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Mr Big Stuff.


This is the story of the one and only time I had a successful booty-call. His name was – hah, you wish. We’ll call him “Mr Big Stuff”. Not because he was big, but because he had it all. He was tall, and handsome as hell with impeccable hair. A few years younger than me, but more established and successful than I will probably be in the next two years. He was funny, and although white as fuck, I knew I could start an Andre Nickatina song and he’d be able to finish it. Matter fact, if he wasn’t a lightweight douchebag (not to mention my BC) he’d be the prototype. 

The first time we hooked up was one eventful New Years Day. I remember feeling nervous during the Uber ride to his house. It was my first time hanging out with Mr. Big, and it would be naked. After months of sex talk and penis pics, I was scared to let him down. I sat in the seat across from him and drank another glass of whiskey to keep my awkward in check. After the first sip I knew the only thing awkward after that would be the random positions I’d be in.

The next thing I know, we’re making out. The next, next thing I know we’re on his bed. And while most of the night is blurry, I know the sex was good. I remember him asking to fuck me in the living room in front of the mirror. I had to tippy-toe as he fucked me from the back as I bent over a chair. I didn’t cum, but don’t remember if he came either. What  I DO remember is waking up the next morning around 8:00am to him sprawled out next to me butt booty nekked, knocked the fuck out. Perfect. I quietly gathered my things, and left.

Since then, we hooked up a few more times. And even though he’d be my “marry” pick in a game of Murder, Fuck, or Marry, our relationship mutually remained strictly that of a booty-call. You would think that with my track record, I would’ve caught feelings for the kid, but even without saying anything, we both knew what it was and what it wasn’t. You see. It’s one thing to say that up front, but it’s another to act accordingly. We never hung out outside of his apartment, and I never slept over. Matter fact, I’ve never been at his house for more than two hours (or so). And with the exception of baseball talk and fantasy football questions, our conversations have been strictly dickly. It’s not that if we did more, it actually meant something. It just made it easier to NOT get attached.

So thank you Mr. Big Stuff. Thank you for the naughty, dirty, douchebag sex. Thank you for not calling me unless it was to ask how far I was from your house. Thank you for not texting me unless it was to say you were horny. Thank you for never meeting me up for dinner, or even drinks. But most of all, thank you for being JUST my booty-call and giving me hope in this world of questionable, confusing, unsure gray area, non-relationship-relationships. 

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