The etiquette of the booty call, if any.

Disclaimer:  If you are deeply offended by the idea of sex with someone other than your boy/girlfriend, significant other, committed partner, wife or hubby, this one is not for you, walk on by.  If you have never heard the term ‘booty call’ before, leave and never come back.  These warnings are for your own good.

The booty call, basic requirement for any single yet sexually active member of society who’s either too cheap to pay for it, where ‘it’ refers to sex, or otherwise restrained (averse to funga’s and such like random nonsense).  This is one of those things that we all claim not to do, but do in fact do, relatively often I suspect, like farting in bed, or peeing in the shower (stop cringing in fake disgust, I know you do it…too…), in these days of instant everything, it was only a matter of time before sex was reduced to a phone call, no?  Don’t worry, this isn’t another anti-revolution rant, oddly enough, on this one I’m firmly in the pro camp.  That’s right, I like the idea of being able to call a man up and calmly request his services, none of that ‘being coy’ rubbish that women are forced to engage in all the time.  Or at least I did until this past weekend, but now I’m not so sure, this after receiving a call at 4 o’clock in the a.m. from an inebriated…let’s just call him a buddy and leave it at that, shall we?

Now ordinarily I’m happy to receive the occasional phone call from the man, but not when I’ve just won my nightly battle with insomnia and drifted off into sweet slumber.  I like to sleep, a lot, I value my sleep above all else, up to and including my first born child (there’s none, clearly, so I get to make such loose statements), and when someone calls me in the middle of the night, well, I get a bit upset, and by a bit I mean very.  This genius roused me from deep REM sleep, all of 2 hours after I’d gotten into bed, and then proceeded to have a bit of a chat as he waited for me to make up my mind, because it was possible I’d be interested?  Did I mention it was 4 am?  And now the man is acting all miffed because I had the audacity to suggest that his calling at that hour was not appropriate.  Eh?  At what point does ‘no strings’ translate to ‘no manners’?  This man called me up early Saturday morning, drunk as a skunk, looking to get laid, without giving any thought to my schedule later that morning (I had a meeting at 9.00 am), or even whether I’d mind having my sleep rudely interrupted.  And then he had the audacity to tell me, and I quote, “Kwani you don’t know the rules of a booty call?”  Say it with me…EH?  What the…

As always, when confounded with the irrational behaviour of the other half of the species, I turned to google, because google always knows why.

First up, the Urban Dictionary, fast becoming my number one resource for all things definition, if only because it proves that I am not the only person in this world who cannot spell.  They define the booty call as:

Main Entry: boo·ty call
Pronunciation: \bü-tē-kȯl\
Function: noun
Inflected Form(s): plural booty calls
Etimology – From the Latin, Booticus Callmypatheticassupus
Date: Late 21st century

1 : A clandestine or casual meeting to indulge sexual urges, devoid of any meaningful social engagement. Typically occurring between the hours of 12-4am, subsequent to one party becoming inebriated or failing to secure sexual relations with a more appealing partner(s).

2 : Disparaging title for the lesser of two unequal partners in a booty call relationship; typically this individual does not realize or accept that the relationship is limited to a booty call. Often called a fuck buddy.

Reading that most brilliant definition (I particularly liked the etymology), I got to thinking that perhaps I may have been a tad bit harsh on the idiot, he doesn’t seem to have done anything wrong, apparently the call is only made in the wee hours, no?  With the (now) harsh reality dawning slowly upon me, I googled the rules of the booty call next , seeking to understand the arrangement I’d unwittingly wandered into, because when I agreed to the set up in the first place, no one told me I’d be woken up at early dawn, did they?  Talk about false advertising, man!  And just so you know, judging by the number of results I got from my search, I’ve concluded that I’m not the only fool who’s been duped with promises of a perhaps not so easy lay.

Booty Calling is dedicated to all that appertains, including a brilliant post on how (not) to turn a booty call into a boyfriend, definitely worth a read if you’re as clueless as I am/was.  The gentlemen of AskMen are clear and concise, giving a grown man’s how-to perspective, while this genius, The Pimpologist, on the other hand, speaks to the common man (read idiot), in the common tongue (so to speak); contrast them with Nette’s World, a grown woman’s succinct take on the rules.  And then there’s the humour, a strange man’s hilarious take on women’s rules (the last one is spot on!) and Diary of a broke ass woman, a woman with a mouth possibly filthier than mine (and it’s bloody brilliant).  For those of you too lazy to read, I’ll try to summarise, but given that I’m trying to make a point you can be sure I’ve interpreted everything I’ve just read to fit my needs, basically you’ll still have to read up, eventually.  Turns out the rules are not too complicated (see POSTSCRIPT), except for the minor fact that men and women have different sets of rules.  Both emphasise the no strings aspect to this arrangement, to the extent that even a brief cuddle is forbidden (‘No cuddle?’ she wailed, ‘But that’s the best part, no?  No?’), but with the exception of one item, the lists are almost identical.  The bone of contention?  The actual phone call, of course.

