Booty Call Quotes

The next slide is titled: EXPLORING YOUR SEXUALITY: HEALTHY, BUT DOES IT HAVE TO BE WITH THE PRINCE OF ENGLAND? She apologizes for not having time to come up with better titles. Alex actively wishes for the sweet release of death. The one after is: FEDERAL FUNDING, TRAVEL EXPENSES, BOOTY CALLS, AND YOU.

So the next time I answer a late night booty call from Jimmie and I actually go over to his place, what will you do?” … “Punch you in the vagina?” “Exactly!

I won't be your intergalactic booty call.

I’m not pretending this is anything more than a short-term relationship, but I like being with you even when there’s no sex involved. That means you’re not a booty call.

The bitch isn't afraid to be different, which is why she won't be a "booty call" or a pearl on a long string of pearls. She won't be a man's late-night convenience. She won't be doing lap dances. She won't be afraid to turn thirty or forty years old. At any age, this woman will feel like a "prize." She won't be defined by the media's perception of aging; she won't be made to feel like detective livestock because she is no longer a teenager. Married, single, or divorced, this woman feels good about herself.

You want the freedom to sleep around. I'm not willing to give you that. I want more. Sounds like we have a fundamental difference of opinion here, and I'm not going to try and change you. But I'll tell you one thing, Ruger- I deserve to be with someone who gives a shit about me, as a person. Someone who values me enough not to fuck other women. I'd rather be alone the rest of my life than settle for what you're offering. Consider yourself a hell of a booty call, but that's it. We clear?

Thanks for treating me like, you know, a person through all this shit. I know that isn't always easy. (Stark) You do have a habit of pissing on other people's welcome mats. But, when a gentleman gives you a booty call to a massacre, it's easy to forgive. Ciao. (Candy)

sight of the name on the screen. Anna. It grows when I read the text. This message is brought to you by the BCBS [Booty Call Broadcasting System]. If you are back in town, get your wet ass over here.

Wow,” Keefe said, coming up beside her. “Guess I can’t call her Glitter Butt until her fur grows back. How do you think she’d feel about Bald Booty?

Joe,” I whispered. “What’s on your mind?” Did booty call partners care what was on their booty call’s mind?

No booty calls,' Alex tells him, and Henry chokes on a laugh.

A loud song with a thumping beat rang from Jay's pocket. He gave me a goofy grin and began to bop his head back and forth to the rhythm. Oh, no-not the crazy booty dance. “Please don't,” I begged. Jay broke into his funky ringtone dance, shoulders bouncing and hips moving from side to side. People around us stepped away, surprised, then began to laugh and cheer him on. I pressed my fingers against my lips to hide an embarrassed smile. Just as the ringtone was about to end, he gave a little bow, straightened up, and answered the call.

Dear Daniel, How do you break up with your boyfriend in a way that tells him, "I don't want to sleep with you on a regular basis anymore, but please be available for late night booty calls if I run out of other options"? Lily Charlotte, NC Dear Lily, The story's so old you can't tell it anymore without everyone groaning, even your oldest friends with the last of their drinks shivering around the ice in their dirty glasses. The music playing is the same album everyone has. Those shoes, everybody has the same shoes on. It looked a little like rain so on person brought an umbrella, useless now in the starstruck clouded sky, forgotten on the way home, which is how the umbrella ended up in her place anyway. Everyone gets older on nights like this. And still it's a fresh slap in the face of everything you had going, that precarious shelf in the shallow closet that will certainly, certainly fall someday. Photographs slipping into a crack to be found by the next tenant, that one squinter third from the left laughing at something your roommate said, the coaster from that place in the city you used to live in, gone now. A letter that seemed important for reasons you can't remember, throw it out, the entry in the address book you won't erase but won't keep when you get a new phone, let it pass and don't worry about it. You don't think about them; "I haven't thought about them in forever," you would say if anybody brought it up, and nobody does." You think about them all the time. Close the book but forget to turn off the light, just sit staring in bed until you blink and you're out of it, some noise on the other side of the wall reminding you you're still here. That's it, that's everything. There's no statue in the town square with an inscription with words to live by. The actor got slapped this morning by someone she loved, slapped right across the face, but there's no trace of it on any channel no matter how late you watch. How many people--really, count them up--know where you are? How many will look after you when you don't show up? The churches and train stations are creaky and the street signs, the menus, the writing on the wall, it all feels like the wrong language. Nobody, nobody knows what you're thinking of when you lean your head against the wall. Put a sweater on when you get cold. Remind yourself, this is the night, because it is. You're free to sing what you want as you walk there, the trees rustling spookily and certainly and quietly and inimitably. Whatever shoes you want, fuck it, you're comfortable. Don't trust anyone's directions. Write what you might forget on the back of your hand, and slam down the cheap stuff and never mind the bad music from the window three floors up or what the boys shouted from the car nine years ago that keeps rattling around in your head, because you're here, you are, for the warmth of someone's wrists where the sleeve stops and the glove doesn't quite begin, and the slant of the voice on the punch line of the joke and the reflection of the moon in the water on the street as you stand still for a moment and gather your courage and take a breath before stealing away through the door. Look at it there. Take a good look. It looks like rain. Love, Daniel Handler

