Is This a Booty Call?
While I’m busy educating the masses on things to avoid while dating (Sugar daddies, simultaneous suitors, spaghetti on a first date, etc.) I’d like to offer a few remarks on the subject of the booty call— in particular, “When is a call not a booty call?”
It took me a while to understand the basic premise of the booty call. For a very long time, my comprehension of this pheromone phenomenon was similar to that of Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart’s comprehension of pornography, as espoused in the 1964 case of Jacobellis vs. Ohio. “I know it when I see it,” Justice Stewart said.
One of my old architectural history professors used this very same line to explain the tenets of Federalist design. “It’s hard to describe,” he said, flipping through his collection of slides. “But Federalism is just like pornography: you’ll know it when you see it.”
He was right. I know Federalism when I see it. And Justice Stewart was right too; I know pornography (and recoil in horror) when I see it. I assumed, therefore, that I would know a booty call when I saw one (or heard one, or received one, or made one, or whatever the appropriate verb may be in this case) but until very recently, I did not.
I was sitting home by myself last Friday night (which is unfortunate on many levels, especially as I had spent all day ironing and was already working out the particulars of my Kandinsky-inspired outfit for my third date with a certain someone when said someone called to postpone). Shortly after 9:00pm, however, I received a text from Date #2 asking if I’d like to “meet up.”
Now you may recall that Date #2, aka Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome, was the perfect gentleman during our first date (although we have since decided to head down the “just friends” route because he’s something of a serial dater himself). He walked me home after taking me to dinner at the Royal Tavern so I was fairly certain his text was not a booty call (or a booty text, rather) but a girl can never be too sure.
It was during my first semester in London that I started to recognize the signs of the booty call. I was dating an undergraduate at the time (in my defense, he was one of those worldly I-took-a-Gap-Year undergraduates and I was the youngest in my class so it seemed okay, at least for a few weeks). The term “dating,” however, was perhaps not the most apt description of our succession of Friday night liaisons especially as he himself told me, “English guys don’t date, Kat.”
English guys don’t date? Yeah right, I thought. I mean English guys procreate, and surely the act of procreation requires at least a smidgen of small talk and a few pints (known to rest of the English-speaking world as “dating”). But then I read a book called “Watching the English” by Kate Fox and there it was again: English guys don’t date (and check out Chapter 13, Rules of Sex, if you don’t believe me).
So what do English guys do? (Feel free to weigh in here, gentlemen). My understanding is that you go from the odd drunken hookup, to the fairly regular drunken hook up, to the “Hey, there’s a one bedroom flat in Hammersmith just come on the market, what do you say?” (Seriously, gentlemen, do correct me if I’m wrong.)
I did date an Englishman once, in addition to the undergraduate who I evidently did not date. Except he wasn’t actually an Englishman—merely a London resident— which is why, I suppose, we actually dated (and even then, when he was angling for me to change my Facebook status from “Single” to “In a Relationship” I had to tell him, “No, now take me out to dinner and ask me properly”).
Suffice it to say, after a year and a half in London, I’ve learned to recognize a booty call when I see one. And so, when Date #2 texted me earlier this month and invited me to “meet up,” a little voice in my head said, “Danger! Danger! THIS is a booty call!”
Admittedly, I don’t think it actually was. A drink in Center City is not necessarily a prelude to anything else especially considering that Date #2’s next text message came the following Monday at 7:39am. Let me repeat that folks: 7:39am. On a Monday! The only man who ever texts me that early in the morning is my dad and it’s usually along the lines of “I’m leaving for the gym in 20 minutes,” not, “Hi Kat, got your message and yeah, I’d love to grab a drink. I’ll give you a call tonight.”
(Which is not exactly what the text from Date #2 said; I’m “gisting” here, which is the term that people who write about other people use when they don’t want to expose personal correspondence. I learned this at the Philadelphia Writers Conference and it would seem that the rules that apply to writing a memoir should also apply to writing a blog about dating).
Nonetheless, there is a fine line between a spontaneous night out and an opportunistic seduction. And being that I would like to preserve some semblance of dignity, despite posting my least dignified moments for the world to see, I felt it best to decline the probably-not-but-still-possibly-a-booty call text from Date #2. I was, after all, already wearing my pajamas.
Kat Echevarría Richter 
7 Responses to “Is This a Booty Call?”
As an English guy I can confirm that we don’t ‘date’.
Sigh… so I’m not crazy. Thank you, Niel 🙂 But now I’ve got to ask the obvious question here: what do you do?
Shag. 😉
You need a personal assistant. How do you keep this all straight?
Don’t I know it, Jill! Two words for you: sticky tabs. That and the fact that my social life in Philly pales in comparison to that I had in the UK because I’ve very stupidly spent the past 8 months trying NOT to get close to anyone here (lest I actually enjoy my time in US and decide not to go back to London). So it’s not too difficult to keep track…
Hello Kat
It is “can’t be arsed” although I am wondering why I “gave a shit” to respond.
[…] So I’ve agreed to “hang out” again. Although I’m still not sure about this “hanging out” business. In fact, this time around, I suspect “hanging out” equals a booty call. And we all know how I feel about that. […]