Sunday morning, at 2:30 a.m., I was jostled from my deep slumber by the obnoxious trill of my cellphone alerting me to a new text message. I knew it had to be one of two people. Anyone else who would text at such a late hour would be being rude, but a booty call is just playing by the rules.
I didn’t get the little rush I usually feel when I realize someone wants to come over to bang me in the middle of the night. I didn’t even really feel flattered. I glanced at my phone to double check — yep, Likely Candidate #1, the 28-year-old who was probably hoping for a good luck f**k on behalf of the Jets before that evening’s championship game. I clicked my phone to silent and got back underneath the covers. Not interested. This was kind of a big deal, as two weeks ago — before I began my sex/dating/drinking sabbatical — I would have texted him back in the affirmative and spent the 15 minutes before he arrived ensuring I didn’t have bad breath and that my armpits were shaved. Keep reading »




