Thursday, April 28, 2011

booty call waiting.

a million years ago i was standing at the corner of 48th and drexel at two in the morning on a weeknight waiting for the bus or a cab or a serial killer looking for hitchhikers, whichever came first. it was a weeknight, in the summer. the street was totally dead save for the occasional car creeping along or stray cat skittering across the road. after forty minutes the bus finally pulled up, then after another twenty minutes it deposited me near the train that would then take me home. five minutes into the train ride an ominous-looking gentleman got on the empty car with me and sat in the seat across from mine. two stops later he said, "hello," and a stop after that he said, "i need you to give me everything in your handbag or i will cut your throat." i took a quick mental inventory of the contents of my purse: wallet, debit card, cell phone, house keys, studio keys, $97 cash, $200 worth of street pharmaceuticals, and a brand new bottle of helmut lang that i had just bought at nordstrom. unwilling to part with my money, my drugs, and MY FANCY COLOGNE, i decided to take my chances with this crazy fucking dude.

i tried to gauge the distance between myself and the button you push to talk to the train operator and decided that i could probably get to it and maybe only get sliced on the arm or whatever. but he looked pretty dirty, and i didn't want to risk him touching my cut and getting it infected. we were in the subway by that point, advancing on roosevelt, but i didn't think i could buy enough time to not get killed before we got to the stop. and then what? be trapped underground with some lunatic with a rusty blade?! YEAH RIGHT. so i stood up, acted like i was looking for my wallet, and then i maced him. once he was screaming and rolling on the floor i pushed the help button and the conductor stopped the train and the police came and blah blah blah. i finally left the police station around seven in the morning, and i called jeff to see if he wanted to get some pancakes. over those pancakes he asked if i was okay, and then he said, "what were you doing all the way down there at that time of night, asshole?" the answer, of course, is that i was trying to have sex with some stupid goddamned dude.

if you don't live in chicago, here's my stupid person explanation of how the city's grid works, because i don't know anything about maps and i'm not an urban planner: think of chicago as a football field. downtown and the loop are mid-field. i live at the back of the home team's end zone, way way back in the back, where the goal post is. my gentleman friend lived all the way at the other end of the field, just beyond the opposing team's goal post. in other words, a fuck of a long way to take public transportation just to get some dude to suck my toes. i mean, it's one thing if you can lie down on the back of one of those injury carts and be driven off the field, but coach told me i had to just suck it up and limp my ass to the locker room. blarf.

over those pancakes at the boystown ihop jeff and i made the booty call checklist that i keep folded up in my condom drawer to this day. i'm pretty lax when it comes to requirements for potential suitors, and heretofore had generally operated on a "no shirt, no shoes, no service" policy. listen, i don't have time to be running background checks on a dude or asking for a copy of his high school transcript. that shit is boring, and a dude who took honors biology could just as easily be a disappointing lay or steal my wallet during the night. but jeff, the same dude who got a blowie from a tranny in the bathroom at sinibar that one time, thought it might be smart for me to have some standards. awfully rich coming from him. anyway, the booty call rules look a little something like this:

1 no banging dudes who have mustaches only.
2 no banging dudes who live far away and don't drive.
3 no banging dumb dudes.
4 no banging dudes who say "convo" or "conversate."
5 no banging rappers.
6 no banging dudes with bad diction and improper pronunciation.
7 no banging dudes who don't work.
8 no banging herbal teas or philosophical cats.
9 no banging dudes with unironic braids.

what's hilarious to me about this stupid list is its apparent GLARING omissions. like it's okay to fuck a married dude with a personality disorder who only calls once every three weeks at two in the morning, but he better not have a mustache that is not connected to a goddamned beard. and yes, that is okay, in case you were wondering if you should call that one guy back. now you can. it's funny reading this in my 2005 handwriting on the back of a napkin, because every single one of these is still true today. have i had sex with a dumb dude with serious braids? YES. but i never claimed to be perfect, and sometimes a bitch has to pay off a debt or settle a bet and can't say, "ugh i know i owe you twenty dollars, man, but you just used conversate as a verb."

breakdown: first of all, mustaches are porny and gross when unaccompanied by some other form of facial hair. sorry sir, but you look like a newscaster from 1970 and i can't get hot for that. 2 is self-explanatory due to the safety hazards at risk on late-night public transport. i never used to require brainz, but dudes can never just shut the fuck up and GET OUT; they always want to hang around and try to get a glass of water or eat some cereal, and they can never manage to do so without engaging you in some stupid discourse about goddamned nothing. either that or they want to fucking CONVERSATE with you so you don't feel like a whore (i never mind that, just get out but whatever), and conversate isn't a word. it's converse, stupid, and all of that embarrassment could have been avoided if you would have just kept your shoes on like i told you and gotten the hell out.

