The Fine Art of the Booty Call

Like I said at the beginning of the book, this is pure fiction. Not true stuff. Never happened. Nope. Making it all up here. Not talking about you, Miss. I’d never. Just being silly, silly me.

Now, the most enjoyable sex I’ve had is booty-call sex. How about you? Oh, only lovemaking with a committed lover? Uh huh. Well, I’m strange, then. I have deep-seated issues. An intervention is in order because sex for pleasure, without all the other stuff (bills, kids, etc.) is best for me.

Not that this is an arrangement I currently have. That would be suhweet! Nope. But, I imagine with my brain boner that such would be quite fine. If fifteen minutes before I power down the TV and hit the hay, a delicious specimen would text me, requesting some penetration, it would be a most awesome nightcap … I mean, as long as she’s coming here. I hate driving late at night. Probably drunk, so it’s dangerous. Look, I have a huge bed and a fully-stocked bedside table—lube, vibrating glove, and tissues.

So, the way I see it, she shows up (without pets, kids, or luggage) ten minutes later, wearing only a long jacket. Unsure which movie scarred my childhood with that image, but it stuck. She enters, hands me a six-pack of Firestone Walker 805 beer, plants a soft kiss on my lips (easy on the tongue, there, Precious), grabs my Willie, and requests I take her to my master—bedroom, that is.

I have my Amazon Echo play some smooth jazz while setting my LIFX lights to indigo. We disrobe and deliver each other 10-15 minutes of oral foreplay. Then, we dance through two or three positions, including my personal favorite: Reverse Cowgirl.

That should last another fifteen or thirty minutes, depending on how many gins I had, and whether she has agreed to allow my vibrating toys to join in. I make sure she comes first (or, fakes it first … zero fucks given which it is). Then, I ask where she wants my deposit. I’ll comply with just about any target excluding the face.

I’ve “heard” quite a few women request the semen facial. WTF? (Why The Face?) Look, if I consciously pull out and play lawn sprinkler with my genetic goo, how can I ever look her in the (oft glazed) face afterward? Ladies, it’s not good for your skin. That’s a myth our male ancestors started. And, if it were good for your skin, wouldn’t it also be good for your skin other places? How about a good belly- or butt-coating?

One buddy of mine says, if the chick has recently-did hair, he aims there. That’s fucked up, yo. Matted hair is unsightly and unkind. Heck, I discard my used paintbrushes. Why would I take the time to turpentine her scalp? Ick!

So, anyway, post-ejaculation, all there is cleanup and fetching the undies (if any) from the base of the sheets, followed by a peck on the cheek and a pat on the fanny, as she leaves. It’s too late at night for her to be seen, so this is not a walk of shame unless something is running down her leg. That’s pretty awful. Sorry.

Afterward, we both sleep (miles apart) quite well, neither one of us feeling used in any way other than as intended. Good night, indeed.

About the author