Lately, I have been regularly awoken from my slumber at 4am. Brrrrr. Brrrr. Brrrr. For some reason, 4am is the hour of choice for random men from my past to call me. My friend claims that this must be the hour of the demon. I am afraid I must agree.
Now, if I had one-night-stand-ed these men in the past, I may understand the early morning booty call. If I was a renowned tube dress owning, diamonte heel wearing, midori-swigging diva, I may understand why these phone calls were directed at me. The fact is, I have not and I am not. All of these men have never been inside my knickers. The sweetness of what I have to offer is unknown to them. I am not a nightclubber or even a pub-crawler. I am a community worker who is studying part time and spends most of my weekend in pyjama pants with cups of yogi tea, reading through statistics. Moreover, I have never answered any of these rudely-timed calls. I hang up and switch off. Always. So there is no evidence-base for their choice of recipient. It just makes no sense.
What goes through a drunk man’s mind when the hour of the demon strikes and his desires arise? Has he simply worked his way down the phone list and am I one of many sleep-interrupted victims?
What would happen if I answered? I suspect it would go a little something like this:
Booty-caller: Sierraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa (club noise pumping in background, other bogan males rejoicing at the fact that a female answered the call).
Booty-caller: How aaaaaaaarrrrrrre yaaaaa? (slur, slur, fumble, belch, etc).
Sierra: It is four in the morning. Has someone cracked you across the nose and are you in need of an ambo? Have you been abandoned in Frankston and are surrounded by ugg-wearing hoons? Are you pant-less and hiding behind a bush? No? None of the above? Well, why, may I ask, would you call me? A girl from your past who you have barely said boo to in three years? Oh, you thought I would be out? The week before my essays are due. Oh you didn’t know I was studying? Right, of course, because you knew me three years ago which was before I started my Masters and, in fact, we have not spoken since that point. In fact, I may not even be in Melbourne. This may no longer be my number. I may be married, I may have a baby. I may have changed my sexual preferences. So, what gave you the hide to call me at this witching hour?
Oh you were making your way through your phone book in the search of a booty call. I see. The clarity of that logic just astounds me.
But the truth is, I never answer. I cross my eyes, roll over, and think about it the next day.
It is not just the booty call which gets under my skin, in all of its un-gentlemanly disgracefulness. No. It is the follow-up the next day. The booty-calling-boys who wake you in the night never call to apologise the following day. You do not even receive a text message. Apology? No. Remorseful? Clearly not. If you raise it with them, they will claim first, that they can not remember (this is what your call history is for) and second, that it is because they like you so much (flatter me more boys, flatter me more).
Do these calls make my heart flutter and my hips quiver? No. They leave me tired, disgruntled and contemplating whether I should switch my digits.
How men win me over is with the little things – being driven to work when it rains, having a meal cooked for me from scratch, the door being opened, the jacket being placed over my shoulders when the wind picks up. These things mean the world to me and, my dears, it is these lovely, little things which have led me into the arms of a lovely neighbour of mine.
Until next time