themed coffin!), while still tagging everything within reach. “The male species manufactures billions of sperm,” he declared. “The only problem with women is they think all those sperm we make are just for them.” Way to share, Gene!



The son of Martin and brother of Emilio Estevez has an infamous lust for hookers. The irony is, of course, that Charlie’s also quite capable of getting ladies who’ll do the deed gratis. It’s how he managed to rack up 5,000 pairs of boots knocked—including those of porn star Ginger Lynn and stunning soon-to-be ex-wife Denise Richards. Denise and Charlie have split, allegedly because she failed to take his observation, “You’re definitely one of the hottest 1,000 or so women I’ve banged, baby,” as a compliment (that’s top 20 percent, missy).



Despite lacking fame, wealth, and U.S. citizenship, this Italian hotel porter insists he’s “made around 8,000 women happy,” sometimes entertaining four tourists a night. Umberto, whose talents came to worldwide attention when he appeared on the British TV show Eurotrash, claims he inspired tremendous brand loyalty—“They crossed oceans to see me”—as the ladies repeatedly returned to sample his services. Indeed, after his Venetian employer axed him from his porterly duties, an American businesswoman rushed to Billo’s defense: “I must have spent thousands in the hotel because of him!” His ex-boss remained unimpressed, complaining, “Sometimes he was too exhausted to carry the guests’ luggage.” Hey, the man’s not a machine.


“Hey, Let’s Party?”
Think becoming a legend of sex is a walk in the park? Think again, Casanova.

A recent study showed that the average person has 10 sexual partners in a lifetime. That doesn’t seem like an awful lot of variety, but it does beg the question: How hard is it to score with 5,000 different ladies? We gave a writer a week to find out.

I e-mailed every hot local girl within my network. Straight off, there were 34 women I was interested in rubbing bellies with; I sent them all the same note. This was going to be easy.

I made a lunch date with Holly, a hot 25-year-old former intern from a past life, whom I’d bumped into the week before. I soon realized the only way this date was going to end in sex was if I forced the idea into her head. I got optimistic when she told me she was a late bloomer but made up for it in college. Then, just as I was sure I was going to get lucky, she said she had somewhere to be. We agreed to meet again later in the week.

At a bar around the corner from my house, I met Lila, a 22-year-old with the most incredible breasts I’d ever seen. After some meaningless chatter, she told me she was going to meet a friend and that I should come. I decided to risk it. A few hours later, I got her back to my house, where she told me she doesn’t have sex…Instead we had the kind of sex some presidents don’t consider sex at all. I’m giving myself a half-point for this one.

11 A.M.
Hardly slept last night—Lila’s a snorer—and she didn’t leave until almost lunchtime. Maybe if I had a job I could’ve forced her out, but I didn’t have the heart.

11 P.M.
One of my MySpace girls invited me to a party. She was stunning. Five-ten. Dark hair. Blue eyes. A model named Piper.

Figuring I’d only ruin it, I kept my mouth shut. It must’ve come across as bored, because she called the place lame and suggested we go to my place.

After dancing to Guns n’ Roses and spilling vodka on my floor, she looked bored again. I leaned in for a kiss. Nothing.

Suddenly, another MySpace girl, Paullina, texted me.

“Can I come over?” she asked.

Plans made after 2 A.M. are always booty calls. Always.

Told Piper she had to go, and I hid in the bathroom while she collected her things. About 20 minutes after she left, Paullina entered my home. And 20 minutes after that, I entered her.

Afterward, for some reason, I told her about this article. She wasn’t happy. She went to sleep, and I went to the living room to watch TV.

10 A.M.
Woke up on the couch and Paullina was gone. I was pleased with myself until I noticed a note taped to the back of my chair. In large letters it read: YOU SUCK! Then, smaller: AND THAT’S SAD.

A girl on the subway made eyes at me. I followed her off the train, five stops before my own, to introduce myself. Turns out she hadn’t been looking at me at all. She was checking her reflection in the window.

10 P.M.
Crashed a friend’s office party. Met a girl named Emily, who confessed she had a profile on JDate, a Web site for Jewish people to meet other Jewish people for romance. Though I’m Jewish myself, I couldn’t have been more turned off. Still, I suppose real playboys like Charlie Sheen answer when opportunity knocks, so I asked if she wanted to go to my place for another drink. I think we both knew the deal.

She wasn’t exactly my type. It wasn’t exactly inspired. It didn’t exactly make me happy. But it happened. Luckily, she didn’t spend the night, as I wasn’t having the best track record with morning-after stuff.

Shannon, a curvaceous hair colorist, had a day off, so we went to lunch. I started the sex talk from the door, and we hit the sheets before the workday was over.

Unfortunately, her lady bits were doing lady things. Neither of us noticed until she got up to leave. She was hardly apologetic. I was stunned.

10 P.M.
Dinner with Julie, a TV writer. We’d dated once before, and she pretty much made it clear she’d like to do the deed, except she’d just run the New York Marathon. Now that her piggies had healed, it was time for pork. That’s four and a half if you’re counting.

Bumped into one of my exes on the street. She told me about how happy she was with her new boyfriend…then there were tears and something about missing me. I considered trying to convert this into another notch on the bedpost, but I was feeling dirty enough from the previous day’s exploits (two girls in one day wasn’t nearly as glorious as I’d hoped), and it only made me feel worse that I’d actually considered taking advantage of this situation.

10 P.M.
Decided to go out with Holly again. She was, after all, the closest thing to girlfriend material I’d come across since this whole thing started. I could imagine developing feelings for her and sleeping with her without feeling compelled to kick her out after.

Everything was going fine until I felt a zit on my forehead. I went to the bathroom to check it out, but in my drunken haze I’d wandered into the wrong bathroom. A girl stumbled out of a stall.

“What are you doing in here?” she asked.

“Sorry. I was just about to pop a zit.”

“Let me get that for you.”

“No. Gross. Really, don’t.”

We ended up kissing.

Now I was feeling really dirty. I told Holly that I was going home and left empty-handed.

I had two days left on my cock clock, but I’d had enough. For all my efforts, all I really had to show for it was a nasty note, a nasty set of sheets, and a nagging feeling I’d probably caught something nasty. I wonder if Engelbert ever felt like this?


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