Some, mostly men, advocate for a complete lack of pre-planning, because that would resemble a date too much, thereby crossing into murky waters, the same waters you’re trying to stay out of by getting into said arrangement.  They say you should only call when you feel the urge to get some, not a minute earlier.  That sounds good in theory, but we’re busy people, hell, even the pimpologist (really?) concedes this point and recommends calling ahead of time.  Folks, assuming your booty call is a grown ass individual with a life and what not, and not a youngling in school with a loose timetable, you may need to factor their schedule into your elaborate plan for satisfaction, so don’t go calling someone up in the middle of the night out of the blue, not unless you’re prepared to get (bitch) slapped.  Call earlier, especially if you plan on checking in at an obscene hour, that way the other party can prepare accordingly (change sheets, have shower if necessary, wear underwear with no holes, or no underwear at all…basic preparation, no?  No?).  That said, both codes do agree on the nature of the call itself, stressing that a booty call is not guaranteed, management reserves the right of admission.  That’s right, don’t call her, or him, up expecting them to roll over (literally?), and then throwing a fit when they turn you down.  You, my friend, have no rights, save for the right to safe sex.

Which brings me back to my unfortunate 4 a.m. call.  I think what pissed me off most is the fact that said man is a brilliant mind fuck, he actually knows how to seduce my ass, at least he does when (more?) sober, so for him to pull such an idiotic stunt, well, that was just wrong, so wrong!  I bitched about the lack of good manners earlier, what I was talking about wasn’t saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, I’m talking about good sexual etiquette.  Gents, there’s one thing you need to keep in mind if you’re looking to get into a woman’s bed, you kind of have to turn her on.  I know, the shock of it!  Chief, unless you shagged me like a superstar less than 24 hours ago, I assure you the mere sound of your voice will not get me dripping wet.  No really, it won’t.  You might have to do more than slur drunkenly, ‘Can I come over (hic!)?’  As ridiculous as it sounds, I was probably not thinking about sex before you called, I may have been knitting a bloody scarf for all you know, so don’t make assumptions.  How about a bit of amateur seduction along the lines of, “I’ve been thinking about eating your strawberry all night…”  I know, it’s a lie, we both know the only thing that’s been on your mind all night is the chick at the next table with her bosom pouring out of her handkerchief of a top, but at least try dammit, make shit up!

Screw this, I’m coming up with my own rules to the booty call, conventional wisdom be damned!

Rule no 1:  Thou shalt not call me after midnight.

Do not wake me up.  I don’t care how horny you are, I must get my uninterrupted 7 hours of sleep.  Exceptions will only be made if arrangements had been sought at least 3 hours prior to, which brings me to…

Rule no 2:  Thou shalt endeavour to turn me on.

Given that you are not a regular occurrence, I will require some persuasion, purely to remind me how it is said arrangement came to be in the first place.  Some flirtation and mild seduction prior to your arrival is highly recommended, or better still, let’s spend a bit of time outside the bed and build up from there.  A little anticipation goes a long way.

Rule no 3:  Thou shalt not show up staggering drunk.

My friend, drunk sex only works when both parties are drunk, and considering that you found me in my house, possibly sleeping, I am not nearly as inebriated as you are.  What these drunk geniuses always forget is that the potent sexiness they’re feeling is only in their own heads, and that the booze fuelled randiness is not mutual, at all.  Either sober up enough to deliver an above average performance (fair compensation for the inconvenient hour), or show up with the necessary substances to get me drunk enough to join your delusional party (and thereby overlook your…shortcomings).  And just so we’re clear, this rule applies to (formal?) relationships as well, I may love (lust) you dearly, but not when you rock up in my bed reeking like stale booze and cross-eyed with lust, and possibly tequila.  Take a shower, lover, and maybe brush your teeth, the scent of rexona is much, much better than l’eau d’tusker.

Rule no 4:  Thou shalt not call me up as a last resort.

My problem with the booty call, especially the drunk booty call (there really isn’t any other kind, apparently), I get the distinct impression that said call is made only after the genius making this call has completely struck out and I’m the last option, ‘in case of emergency, break glass’.  How now?  Do you buggers know how shitty a woman feels to realise that she’s nothing more than a conveniently warm hole for you to insert your business into?  Listen, I don’t mind that you’re out there trying to shag any woman who will have you, we’re all grown ups here and that’s your business, but when you call me up I assume that it’s because you’re not just looking to get laid, you want to shag me.  ME, not random chick no. 13 in the red top.  Newsflash, you little shit, we are not readily interchangeable like generic (fake) Toyota spare parts.  Nkt!  What?  Am I being too harsh?  Perhaps, but if you don’t like it then you can go funga no. 17 in the shiny dress.  Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I’ll be getting my regulation seven hours of sleep, bila interruption.

To be completely honest with you, I don’t think I was ever comfortable with this arrangement, I like the prelude to sex too much to give it up for the sake of convenience.  I like the anticipation of what’s to come, I like spending a couple of hours wondering if I’ll get lucky, I like the (semblance of) seduction and the sometimes absurd rituals of the mating dance.  And after my rude awakening, literal and metaphorical, I think I’m done with this booty call nonsense.  No strings I can live with, but no prelude?  No cuddling?  And 4 a.m. calls?  No fucking way (pun completely intended)!

POSTSCRIPT

Before you accuse me of not spreading the joy this evening, here’s a little light reading material, use at your own discretion.

copied from Urban Dictionary

copied from Urban Dictionary