The iPhone isn't a gift. It's a booty-call device— his means of communicating with me about hooking up while he holds all the control. This is one way he remains untraceable.

Happiness is a booty call: available and satisfying, but after a few hours, you’re ready to call an Uber and get back to your real commitments.

This message is brought to you by the BCBS [Booty Call Broadcasting System]. If you are back in town, get your wet ass over here." (The Hook Up, 42%)

Outside, with the exception of the occasional horny bug sending out its booty call,

You remember how he used to be girl on either arm? You really don't see that guy too much anymore. Why do you think that is? He's waiting for you. I know you're dealing with stuff but you cannot ask him to wait forever! Unless of course, you're okay with him pulling away." "What if it doesn't work out? What if it ends up like you and Javier?" "Well at least we gave it a shot. And so it didn't work out, so what? Now, we can move on give or take the occasional booty call." "I just don't wanna lose what we have, you know?" "Girl please! What exactly do you have, really?" "A friendship." "No. What you and I have is a friendship. What you and castle have is a holding pattern. How long can you circle before the fuel runs out?

I think I better leave.” “No.” That one word stopped her dead cold. “Come here.” “Why?” “Because.” As if it was enough of an answer. She shook her head. “It’s only going to confuse things. You don’t want anything serious, and I’m not going to be some late night booty call.” He shot off the bed and was in front of her in seconds. “That offends me.” “Sorry.” She tried to put some space between them, but he just continued to close the gap. “I’m just being honest. Am I wrong?” He grasped her head, threading his fingers through her hair. “I’ll let you know after.” “After what?” “After this.” He kissed her

Many couples choose not to have friends with kids and find fulfilling friendships with like-minded couples who also value disposable income over propagating the human race.

Bridget's fiancé keeps giving her late-night booty calls. Although he has to ring at midday so she can get there in time.

Your booty call embargo will remain intact.

no booty calls,' Alex tells him, and Henry chokes on a laugh

Please, if it’s before one a.m., it doesn’t even count as a booty call. You’re still on ‘Netflix and Chill’ time.

Feminism to Baby Boomers is like the Headless Horseman to Sleepy Hollow: everyone's got a story about how it destroyed a friend of a friend, but none of them have ever actually seen it.

Your gift for euphemism continues to thrive. But I think I have heard of such modern relationships. There is a colloquialism for them, yes? They are boogie calls.” “Boogie? Oh! Nice try. You were very close. They’re known as booty calls.” “That’s what I said. Booty calls.” “You said boogie—” The Morrigan’s eyes flashed red for the briefest moment, and I cleared my throat. “Pardon me. I must have misheard you. Quite right.

Tomorrow morning, you’re staying all night by the way since this isn’t a booty call, before I cook you breakfast, I will give you a full tour of the entire estate before we drive to your old house and level it to the ground. Now, however, the only room I want to show you is the one with my giant bed in it.” Isaias to Liesl

These are not sentimental keepsakes. She never looks at them, and often forgets what she has there. They are not booty, they don't have ritualistic significance. She does not take something every time she goes to Gordon's house, or every time she stays over, or to mark what she might call memorable visits. She doesn't do it in a daze and she doesn't seem to be under a compulsion. She just takes something, every now and then, and puts it away in the dark of the old tobacco tin, and more or less forgets about it.

Let’s just say that it did not end well. Things were thrown, curses hurled, none of the three ever came over again, and I had to recruit a whole new stable of booty calls. Maybe a better man than me could have turned that night into something out of Penthouse Letters, but all I did was end up with my dick in my hand and a mess in my apartment.

