She's saying, 'I've actually never had one. Men always think it's important, at the start.'.
Then it's her birthday, but she's handing him a drawing she's done on a card. She's like that, sometimes. It's a drawing of him in a black v-necked jumper, with lines coming off, pointing at words. 'Funny', for example. 'Clever', and so on. There is a line hanging down from his crotch, with 'Sometimes even more than amazing in bed' at the end of it. She's giggling behind her fingers but 'Sometimes' makes him have to sit down.
She's saying, 'I mean, yes.'
She's saying, 'It's always seven out of ten, but sometimes—sometimes—it's like eleven or something. A thousand!'
They chat for often hours after in each others' arms, and these are the best times. After the scoring he insists on, she can relax, forget all about it. It doesn't matter. She loves him. She loves him the best. She loves him the best when loving doesn't matter any more.