I know a man. He is a good man, if
somewhat misguided. He is a man as yet unencumbered by wife and child, but yet encumbered
by demands of family, parents and siblings. I know a man who is
single, and happily so, but claims to be tired of the solitude and
looking to settle down. I know a man who is a most spectacular
lover, if only because he is obsessed with pleasing his woman, over
and over again, but only when drunk, when sober he thinks only of
himself. I know a man who calls at 2:30 on Saturday morning, looking
for that which can only be found at 2:30 in the morning, in a woman’s
house. I know a man, who doesn’t remember calling at 2:30 in the
morning, claiming drunken amnesia when I ask him why he calls, later
in the day, at 2:30 in the afternoon. I know a man who will gladly
go in search of sex, but only when he is drunk. He is a man fond of pursuits of the flesh. I know a man. Several, as it turns out.
Well,
It’s 3 o’clock in the morning,
I can’t even close my eyes,
Well, it’s 3 o’clock in the
morning, good people,
And I can’t even close my eyes...
Well, I can’t find my baby,
Lord, I can’t be satisfied...
Ms Tina is back on the playlist, but
this time she’s come with her vicious ex husband, Ike. I call him
vicious based solely on the movie, I’ve never bothered to read up
on the man, conflicted as I am by his apparent brilliance. Thing is, the music is bloody good, but the two don’t sit well together in my mind, so I choose
to listen to the music and not delve into the people behind it. Ignorance in this case is bliss. ’Three O’clock In The Morning
Blues’ is good blues music, short and sweet, with kickass guitar...
Ladies and gentlemen, we must revisit the topic of the booty call. Yes, we are in the sewer, but no, this
shall not get rude. Crude, perhaps, but never rude. The
distinction? Crude relates to unvarnished descriptions, while rude
refers to unvarnished speech. I will not swear, because I have a bet
going with a lovely gentleman that I can write a sewer tale without
my usual sailor’s mouth, and I intend on winning that bet (it
involves a steak dinner, one not cooked by myself). Fear not, I will
still be crude, because fluffy euphemisms have no place here. If
this disclaimer offends you, please leave. The rest of you, kindly
remove all rose tinted glasses and illusions of romance, this is
about lust in the age of cell phones, and lust cannot be genteel, and neither should it be gentle. I’m just saying, what is lust if not bodice
ripping? Come now...
Gentlemen, what is it about the booty
call that has you so entranced? And why, for all that is good and
right in this world, can you not make that call at a decent hour? Why?
For the last couple of months a man I
happened to shag a few times sometime time back has been calling me,
booty calling me. He calls on Saturday morning, always on Saturday
morning, early in the am, typically only a few hours after I get to
bed. Now what you don’t know about me is that I almost never go
out on Friday night, because I always work on Saturday. I cannot
afford the luxury of being hung over in the morning, because my job
requires that I be somewhat coherent, and seemingly patient, being
that I am meeting clients, as opposed to random work alone at my
desk. Saturday morning is my busiest time of the week, and anyone
who knows me knows this well. Anyone who has slept with me (stop
smirking, they are not that many, dammit) would also know that I am a
light sleeper, and cranky as hell when aroused without good reason. Wait, that sounds off. Awakened, not aroused. Wake me up for no
good reason and I will slap you, and this is the one time I mean that
quite literally. I am a grouch in the morning, more so in the
morning when the birds are still asleep. Therefore, therefore I say
unto you, therefore when a man repeatedly calls me at about 3 am on
Saturday morning, even when expressly, expressly I say unto you,
expressly instructed not to, then I can only conclude that said man
is not the sharpest tool in the shed. When said man claims amnesia,
and apologises profusely, I do not believe the bastard, at least not
after it happens the third time. These days, I sleep with my phone
on mute on Friday night, which in turn presents problem if someone
was to call me in need of genuine assistance, as opposed to needing
to partake of carnal pleasures.
