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?

And just like many other questions that only require an answer consisting of a few words – like “Where’s the party” or “Did you remember to buy cheese,” these days, people communicate through text messages more than they do phone calls. These days, booty calls are no exception. People don’t even have the decency to pop the question with their vocal chords, and instead punch in a few measly letters and symbols in hopes of getting lucky.

This newfound source of communication brings up a whoooole new batch of insecurities for the booty callees. What if you’re not the only girl receiving that text? What if, you’re just one girl in a slew of hoochies’ numbers in his phonebook, getting the same single, mass text at that very same moment? How can you even decipher this? Impossible!

And this, my friends, is the definition of “Booty Grazing.”

First introduced in this Myspace page, the second I heard the term Booty Grazing, I immediately thought of a bunch of cows. Cows, grazing…you get the connection. And then I thought of booty grazing as a combination of a booty call, mixed with a cattle call, which is really what it is: one solitary text sent out to more than one person, in hopes that one recipient will respond positively and make the booty grazer’s night a success. Or, should I say, succsex? Haha…

And then I thought….was I booty grazed last weekend?

I say, now that texting has come into play to get some play, beware of the booty graze. I say, never accept a text message as booty-call-worthy and at least try to get the guy on the phone for an actual conversation, even if it’s brief, to feel out the situation first. Use your judgment, because you definitely don’t wanna go over to some guy’s place and give him your goods, when he didn’t even care enough to single you out in the first place.

Wow…who would have thought that we’d ever see a step down from the booty call?

And yes, that question can be easily answered in the form of a text.

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.

I was lucky—I actually knew the guy. He was a nice boy who I had been friends with for some time now, and though he was great, he wasn’t that great. Now, I was lying naked next to him, and all I can say for the aftermath—me sneaking out before waking him up, avoiding his phone calls for days until he finally hunted me down, trying to hide behind light posts on the street to avoid him in public—well, the two of us are not friends anymore. Surprise.

I’ve also, on a very drunken night, managed to score a guy who I had wanted to date. I got him drunk (it was a last resort—I seriously wanted him), asked him to walk me home (code for take me home and sleep with me), and the rest was history. In my drunken stupor I thought our night together was the most romantic evening two people could share. The groping, the sloppy kisses, the drunken… thrusting. So. Hot.

Not so much. I woke up excited that this would move us forward in our relationship. He woke up, grabbed his clothes, gave me an awkward kiss on the cheek and checked out. I didn’t hear from him… until the next time he got drunk and wanted to come over. And the next time. And the next time. I had, in a quick 5 hour drunken encounter, become his official booty call. And yeah, like most girls, I thought my life was over. Apparently if you give it up too quickly, guys think you’re a slut and won’t bring you home to mom (more with that double standard bullshit, huh).

But girls—have no fear—this last tale of the drunken hook-up will make you not only believe that maybe it’s not a terrible idea, but that true love does actually exist.

My best friend got sloppy drunk one night in our local bar, and began to hit on an English guy who was there on tour with his rugby team. Next thing you know, the two of them are stumbling out the door together and falling into a cab. They have a crazy night of cavorting, her dad throws the door open in the morning and threatens to take out his shot gun if he doesn’t get his clothes on and get out (I kid you not, this happened). And… two weeks later this lovely guy had bought a ticket back to the States to visit with my friend again.

Now, three and a half years later, he has a job over here, they live together, and are shopping for engagement rings. She may be the only person this has ever happened to. Or perhaps she has beer flavored nipples that keep him coming back—I don’t know.

Of course, I’m not highly recommend drunken hook-ups. Most of the time they cause more grief than they’re worth. Other times, a girl just needs to have a good night. And perhaps, one night, we’ll all meet a hot English athlete who’s willing to leave his entire life behind to come be with us. In the meantime ladies, take the beer goggles off and double check that you will not be waking up next to a Yeti the next day.