The second is to learn about yourself.” She touches the Heinz. “Your first crush has been crushed. You’re sad, but most of all, you’re angry. Angry enough to not let it happen again,” she explains. “To not give yourself over so much this time. To not give up your power to be his booty call at midnight and there waiting whenever he decides to show up.

enough to not let it happen again,” she explains. “To not give yourself over so much this time. To not give up your power to be his booty call at midnight and there waiting whenever he decides to show up.” She’s describing us, I take it. “Number two is where you finally learn what you’re capable of,” she continues, tucking a loose strand from her ponytail behind her ear. “You start getting demanding. You grow bold, not afraid to start calling some shots. You’re also not afraid to be greedier in the bedroom, because it’s about what you want and not what he wants. Number two is to be used. In a way.” My dad clears his throat, and I laugh to myself as I drop my fork and give her my full attention. She said bedroom. “What the fuck did she teach you?” he mumbles. But I want her to keep going. “And number three?” I ask, picking up the A.1. “Love.” She snatches the bottle away. “When the lessons of your weakness with number one and your selfishness with number two sink in, and you find a medium. When you know who you are and you’re ready to welcome everything he is, and you’re not afraid anymore.” She puts the bottle

Book club meets every other month or so. Besides marriage counseling and the very occasional night out with my sister, I’m home twenty-nine nights out of thirty, and still the girls resent me. Not once have they ever complained about Adam’s late meetings—which may or may not have been booty calls for amazing porno sex. Me, I go out to my stupid book club, and I’m punished for it.

Justice being taken away, then, what are kingdoms but great robberies? For what are robberies themselves, but little kingdoms? The band itself is made up of men; it is ruled by the authority of a prince, it is knit together by the pact of the confederacy; the booty is divided by the law agreed on. If, by the admittance of abandoned men, this evil increases to such a degree that it holds places, fixes abodes, takes possession of cities, and subdues peoples, it assumes the more plainly the name of a kingdom, because the reality is now manifestly conferred on it, not by the removal of covetousness, but by the addition of impunity. Indeed, that was an apt and true reply which was given to Alexander the Great by a pirate who had been seized. For when that king had asked the man what he meant by keeping hostile possession of the sea, he answered with bold pride, "What you mean by seizing the whole earth; but because I do it with a petty ship, I am called a robber, while you who does it with a great fleet are styled emperor.

I should be fucking pissed and demand she let me take her out on a date. I wasn’t a booty call. She needed to know this shit between us was the real deal. She wasn’t getting away from me. Hadley: Come up, if you want. Who was I fucking kidding? I barreled through my hallway, stumbled over some random shit on the floor, slipped on my boots, and headed out the door. She didn’t regret what we did. She wanted to do it again.

Dear Young Black Males, Are you growing up without your father? How does that make you feel? Angry, sad, confused, resentful, etc? Do you feel a void in your life? Do you feel like your life would’ve been better if your father had been in your life? If you get a young lady pregnant, do what’s right. Even if you choose NOT to be with her anymore, you have a responsibility to your child. Even if it was a one-night stand and/or booty call, hey, you took that risk. If you don’t want kids, strap up every time. I don’t care if she tells you she’s on the pill. Strap up! If not, don’t get mad or make excuses when she tells you that she’s having your baby. If you refuse to do your part, she may even get you for child support. If you have a job, that means your check will be garnished. So think twice before you take off your clothes. Is it worth it? Think it through.

Do you have a message for Master Corbin before you go?” the little vamp asked. “No,” I said shortly. “Wait—yes. Tell him if he thinks giving me his private number will inspire me to make a booty call, he’s sadly mistaken.” The androgynous vamp gave me a puzzled look. “A booty call? You will call his buttocks on the telephone? I do not understand.” I stifled a snicker. “You don’t have to. Basically it means I’m not interested in fucking a vampire.

The booty call Commandments:” Thou shall get out before the sun rises. Thou shalt not ask “can we can go out to eat?” Thou shalt never ask, “can we see each other from now on?!” Thou shalt not kiss and hold hands. Thou shall refrain from using the terms “make love, in love and I love.” Thou shalt not ever cuddle. Thou shall never come over unexpected. Thou shall scream my name. Thou shalt not ask to walk thee to thy car. If someone cometh over whilst thou art there, thou art my cousin from out of town.

