You ever hear the one about it being easy for women to have a booty-call? Well I hate to break it to you but it’s an urban legend. I’ve been told that at any given time a woman can go down her contact list and fuck any man she chooses. LIES! ALL LIES!
A few years ago I read an email with the subject title, “Booty call contract.” Being the naive twenty-something I was, I read it word for word and took mental Cliff Notes. No going out in public, check. No sleeping over, check. No affection, no small talk, no nothing unless it’s regarding sex. Check, check, check! The one time I attempted to have a booty-call I abided, they didn’t, and I still got fucked over. I feel like I’ve been had.
Some people just aren’t made for casual sex. It’s more than apparent I am one of these people. But everyone has needs, so what am I supposed to do? Write my own booty-call agreement?
OK FINE.
First and foremost, if you want to be my booty-call I’m going to need you to be consistent. As in readily available to bang, with only work, funerals, weddings, and family functions making you exempt. And even then I expect you inside of me shortly after your Aunt-Sonia blows out her birthday cake. I mean isn’t that the point? To be an on-call sex machine? (Ew, did I really say “sex machine”?) Otherwise, you’d just be a one night stand. Who the fuck does a girl have to fuck around here to fuck on the regular Goddammit?
Second, I’m gonna need you not to touch me. Especially post-sex. None of that caressing, arm around my waist, spooning, soft as dandelions bullshit. AND DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE HOLD MY HAND, I WILL CUT YOU. It’s not that I don’t like that stuff, of course I do. I’m an affectionate person, I’m a hopeless romantic. I sneeze potpourri and piss rainbows for crying out loud. But I don’t need you to be R&B with me right now. I need you to grab me, pick me up, and throw me onto the bed. That’s about all the touching I can handle.
Third, how about you just STFU. No, really. I don’t care what you do. I don’t care what you had for lunch, where you went over the weekend, or about your upcoming trip to Cancun. Just SHHH. I don’t care if I walk into your living room and there is a donkey reading the fucking newspaper while the Prince of Dubai is playing COD. I don’t want to know who or what or how the fuck they got there. I don’t want to know anything! Because I may just get curious and want to know more about you. And God forbid, I actually like what I know.
You know what? I’m going to need you to be boring. Don’t make me laugh. Don’t seem the least bit intelligent. I’m not saying to be an asshole, call me a bitch, and slap me around. Wait. Yeah I am. But I’m saying you need to not have any personality outside of the bedroom. I need you to be an incredibly good fuck, but horribly dense person. So dense that I rather have a conversation with a tree stump. Or doorknob. Or filing cabinet. I don’t need to like you right now. It might sound like a nice little “challenge” for you, but I promise you don’t want me to like you. It will just ruin everything.
Most importantly, if you want any chance at all in the sack with me you’re going to need to adhere to these rules as if your life depended on it. Because all it takes is one little fuck up for it to all go to shit. And why on Earth would you want to fuck up a good fuck? If you think you can follow these directions to a T then congratulations, you may have just restored my faith in the booty-call. Now sign your name on the dotted line and let’s shake hands. On second thought, don’t touch me.