Yeah, I'd had enough beer to intoxicate a small village, what of it? We were delayed, okay? Delayed. For hours. By the time I got on that plane, I'd visited every airport bar in the vicinity and was on a first-name basis with the three bartenders who are employed at Charleston International Airport. Frankly, all the Last Straight Flight Attendant on the commuter circuit had to do was SMILE at me to get me to think he wasn't a serial killer.
So shoot me if I flirted with him. He had nice eyes. And he gave me a free beer. Because I hate the turbulence and the turbulence, it hates me. And he might have brought the free beer to me because I was gripping the hand rest like it was the neck of a child I didn't particularly like, but I like to think he brought it to me because he liked my boobs. Either way, when he leaned down and whispered in my ear, "Do you want something to help you relax?" I was disappointed to learn that he meant ALCOHOL and not, say, a quickie in the miniscule airplane bathroom.
This didn't stop me from giving him my card upon leaving the plane, of course.
Imagine my surprise when he emailed me four days later and told me he'd be in New York City for an overnight in a couple of weeks and asked me if I'd like to meet up for a drink. I emailed back, "Who is this? I was on crystal meth that day -- I didn't even KNOW I was on a plane. Thanks for letting me know." No, really. I did. I have the email to prove it. But I also let him know that a drink would be something I'd be amenable to, considering the fact that there are very few drinks I am NOT amenable to.
Our plans were set. I'd give him a call on the given Wednesday he was arriving and we'd meet up for cocktails.
Wednesday arrived. I shaved, exfoliated, made sure my hair was less than insane, and packed some makeup and an outfit backup because one really shouldn't wear one's slutty skirt to the office unless one wants to get fired for being a ho. And then I got the email. The email stating that he was in town, but they'd been moved to a hotel outside of the airport and he didn't think he'd be able to make it into the city after all.
It was one in the afternoon.
What kind of moron can't get into the city from Queens at one in the afternoon?
I called him immediately and asked him what his problem was. "You're literally twenty minutes from the city. I mean, part of the beauty of living on the Upper East Side is being TWENTY MINUTES FROM LAGUARDIA. It's like a fifteen dollar cab ride, dude. You can get here." His response? "Wait, where is the Upper East Side?"
Clearly, he was dumber than a box of poster paint.
I emailed him a Google map of the area, WITH DIRECTIONS, and, while I was on the phone with him, I said, "I sent you a map." "What, is it one of those useless hotel maps they give you at the door?" Yes, idiot. I sent you a PAPER MAP via the COSMOS. I mean, what? I told him I sent him a map via email and he said, "Are you suuuuuuure you don't want to come here?" I said, "What, haul my ass all the way to LaGuardia so you can cut me up into little pieces and shove my remains into a suitcase that you take back to your lair so that you can display me amongst your other treasures? I DON'T KNOW YOU, DUDE."
Look. I'm fully aware that this was a booty call. I was aware that it would be a booty call the second I gave this guy my card. HE'S A FLIGHT ATTENDANT. I wasn't thinking we'd be married in a week. I'm not in the market for a boyfriend. I actually thought he might be the perfect man for me: never around, only wants to have sex when he's here, doesn't infringe on my weekends or "me" time. I just thought he might be a nice occasional booty call whenever he happened to be in town for an overnight. Really. But here's the thing: The booty should not have to GO to the call. The call should have to come to the booty. You want to see me naked? You have to come to me. I'm not coming to you. If I want to get laid, I can do so by walking out of my building and turning right, okay? I don't need to take a cab to get it.
I think the thing that bothered me the most about this was his overwhelming fear of leaving the airport environs. I could hear the fear in his voice when I explained that I worked in the city. What, did he think I lived and worked in Queens? Or LaGuardia? I told him I worked in midtown Manhattan and he asked me where that was. I realize that not everyone knows everything about Manhattan, but please. Even I knew where midtown KIND of was before I moved here. Hell, the NAME gives it away. Look at a map, genius. And then leave your hotel, call a cab and get the hell down here because every LaGuardia cabbie knows the way.
I mean, can't a girl get a decent booty call anymore? Or is it just that she can't CALL the booty call shots?
This is what I want to know: when we're calling the booty call shots, can we get an answer?