Bill.' If you don't, I'll do this," and with that he gave me a twitch that I thought would have made me faint. Between this and that, I was so utterly terrified of the blind beggar that I forgot my terror of the captain, and as I opened the parlour door, cried out the words he had ordered in a trembling voice. The poor captain raised his eyes, and at one look the rum went out of him and left him staring sober. The expression of his face was not so much of terror as of mortal sickness. He made a movement to rise, but I do not believe he had enough force left in his body. "Now, Bill, sit where you are," said the beggar. "If I can't see, I can hear a finger stirring. Business is business. Hold out your left hand. Boy, take his left hand by the wrist and bring it near to my right." We both obeyed him to the letter, and I saw him pass something from the hollow of the hand that held his stick into the palm of the captain's, which closed upon it instantly. "And now that's done," said the blind man; and at the words he suddenly left hold of me, and with incredible accuracy and nimbleness, skipped out of the parlour and into the road, where, as I still stood motionless, I could hear his stick go tap-tap-tapping into the distance. It was some time before either I or the captain seemed to gather our senses, but at length, and about at the same moment, I released his wrist, which I was still holding, and he drew in his hand and looked sharply into the palm. "Ten o'clock!" he cried. "Six hours. We'll do them yet," and he sprang to his feet. Even as he did so, he reeled, put his hand to his throat, stood swaying for a moment, and then, with a peculiar sound, fell from his whole height face foremost to the floor. I ran to him at once, calling to my mother. But haste was all in vain. The captain had been struck dead by thundering apoplexy. It is a curious thing to understand, for I had certainly never liked the man, though of late I had begun to pity him, but as soon as I saw that he was dead, I burst into a flood of tears. It was the second death I had known, and the sorrow of the first was still fresh in my heart. 4 The Sea-chest I LOST no time, of course, in telling my mother all that I knew, and perhaps should have told her long before, and we saw ourselves at once in a difficult and dangerous position. Some of the man's money—if he had any—was certainly due to us, but it was not likely that our captain's shipmates, above all the two specimens seen by me, Black Dog and the blind beggar, would be inclined to give up their booty in payment of the dead man's debts. The captain's order to mount at once and ride for Doctor Livesey would have left my mother alone and unprotected, which was not to be thought of. Indeed, it seemed impossible for either of us to remain much longer in the house; the fall of coals in the kitchen grate, the very ticking of the clock, filled us with alarms. The neighbourhood, to our ears, seemed haunted by approaching footsteps; and what between the dead body of the captain on the parlour floor and the thought of that detestable blind beggar hovering near at hand and ready to return, there were moments when, as the saying goes, I jumped in my skin for terror. Something must speedily be resolved upon, and it occurred to us at last to go forth together and seek help in the neighbouring hamlet. No sooner said than done. Bare-headed as we were, we ran out at once in the gathering evening and the frosty fog. The hamlet lay not many hundred yards away, though out of view, on the other side of the next cove; and what greatly encouraged me, it was in an opposite direction from that whence the blind man had made his appearance and whither he had presumably returned. We were not many minutes on the road, though we sometimes stopped to lay hold of each other and hearken. But there was no unusual sound—nothing but the low wash of the ripple and the croaking of the inmates of the wood.

How far do you wanna go?” She moans when I give her ass a smack, rubbing the sting away in slow circles. “All the way.” I bury my head at the base of her throat, groaning, grinding my erection against her stomach. “Tell me what you what James; tell me and I’ll do it.” “I want to spend the night. This isn’t a booty call.” She rattles off demands. “This isn’t a one-night stand. I want respect. You do not get to kick me out afterward, or in the morning. I want breakfast and I want you in the kitchen cooking it for me.” The pads of my palms continue stroking her brilliant backside, pulling her in flush. “How do waffles sound?

Significantly, most British and French antislavery fervor in the 1860s was directed not at Spain and Portugal, which allowed slavery in their colonies, or at Brazil, with its millions of slaves. Instead, righteous denunciations poured down on a distant, weak, and safely nonwhite target: the so-called Arab slave-traders raiding Africa from the east. In the slave markets of Zanzibar, traders sold their human booty to Arab plantation owners on the island itself, and to other buyers in Persia, Madagascar, and the various sultanates and principalities of the Arabian peninsula. For Europeans, here was an ideal target for disapproval: one “uncivilised” race enslaving another.

for ordinary African Americans, coping with hegemonic gender ideology can be so demanding that generating alternatives can seem virtually impossible. But the importance of this task cannot be underestimated because African American survival may depend on it. One important task lies in rejecting dominant gender ideology, in particular, its use of the thesis of "weak men, strong women" as a source of Black social control. Because hegemonic masculinity equates strength with dominance, an antiracist politics must challenge this connection. Within this project, the fundamental premise of any progressive Black gender ideology is that it cannot be based on someone else's subordination. This means that definitions of Black masculinity that rely on the subordination of Black women, poor people, children, LGBT people, or anyone else become invalid. Definitions of Black femininity that do not challenge relations of sexism, economic exploitation, age, heterosexism, and other markers of social inequality also become suspect. Rather than trying to be strong within existing gender ideology, the task lies in rejecting a gender ideology that measures masculinity and femininity using gendered definitions of strength. In this endeavor to craft a more progressive Black gender ideology, African American men and women face similar yet distinctive challenges. The task for African American men lies in developing new definitions of masculinity that uncouple strength from its close ties to male dominance. Good Black men need not rule their families with an iron hand, assault one another, pursue endless booty calls, and always seem to be "in control" in order to avoid the sigma of weakness. The task for African American women lies in redefining strength in ways that simultaneously enable Black women to reclaim historical sources of female power, yet reject the exploitation that has often accompanied that power. Good Black women need not be stoic mules whose primary release from work and responsibility comes once a week on Sunday morning. New definitions of strength would enable Black men and women alike to be seen as needing and worthy of one another's help and support without being stigmatized as either overly weak or unnaturally strong.

