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Booty Call






After spa day in NYC, a Xmas gift from my boyfriend, I finally returned home to my little cottage nestled far far away in the woods. I laid my head down on the pillow at 1:30am and at 2am received a phone call.

Today, it's rarely good news when I receive a phone call at 2am. Over the past decade, every time I received a call in the middle of the night, it meant that someone was hurt, maimed, on life support, dead.

Or even worse: drunk.

I had no idea who the person was who had the audacity to phone me at 2am, waking me up. Squinting at 347-421-xxxx, I dimly recalled the number and knew it was someone from NYC. Moreover, the person had the call on FaceTime, meaning they wanted to look at me face to face. That took balls.

It also made me realize that life has sure changed. For the last time I had a booty call, the kind when they call you in the middle of the night for sex was nine years ago. My, how time flies!

Back then, I lived in the City, had a job, a newly renovated apartment of my own. And wrote my novel late at night and on weekends.

I met a guy online (hey, I never said I'm an innocent here) and we met face to face at a cafe. He was GORGEOUS. Absolutely GORGEOUS. He was 15 years younger than me, a lawyer, and a sharp dresser with a wonderful muscular body. He was also dumb as shit.

"Are you sure you're a lawyer?" I kept asking over coffee. He sounded like a moron.

"Why don't you believe me?" he kept responding.

Turns out, he was a successful lawyer. And, of all things, a LITIGATOR! Go figure, right?

He was leery of me as well. Throughout our initial meeting, he received phone calls and said, "You don't have to phone the police." Awfully subtle. But, we met on the internet and you never know who's on the other side of the screen.

We ended up carousing the town for hours. Drunk to the gills, which meant two drinks, I took him home. Afterwards, I told him, "You can leave now."

"Leave?" he cried as I shoved him into the living room, tossing his clothes after him.

Rapidly, he got dressed. "Why can't I spend the night?"

"What for? We both got what we wanted."

Enraged, he said, "I don't know whether to leave because I'm insulted or ...."

I did mention he was dumb as shit, right?

Imagine my surprise when he phoned the following day and asked me out. I don't mind a free meal, but this guy bored me. Yes, he was GORGEOUS with a hot body. Yet, I wasn't interested in anything other than knocking boots.

When I threw him out the second time, he acted aloof. That was good. It meant he understood the rules of the game. He was MY booty call.

He never gave me the opportunity to phone him for a booty call. I didn't need to: he kept phoning me. Several times, I didn't respond, several times I told him I was busy. I was. At the time, I restructured Five-Star FLEECING.

At the same time, he played coy. The calls got later and later. I knew what his game was: he wanted to spend an entire night with me. He knew that wasn't going to happen unless he called late at night.

"What're you doing?" he asked around 11pm.

"I'm busy writing," I let him know.

"Yeah, okay. Can I come over?"

That was the other thing which chafed me; he didn't believe I was a writer. I already had one book out that was shopped from house to house. It was a brilliant concept, never done before or since although the writing was subpar, something I knew. I threw it out and focused on Five-Star.

When he walked into my bedroom, he was floored. "What the hell is this?"

My once pristine bedroom looked like a maelstrom hit it. Hundreds of manuscript pages littered my desk, pouring onto the floor and on top of my chair.

"My novel."

"You're a writer?" he asked with disbelief.

"I'm as much of a writer as you are a lawyer," I said and picked up a piece of paper from the chair and proceeded to read, seated atop the others.

In a flash, the paper was hit out of my hands. With his erect dick. "Guess you're a literary critic," I stated and took off my clothes.

Once again, after I threw him out, he became obsessed with spending the night with me. The entire night. Like he wanted to sleep with me. That didn't bode well.

Over drinks with a girlfriend, I complained, "What's wrong with this guy?"

She said, "What's wrong with you? He's hot!" I showed her a pic I took on the first date.

"It's dead end. There's nothing there outside of sex."

"Yet, you continue to let him in your bed," she added.

A year later, after quite a few more booty calls, even spending the afternoon at HIS apartment,  somehow I agreed to let him accompany me for a weekend upstate. It left me cold, knowing I made a wrong move. But the sex was good, I needed manual labor to be done and figured that perhaps I can tolerate him for two days. If not, whatever it was, would be truly over.

We were supposed to leave Friday night. Late that afternoon, I boarded the subway to see my doctor and, of course, while changing trains, my high heel got stuck in the stairway step. I shattered my right ankle.

To condense an even longer story, I phoned him from the hospital. "I just broke my ankle. Of course, it's the right one so I can't drive."

"Oh, okay." He didn't believe me and thought I was playing some sort of mind game.

Hours later, I phoned him, "Can you pick me up from the hospital?" I heard noise in the background.

"Since we're not going away, I decided to go out with my friends."

"Fuck you."

Two days later, I phoned him. "Listen, I can't move around with this cast. I'm in quite a lot of pain. Can you come over and help me into the shower?"

"Shower?"

"Yeah. It's not like we didn't shower together before."

I heard a sigh on the other end of the phone. He must've waited a year to say this to me, "Maura, inasmuch as I would love to help you, we don't have that kind of relationship."

Livid, I yelled, "Listen, motherfucker, all I'm asking for is your strength to help me for ten minutes. Nothing more." Then, I went ballistic, "It's OVER, you hear me? OVER! Don't phone me in six months as if nothing happened and ask to come over."

Exactly six months to the day at 6am, he phoned.


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1 comment:

Anonymous said...

You must of made an impression on young Perry Mason.