One my favorite things about being single is the mystery of when and with whom I will have sex. I tend to practice extended periods of celibacy for three reasons. (1) Twenty years of Catholicism will give you some pretty serious hang-ups about sex. (2) I have a pathological fear of unwanted pregnancies and STDs, and your high school health teacher was right, the only truly safe sex is no sex at all. And (3) I act like a crazy person and chase off people who want to have sex with me. Consequently I have lived completely chastely for 20 months.
I had vowed to never have sex again and let my body become a museum. I even decided the plaque over my bed would read, "The juice just wasn't worth the squeeze." But I was working on my novel and I couldn't get the sex scene right. I seem to have forgotten how the entire dance is done. So for purely academic reasons I decided to get me some.
For those of you who haven't had the chance to follow my adventures up to now I will first summarize the events of the original episode of Failed Booty Call:
I went out with my buddy Hawkeye and got unbelievably drunk and called my buddy Roman. And somehow I didn't twig to the fact that he said he was coming over to give me some luvin. So then I called my buddy Joey. And by happenstance and cosmic f*ck up they both showed up. And instead of sexing me up, they decided I needed an intervention. I didn't particularly want an intervention so I tossed a Hostess Apple pie at Roman. But then decided I still wanted to eat it. So I picked pieces of pie off his bare chest. The intervention established two things. We decided that I don't have a drinking problem but I have a really bad drunk dial problem. And I hang out with the kind of guys who would never take advantage of an emotionally fragile woman. Both good things to know, but I still didn't get laid.
Failed Booty Call: Part II
Last night I couldn't sleep. Often when I can't sleep I "grind my own coffee." But that didn't help me doze off. So I thought maybe it was a two person job. So I called a gent we will call "Skipper." Skippper is a good person. A little dull but sweet. And once in response to my flirting with him he said on the subject of sex, "Yeah...you know...so...yeah...umm...that would be...umm...hahah...pfft...yeah...sometime...you know...okay." Who could resist a smooth talker like that?
As previously stated I am celibate and therefore out of practice, and the last time I called a fella for a little slap and tickle I was so drunk I messed up the guest list. So I couldn't figure out a way to say, "I would like you to give me the bad touch, and then the good touch." And I somehow invited him over so I could teach him to knit. And then I actually taught him how to knit! The old me just would've let that go. But I just had to ask where I went wrong. So I just texted him. The answer? "Oh no, I picked up on that. Just couldn't figure out how to start." A wise friend once told me that, "You can't play cat and mouse games if no one is a cat." I'm officially adding "Become a cat" to my list of goals for my 35th year. I fear there will be many more episodes of Failed Booty Call in my future until I lean to Meow.