I swear to Christ, I will never understand you Back Woods people. You have the perfect life in the most gorgeous place on the planet and all you can say is ‘It’s too hot.’ Jonas was like pulling teeth this morning. Swim time,” Gina calls out to Finn and Maddy. “Last one in, cutie pies. It’s time to boogie.” She gives a little booty shake. Maddy looks over at me with an expression of pure horror, but they follow her down to the water, racing to dive in headfirst

You know everybody hooks up on the ski trip, right? It’s like a school-sanctioned booty call.” “What?” “That’s where I lost my V freshman year.” “I thought you lost it in the woods near your house.” “Oh yeah. Whatever, the point is, I had sex on the ski trip.” “There are chaperones,” I say worriedly. “How can people just have sex with chaperones around?” “Chaperones go to sleep early because they’re old,” Chris says. “People just sneak out. Plus there’s a hot tub. Did you know that there’s a hot tub?” “No…Peter never mentioned that.” Well, that’s that, I just won’t pack a bathing suit. It’s not like they can make you go in a hot tub if you don’t want to. “The year I went, people were skinny-dipping.” My eyes bug out. Skinny-dipping! “People were nude?” “Well, the girls took their tops off. Just be prepared.” Chris chews on her fingernail. “Last year I heard Mr. Dunham got in the hot tub with students and it was weird.” “This sounds like the Wild West,” I mutter. “More like Girls Gone Wild.

Caligula: a byword for murder, torture, madness, excess. Caligula: the villainous tyrant against whom all other villainous tyrants were measured. Caligula: who had a worse branding problem than the Edsel, the Hindenburg and the Chicago Black Sox put together. Grover shuddered. "I've always hated that name. What does it mean anyway? Satyr Killer? Blood Drinker? "Booties," I said. Joshua's shaggy olive hair stood straight up, which Meg seemed to find fascinating. "Booties?" Joshua glanced around the Cistern, perhaps wondering if he'd missed the joke. No one was laughing. "Yes." I could still remember how cute little Caligula had looked in his miniature legionnaire's outfit when he accompanied his father, Germanicus, on military campaigns. Why were sociopaths always so adorable as children? "His father's soldiers gave Caligula the nickname when he was a child," I said. "He wore teeny-weeny legionnaire's boots, caligae, and they thought that was hysterical. So they called him Caligula - Little Boots, or Baby Shoes, or Booties. Pick your translation.

NEVER been nor will I EVER be interested in being a back-burner, rebound, spare-of-the-moment, side-piece, booty-call fly-by-night, drive-thru bang & go, “friends-with-benefits” type of Woman. Yes…..I may be flawed, I may not be the best looker, I have NEVER nor do I EVER think that I am better than anyone or think that I am too good, but I AM Valuable & Worth it. So, I will NEVER beg or compete for a Friendship/Companionship/Relationship from any man nor will I ever be the Woman a man settles for or just another Woman on some guys list. SETTLING BEING THE “OTHER” WOMAN WILL NEVER BE SUITABLE FOR ME---I TO DESERVE TO BE PUT ON A PEDESTAL.....#IPromiseMe

The only people who ever called me were my dad, my brother, assorted Vaders to tell me to come early or late to work (including Sean, but he always sounded grumpy that he had to call me, so it wasn’t as big a thrill as you’d think), Tammy to tell me to come early or late to tennis practice, and Frances. I glanced at the caller ID screen and clicked the phone on. “What’s up, Fanny?” From the time Mom died until I was eleven, Frances the au pair had hung out in the background of my life. Once Sean overheard someone calling her Fanny, whch apparently is a nickname for Frances. We found this shocking. I mean, who has a nickname that’s a synonym for derriere? Who’s named Frances in the first place? So the boys started calling her Fanny the Nanny. Then, Booty the Babysitter. Then, Butt I Don’t Need a Governess. This had everything to do with the nickname Fanny and the fact that she tried not to get upset at being addressed in this undignified manner when she was trying to raise compassionate, responsible children. It had nothing to do with her having an outsized rumpus. Frances had a cute figure, if you could see it under all that hippie-wear.

