Booty-Call Bob*: What, exactly, are your intentions, Sir?

I responded to Booty-Call Bob’s ad, which listed random things about the man himself (and, by now, we all know how I’m attracted to randomness). When he wrote back, he said mine was the best response he’d received by far (thank you, thank you). We started e-mailing one another regularly throughout the work days, talked of meeting very early on, and exchanged numbers. Work called him out of town on-and-off for several weeks, and, on the rare occasion he was in town during that time, I already had plans, so the meeting was postponed indefinitely.

Late one Friday night, as I was chilling at a new “buddy’s” house, my phone started ringing. It was Booty-Call Bob. After racking my brain to figure out who, exactly, was calling me at the forbidden hour, I finally realized who it was (his real name is identical to another guy I’d actually been out with once, and I first guessed incorrectly). I ignored his call, for several reasons.

1. We’d never spoken on the phone before.
2. I’m not inclined to take calls from people I don’t know in the middle of the night unless I’m drunk or sleeping. (I was neither.)
3. A call at 2 a.m. on a Saturday morning is the epitome of a booty call. (He hadn’t earned the right to a booty call, friends.)
4. I was at another dude’s house and having a lovely time. Accepting the call wouldn’t have been kosher behavior.

That call was immediately followed by a text message, to which I did not respond. The text was followed a few minutes later by another call. And then another call. And then another text.

All this pretty much infuriated me. Yeah, I’d been corresponding with this guy for several weeks. And, yeah, we had a good little banter going on (he’s a witty and sarcastic prick. We got along well). But what the hell did he think he was going to accomplish by calling and texting me a total of five times in 10 minutes in the middle of the night? I knew chances were high that he was smashed, but I still didn’t like it one bit. By this time, the dude I was hanging out with had witnessed me silencing my phone several times and had probably seen my jaw tighten with each new ring. He was giving me strange sideways glances, and I felt I had to say something. Rather than get into explaining the whole thing, I just told him that the person who was calling didn’t have sufficient friend privileges for me to answer a call this late. He thought that amusing, and the night progressed without further interruption.

When I checked my inbox the next day, there were two e-mails from Booty-Call Bob, both timed within 10 minutes of his texts/calls from the night before. That really did it. I responded to the e-mail with a terse, “Just got your missed calls and messages. What’s up?” He wrote back a couple hours later with this: “Haha yeah I was being an idiot. Sorry to bug ya at such a late hour. Few too many drinks I feel...”

Looking back through my e-mails, I was surprised (and quite dismayed) to find that I’d accepted this half-assed apology/excuse and continued to correspond with Booty-Call Bob, albeit with less frequency. I’d even talked with him about meeting up for drinks. This was one of many times, looking back at our correspondence, that we discussed meeting, and it never panned out. One reason is that he’s repeatedly insisted I come meet him out in Bumfuck, Va. (read: beyond the Metro) to go to a bar (read: either drive home drunk or stay the night with Booty-Call Bob). Another is that the only time Booty-Call Bob seems to want to talk to me is when he’s smashed and (all signs point to) looking for a fitting tail for the end of his evening.

A couple weekends ago, Booty-Call Bob started texting me during the forbidden hour, this time persistently requesting that I drive on over to the bar he was at (again, in Bumfuck, Va.) and hang out with him. When I informed him his request was ridiculous and that I didn’t appreciate him contacting me like I was at his disposal for a booty call, he feigned innocence and again asked me out for sometime later in the week. Of course, he informed me, I’d have to come to him. All attempts at contact stopped on the part of both parties that night. Perhaps, upon reviewing our text conversation at a more sober hour, Booty-Call Rob realized he’d been busted.

I know I’m no saint in the casual sex department. I’ve had my share in the past, and I’ll likely have more. I’ve had arrangements that worked, arrangements that didn’t, arrangements that weren’t arrangements at all but repeated encounters of the drunken (and sometimes regrettable) variety. But, excuse me, Sir, if I gave you my number so you could call me for a date, that’s what you should use it for. Not to call me for some ass and then claim that isn’t why you were calling at all.

* Names have been changed -- for the innocents and the slimeballs alike -- because, hell, I’d want my name changed if someone were putting me in a blog. (And who’s to say any of those were their real names anyway?)