I don’t do booty calls. Well, I don’t initiate them myself. Would I accept one if it came my way? Probably. To be fair, though, the only woman who calls me after hours is my mom when she forgets about the time difference between L.A. and D.C. However, as with most things I make a rule of not doing, there is an exception, and I find that exception particularly hilarious.
Gertrude (fake name to protect her reputation) lived just across the street, but we met on the dancefloor at a houseparty thrown by my friends and I. It was late and Gertrude and I were both drunk off Milwaukee’s Best and poison-grade Everclear punch. After a few testflights, I was met with no noticeable headbob and I went in for the make-out. Contact was successful.
But since I’m not here to brag about my skills at assessing make-out possibility, I’ll move on. After a short while, the party fizzled and everyone set out to good ol’ reliable Famous Pub. Our paths diverged, we went off with our respective groups of friends, and that was the end of another fleeting dancefloor romance.
But there is an epilogue! In the cab home, I decided that this girl was pretty! She was cool! I should not just let her disappear into the vast abyss of college hook ups! So I called a mutual friend and, in the creepiest move you can make while performing a booty call, I got Gertrude’s number from someone who was not Gertrude.
Upon returning to the house, I consulted two of my friends. What should I say? How should I say it? While I’m sure they had legitimate, relevant suggestions, I heard none of them. I was too distracted by what they were respectively holding: a half-eaten pizza and a McDouble. Drunk wheels began to spin.
“…Hello?” She sounded tired. She did not sound excited to be receiving a mystery call this late at night. I remained undeterred.
“Hi, there! Julian here, from the dance floor earlier. Just wanted to let you know that I had a wonderful time dancing with you and, if you’re interested, I have a… picnic of sorts here.” Pizza Friend and McDouble Friend looked at me suspiciously as they clutched their drunk food a little tighter.
“Yes, a cheeseburger from McDonald’s and what looks like… one, two, yes, three slices of pizza. One cheese, two pepperoni. I don’t have a blanket on hand, but I’m sure I could find-”
She interrupted me. She explained that she very much appreciated the offer, but she was unfortunately already in bed and not into delicious picnics (She didn’t say the “delicious picnics” part, but the subtext was there). And that was the end of my attempt at delving into the world of booty calls. Except that *sigh* it wasn’t.
As an epilogue to the epilogue, I turned to Pizza Friend. “I don’t want her to think I’m just some schmuck using three-eights of a pizza and one cheeseburger to get into her pants. I need her to know that I was totally cool with just having a picnic.” He shook his head. Again, I remained undeterred.
“We’re going over there, we’re leaving the remaining pizza, and I’m texting her that it’s there if she wants it. No interaction necessary. I’m not a schmuck.” Somehow — perhaps because the idea of delivering an unwanted half-pizza to our neighbor was so ridiculous — Pizza Friend was convinced.
The pizza was left on her stoop, and I sent her a nice text explaining that I’m totally not a creep and I just wanted to give her the wonderful gift of pizza… surely cementing my status in her mind as a creep.
The next morning, the harsh light of day showed me how ridiculous my actions had been and I texted her one last time — “Dear Gertrude, I apologize for relentlessly trying to push a fastfood picnic on you last night. I can’t stop laughing about it. I hope you can see the humor in it as well.” — before deleting her number to ensure that it never happened again.
Then, just out of curiosity, I looked out the window, from where I was just able to see her front stoop.
The pizza had vanished.