Concealing himself from his father's wrath, behind the barn with wick turned low and his face two inches from the rough sawtooth page, Young Crawford had read of these atrocities in Beadle's Dime Library and fantasized about "calling out" the brutal old man who had sired him, "throwing down" on him with the "hogleg" he wore high on his hip, and blasting him into hell; after which he would go "on the scout," separating high-interest banks and arrogant railroad barons from their soiled coin and distributing it among their victims, or failing that into his own pockets and saddle pouches and living the "high Life" in saloons and "dance halls" where beautiful women in brief costumes admired his straight legs and square jaw and told him of the men who had "ruined" them (he knew not just how, only that the act was disgraceful and its effects permanent), whereupon he sought the blackguards out and deprived them of their lives. There was usually profit involved; invariably the men were thieves who lived in close proximity to their "ill-gotten booty," and didn't it say somewhere in Scripture that robbing a thief was no sin? If it didn't, it should have.

Ione III. TO-DAY my skies are bare and ashen, And bend on me without a beam. Since love is held the master-passion, Its loss must be the pain supreme — And grinning Fate has wrecked my dream. But pardon, dear departed Guest, I will not rant, I will not rail; For good the grain must feel the flail; There are whom love has never blessed. I had and have a younger brother, One whom I loved and love to-day As never fond and doting mother Adored the babe who found its way From heavenly scenes into her day. Oh, he was full of youth's new wine, — A man on life's ascending slope, Flushed with ambition, full of hope; And every wish of his was mine. A kingly youth; the way before him Was thronged with victories to be won; so joyous, too, the heavens o'er him Were bright with an unchanging sun, — His days with rhyme were overrun. Toil had not taught him Nature's prose, Tears had not dimmed his brilliant eyes, And sorrow had not made him wise; His life was in the budding rose. I know not how I came to waken, Some instinct pricked my soul to sight; My heart by some vague thrill was shaken, — A thrill so true and yet so slight, I hardly deemed I read aright. As when a sleeper, ign'rant why, Not knowing what mysterious hand Has called him out of slumberland, Starts up to find some danger nigh. Love is a guest that comes, unbidden, But, having come, asserts his right; He will not be repressed nor hidden. And so my brother's dawning plight Became uncovered to my sight. Some sound-mote in his passing tone Caught in the meshes of my ear; Some little glance, a shade too dear, Betrayed the love he bore Ione. What could I do? He was my brother, And young, and full of hope and trust; I could not, dared not try to smother His flame, and turn his heart to dust. I knew how oft life gives a crust To starving men who cry for bread; But he was young, so few his days, He had not learned the great world's ways, Nor Disappointment's volumes read. However fair and rich the booty, I could not make his loss my gain. For love is dear, but dearer, duty, And here my way was clear and plain. I saw how I could save him pain. And so, with all my day grown dim, That this loved brother's sun might shine, I joined his suit, gave over mine, And sought Ione, to plead for him. I found her in an eastern bower, Where all day long the am'rous sun Lay by to woo a timid flower. This day his course was well-nigh run, But still with lingering art he spun Gold fancies on the shadowed wall. The vines waved soft and green above, And there where one might tell his love, I told my griefs — I told her all! I told her all, and as she hearkened, A tear-drop fell upon her dress. With grief her flushing brow was darkened; One sob that she could not repress Betrayed the depths of her distress. Upon her grief my sorrow fed, And I was bowed with unlived years, My heart swelled with a sea of tears, The tears my manhood could not shed. The world is Rome, and Fate is Nero, Disporting in the hour of doom. God made us men; times make the hero — But in that awful space of gloom I gave no thought but sorrow's room. All — all was dim within that bower, What time the sun divorced the day; And all the shadows, glooming gray, Proclaimed the sadness of the hour. She could not speak — no word was needed; Her look, half strength and half despair, Told me I had not vainly pleaded, That she would not ignore my prayer. And so she turned and left me there, And as she went, so passed my bliss; She loved me, I could not mistake — But for her own and my love's sake, Her womanhood could rise to this! My wounded heart fled swift to cover, And life at times seemed very drear. My brother proved an ardent lover — What had so young a man to fear? He wed Ione within the year. No shadow clouds her tranquil brow, Men speak her husband's name with pride, While she sits honored at his side —

