The booty call.

There are two ways of looking at being booty called by the guy you like: as a score! or as an insult. A score because, of all the ladies he could have called, he’s chosen you, and maybe you’re totally up for a casual night yourself. And an insult because, he apparently doesn’t respect you enough to take you out with him, before the allotted booty call time, which normally takes place between the hours of 2 to 3 a.m. on Friday and Saturdays.

I myself was booty called this past weekend, and I had mixed feelings. Seeing his number pop up unexpectedly while I was out with my friends was definitely exciting. But, after his initial text, once I got him on the phone and heard his slurred, jumbled, drunken words that, when properly assembled asked, “Hey, what are you doing later – wanna meet up?” was a blow to the ego. Am I not good enough to hang out with, sans booty? Read More »

Oh, alcohol. How I love thee. You make my nights full of bad dancing, falling off my shoes, and thinking that guy across the room looks like Christian Bale. You make it easier to talk to him, and slur out sweet nothings such as “Let’s get out of here. I’ll pay for the cab.”

But, alcohol, you make me wish I never locked lips with the likes of you when I wake up the next day with that distinct morning after taste in my mouth, an exploding head and a not so attractive man (with nothing on except a sock) sleeping next to me. Things like “where am I,” or “what is his name again” run through my foggy head, and I realize that this is not the best way to find Mr. Right.

Drunken hook-ups. We’ve all had ‘em. Most of them, we want to forget. It’s totally hot in the moment and then … you wake up the next morning with makeup all over your face only to realize that there is no way you were the porn star you thought you were. And a relationship afterwards? Forgeddaboutit.

My favorite personal story of my own drunken hook-up took place during my freshman year of school. I woke up, I opened my eyes and I had absolutely no idea where the fuck I was. I lifted up the sheet, and oh my God—I was naked. At this moment I swore off alcohol forever (didn’t work). I just knew I was probably lying next to a forty year old divorcee with a massive beer belly and long toenails. I took a few deep breaths, counted very slowly to ten, and rolled over.

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