And why, you ask, don’t I just block
the idiot? Apart from the fact that my geriatric phone lacks said
capability, in truth I am unwilling to completely close that door,
needs must and whatnot. Stop laughing, I’m being completely
serious here. Looking past his drunk dialling cum booty calling
tendencies (I think I just punned, no?), the man has certain skills I
would conceivably wish to, shall we say, revisit, time, relationships
and sobriety allowing. I’m just saying, I may want to go there
again, and with good reason, assuming I can get past his foolishness. Hang on, this sounds quite suspect, yes? For all you hyper curious
geniuses (yaani OGAO, she who reads between the spaces between the
lines), no, this is not the ex I spoke of before, this particular
genius has never been spoken of before, and hopefully will never be
spoken of again. It’s not that I don’t want to talk about him,
it’s just that there’s not much to say really. It’s one of
those limited scope kind of relationships, where you don’t talk
about feelings and such like nonsense, not because said conversations
are not welcome, but because there’s a lack of general emotional
attachment. I know they say women can’t separate sex and love, but
we can, disturbingly easily as it turns out. It’s like I said,
partaking of carnal pleasure. Moving right along...
So this genius of the early morning
calls has got me thinking, are men really this thick? Does no part
of your brains tell you to stop trying to get what you will never
get? I realise that the man probably realises that there is a chance
he may yet end up partaking of my pleasures, but it will never happen
on Friday night cum Saturday morning. I will never answer that call,
no matter how horny I am, not after I laid down the law so decisively
(in my head at least, clearly not so much in reality). Calling me on
that particular night is truly an effort in futility, and worse
still, it negatively impacts his chances of getting some any other night. How does he not see this?
And now I shall use my much vaunted
experience to share wisdom with the rest of y’all, so listen
closely.
Ladies, do not take a booty call as a
sign, nay, token of uncontrollable lust towards you in particular. Contrary to sounds like today's, about people craving other people they are most fond of, at 3 am, the booty call is a drunken phone call made practically on remote. It’s not you he’s calling, it’s his dick. That’s right, he’s
calling his penis, letting it know that he is making arrangements to
have it ensconced in something suitably moist as soon as possible. You, my lovely, are simply an eavesdropper, privy to the details, an
accomplice if you will. You and mister midnight caller are
conspiring to satisfy his other caller, only he can’t be bothered
to let you into the plan, not until he’s sneaking out of your bed
two hours later. Don’t look at me like that, I’m just saying. Gentlemen, am I lying? Didn’t think so. The harsh reality is if a
man is interested in more than what lies between your thighs, the
booty call will be made much, much earlier, early enough that he has
time to romance you (and possibly himself) and then your booty,
thereby earning him his much sought after booty. But hey,
don’t take my word for it, it could be that I simply know some very dodgy
characters (I do, actually). There’s also the fact that I am ideal booty
calling material, seeing as how I am often home, alone, at 2:30 am,
on Saturday morning.
Which brings me to my next handy tip. Never, ever, answer a call after midnight, not even once. Once you
open that door, closing it is almost impossible. No matter how
tempting he is, make like Nancy and just say no. Don’t fret my
pet, he’ll call again and at a decent hour, if his lust is
specific. If not, count your blessings, you’ve just dodged a drunk
bullet, and you know what they say about drunk bullets, they always
hit their targets, but not yours, not usually. True story.
For the gentlemen reading this, on
behalf of thirty something women with jobs and things to do in the
morning, either call before the lady retires to bed or don’t call
at all. No exceptions. If you’re going to shag a grown ass woman,
then act like a grown ass man. Do so and you can have all the
pleasures you want, carnal and other, and at a decent hour to boot. How excellent is that? What’s that? It requires too much planning
to call ahead? Then clearly you are not a grown ass man, so leave
the woman, me in this case, to her blissful slumber and funga the one
sitting next to you, yes? Good. Bloody nkt!
You know I looked all around me,
Well, my baby can’t be found,
Well I, I looked and I looked all
around me, good people,
My baby cant be found,
Yes and if I don’t find my baby,
I’m going down to the boring drive,
That’s where the women hang out...
I want to know a man. A good man, if
somewhat misguided. A man
unencumbered by wife and child, but yet encumbered by demands of
family, parents and siblings. I want to know a man who is single,
and happily so, fond of solitude and fearing it at the same time. I
want to know a man who is a most spectacular lover, if only because
he is obsessed with pleasing his woman, over and over again, but only
when sober, when drunk he thinks only of sleep. A man fond of pursuits of the flesh. A man who never
calls at 2:30 on Saturday morning, because he has a smattering of
good sense. A man who knows not to go in search of sex when he is drunk. I
want to know such a man. Several, as it turns out.