In the earliest strand of the conquest narratives, Joshua's violence was associated with an ancient Canaanite custom called the "ban" (herem). Before a battle, a military leader would strike a deal with his god: if this deity undertook to give him the city, the commander promised to "devote" (HRM) all valuable loot to his temple and offer the conquered people to him in a human sacrifice. Joshua had made such a pact with Yahweh before attacking Jericho, and Yahweh responded by delivering the town to Israel in a specular miracle, causing its famous walls to collapse when the priests blew their rams' horns. Before allowing his troops to storm the city, Joshua explained the terms of the ban and stipulated that no one in the city should be spared, since everybody and everything in the town had been "devoted" to Yahweh. Accordingly, the Israelites "enforced the ban on everything in the town, men, and women, young and old, even the oxen and sheep and donkeys, massacring them all." But the ban had been violated when one of the soldiers kept booty for himself, and consequently the Israelites failed to take the town of Ai the following day. After the culprit had been found and executed, the Israelites attached Ai again, this time successfully, setting fire to the city so that it became a sacrificial pyre and slaughtering anybody who tried to escape: "The number of those who fell that day, men and women together, were twelve thousand all (the) people of Ai." Finally Joshua hanged the king from a tree, built a monumental cairn over his body, and reduced the city to "a ruin for ever more, a desolate place, even today.

Around Christmas 2003, we visited Chris’s parents in Texas. I found myself exceptionally hungry, though I couldn’t figure out why. When we came back to California, I just felt something was off. Could I be…pregnant? Nah. I bought a pregnancy test just in case. Chris and I had always planned to have children, but we weren’t in a rush about it. In fact, we had only recently decided to be “a little less careful.” It was a compromise between our spontaneous impulses and our careful planning instincts, which we both shared. We figured, if it happens somewhere in the next year… I was upstairs in the house working when I decided to take a break and check things out. Wow. WOW!!! Chris happened to be home fiddling with something in the garage. I ran downstairs, holding the stick in my hand. When I got there, I held it up, waving. “Hey, babe,” he said, looking at me as if I were waving a sword. “Come here,” I said. “I have to show you something.” He came over. I showed him the stick. “Okay?” “Look!” “What is it?” “Look at this!” Obviously, he wasn’t familiar with home pregnancy tests. Maybe that’s a guy thing-given that the tests reveal either your worst nightmare or one of the most exciting events of your life. I’d wager every woman in America knows what they are and how they work. Slowly it dawned on him. “Oh my God,” he said, stunned. “Are you…?” “Yes!” We confirmed it at the doctor’s soon after. I know you’re supposed to wait something like twelve weeks before telling anyone-there’s so much that can go wrong-but we couldn’t keep that kind of secret to ourselves for more than a few days. We ended up sending packages with an ultrasound and baby booties-one pink, one blue-to our parents, telling them we had a late Christmas surprise and to call us so we could be on the phone when they opened them.

I’m going to say this once here, and then—because it is obvious—I will not repeat it in the course of this book: not all boys engage in such behavior, not by a long shot, and many young men are girls’ staunchest allies. However, every girl I spoke with, every single girl—regardless of her class, ethnicity, or sexual orientation; regardless of what she wore, regardless of her appearance—had been harassed in middle school, high school, college, or, often, all three. Who, then, is truly at risk of being “distracted” at school? At best, blaming girls’ clothing for the thoughts and actions of boys is counterproductive. At worst, it’s a short step from there to “she was asking for it.” Yet, I also can’t help but feel that girls such as Camila, who favors what she called “more so-called provocative” clothing, are missing something. Taking up the right to bare arms (and legs and cleavage and midriffs) as a feminist rallying cry strikes me as suspiciously Orwellian. I recall the simple litmus test for sexism proposed by British feminist Caitlin Moran, one that Camila unconsciously referenced: Are the guys doing it, too? “If they aren’t,” Moran wrote, “chances are you’re dealing with what we strident feminists refer to as ‘some total fucking bullshit.’” So while only girls get catcalled, it’s also true that only girls’ fashions urge body consciousness at the very youngest ages. Target offers bikinis for infants. The Gap hawks “skinny jeans” for toddlers. Preschoolers worship Disney princesses, characters whose eyes are larger than their waists. No one is trying to convince eleven-year-old boys to wear itty-bitty booty shorts or bare their bellies in the middle of winter. As concerned as I am about the policing of girls’ sexuality through clothing, I also worry about the incessant drumbeat of self-objectification: the pressure on young women to reduce their worth to their bodies and to see those bodies as a collection of parts that exist for others’ pleasure; to continuously monitor their appearance; to perform rather than to feel sensuality. I recall a conversation I had with Deborah Tolman, a professor at Hunter College and perhaps the foremost expert on teenage girls’ sexual desire. In her work, she said, girls had begun responding “to questions about how their bodies feel—questions about sexuality or arousal—by describing how they think they look. I have to remind them that looking good is not a feeling.