omg RAPPERS. the absolute worst. they never know that they're wack, NEVER, and they're always sneaky trying to hide a burned cd of their "music" next to the toilet or on top of the refrigerator or in between your ass cheeks. you know, so you can "check my demo out later and request my shit on power 92. tell your friends, gurl. i'm finna blow UP." diction because i'm an elitist snob from the suburbs, of course. if a dude doesn't work he will eventually ask you for money, and my days of figuring out why you always have weed but need ten dollars for gas every time i fucking see you are OVER. herbal tea philosophers are never any fucking fun because they take themselves SO SERIOUSLY and will always try to "teach" you something. and that something will be boring. plus, they can never buy you anything, and that's lame. this is the type of bitch i am: when a dude is coming to my house i'll text him something like, "hey can you grab a bottle of advil, six cans of diet coke, a brita filter, and a box of swiffer wipes on your way?" because the sex will probably be weak, so i might as well get something out of it, right? and so should you. and he'll get whatever you want, because he hasn't banged you yet. ahahaha try to get a dude to run to walgreens after he pulls out. it will never happen. but rememeber, you have to make sure he's already in the car but NOT outside parking in front of your shit. especially if you live up by me. once they get a space, there's no "going back out." so have your grocery list at the ready the minute conan comes on and you get that, "hey what ru up 2 rite now?" text.

oh, and the braids. i don't mean dreadlocks, because dudes with dreads are typically much more forgiving about underarm hair, i mean grown ass men the same braids your little baby cousin has. the curlicued patterny braids or the modified adult male pigtail you sometimes see dudes sporting. essentially anything that makes you say, "now where could he work with THAT?" so feel free to substitute whatever makes that thought cross your pretty little mind, eg "where can he possibly work missing those front teeth?" or "what kind of reputable place would hire a man with a mullet?" the answer is "no place you'd ever cop to fucking a dude who worked there."

this all comes up because i was recently presented with the opportunity to hang out with (wink wink) this dude again. imagine that, a peach like this dude who couldn't even walk me to the bus stop is still single! who would have thought?! meh, i sort of feel like banging someone you used to bang is like eating a sandwich you've left out since last tuesday. you doubt that it has improved with time, and now it's likely to be crawling with bugs and germs and babymamas that are going to make you seriously sick. i have a hard time justifying it, even to myself, and i have excruciatingly low standards. i've hustled backward in the past, and every single time it turned out exactly the way it had the first. but to be fair to my vagina i entertained the offer and asked him to send me an updated resume. in six years he managed to fail at marriage, TWICE, and had double the number of children he'd had when we were last hooking up. and still no car.

i had drinks with jeff the other night so we could map out our summer concert lineup and talk shit about people, and i told him about booty call redux and his offer to start sticking his dick between my toes again. before i could even finish he was like, "mustache? braids? RAPPER?!" i pulled out my cell phone full of pictures dude had sent to try to sweeten the deal: blurry-ass shots of his nappy pubes and wilting boner, a  chest flex shot, and two "hey i'm smiling in the mirror" self-portraits.

"this is making you gay, isn't it?"

"possibly. so what are you thinking?"

"connected goatee, not (too) dumb, gainfully employed, and apparently he bought a house." for those of you keeping score, if his old place was at the opposite end zone, his new place is in the cheap seats BEHIND IT. those obstructed-view standing room only jams that are reserved for people who want to pay for the tickets with vouchers and food stamps. omg seriously SO FUCKING FAR. like a train and two buses far. too far to travel for some possibly terrible ass far. but i could always get a zip car? "what was our original deal? no one dude can break more than two of the rules? how lax can i be about that?!"

in the cab on the way home my fervent game of angry birds rio was interrupted three goddamned times by texts from this asshole, but as much as i was annoyed that my monkey killing was stalled it's nice to be on the receiving end of texts from a brutally hot dude. nothing major, just a whole lot of "damn it's been a long time" and "what have you been up to?" totally boring, but i sent very nice responses. you know "yes it has" and "nada," stuff like that, because i'm such a polite person (pffft) and didn't want to jump the gun and show my whole hand. i have to act bored and uninterested before i send ten texts in a row that shout COME OVER TO MY HOUSE RIGHT THIS MINUTE AND BANG ME. so pleasantries were exchanged from the loop to lake shore drive, and as soon as the cabbie rounded the curve past michigan my phone buzzed with this message: i'm rilly lookin forward to seeing you again, funny girl. i always loved talking to you. let's meet for dinner downtown next week, i just want to chill with you, kick some knowledge, and conversate.

:'(