The phone was snatched from her grasp. She let out a screech, her fingers clasping at air. “Hey! Give that back.” Gracie slipped it down the V of her tank and into her ample cleavage. “Come and get it.” Billy plopped down on a vacant stool, eyes bugging out of his head. Maddie stared at Gracie’s chest and contemplated. She could stick her hand down a woman’s top. It was no big deal—just skin, for God’s sake. She jumped off the stool and straightened to her full five-foot-three inches. “What is wrong with calling him?” “It’s a girlfriend’s responsibility to stop her friend from the dreaded drunk dial.” Maddie scowled. She was not drunk dialing! “Telling him where I am isn’t a crime.” Gracie planted her hands on her hips. “Sorry, honey. I’m doing this for your own good.” “You don’t understand.” Maddie picked up her drink and took a slow sip. Her gaze was fixed on the stretch of fabric across Gracie’s ample chest. She wanted that phone, and with way too many margaritas in her system, she wasn’t above groping another woman to get it. “I’m getting that phone.” Billy’s mouth dropped open, and Maddie was surprised no drool hung down his chin like a rabid dog’s. “You’ll thank me later.” Gracie didn’t appear the least bit threatened. If anything, she thrust her breasts out farther, as though daring Maddie to come and get it. “Give it to me!” Maddie stomped her foot. “Like I said, come and get it.” Gracie batted her thick lashes, cornflower-blue eyes sparkling. She tucked her hand into her top and shoved it lower into her bra. “All right, but remember, I know how to fight.” Gracie laughed and Billy whooped like he’d hit the jackpot. Maddie charged. Gracie’s eyes widened in surprise, and she let out a holler, crossing her arms over her chest for protection. Maddie refused to be thwarted. She squeezed her lids together so she wouldn’t have to look and flung her hands out, praying she’d get hold of something. When her palm brushed against soft, pillowy cotton, she squealed. Pay dirt. “Maddie!” Gracie grabbed her hand, twisting her body to block Maddie’s progress. “That’s my boob!” Maddie reached again and this time her hand curled around the cotton neckline. She pulled, squirming down the deep V of the top. Her fingers brushed the phone and a surge of adrenaline pounded through her. “Now, why doesn’t this surprise me?” Mitch’s voice made her knees go weak. Before she could swing around, she was hauled against his warm, strong body. She sagged in relief. He’d come for her after all. “You girls are giving everyone quite a show.” Charlie stood next to Mitch, looking lethal in all black. Maddie could picture him with an FBI armband over his bicep. Wait . . . was that the FBI? Or was it SWAT? “With all these disappointed faces, I’m sorry we broke them up.” Mitch’s tone rang with amusement, and Maddie realized it had been too long since she’d heard him sound like that. “I wanted to call you, but she wouldn’t let me.” Her pulse raced from her girl fight and the buzz of tequila. His palm spread wide over the expanse of her stomach, his thumb brushing the bottom of her breast. “Well, here I am.” “See!” Gracie pointed and shook her hips in a little booty dance. “I told you so!” Yes,

Mr. Sweet answered, "THE TANK. WE DON'T HAVE ANY VACANCIES. CALL BACK TOMORROW." "WAIT. IT'S MiKEY." "MiKEY?" "YEAH." I ask him if he's seen Tiger. "That sweet delicious young thing you brought in tonight with the nice round booty? Yeah I SAW him. Said that he had NO IDEA where you were." "I'm in my room. Where is he?" "He left. You know that he's Sebastian Wolfe's lover?" "I know. How long ago did he leave?" "Two minutes.. three tops. Did you know-" "No I DIDN'T." I hang up, put my shoes on, and run out the door.

In Britain, it’s kind of an old-guy thing to do,” I explain as she gleefully chalks up a cue stick. “You’re kidding! We have them in all the bars where I live.” She pantomimes a big theatrical wink. “Not that I’ve been in any, of course. Here, I’ll teach you to play pool. Though ‘snooker’ is a really cool word. Snooker!” she says, and it sounds hilarious in her accent. Who’d have thought it--me and Paige. If not BFFs, we’re certainly BFTs. Best Temporary Friends. I certainly didn’t see that coming. But we’re united, at least, in refusing to withdraw into the kind of slump that both Kendra and Kelly are indulging in. It may be unfair of me, but I think it’s selfish of them. We’re all in this together, away from home, and though the group could cope with one of the four throwing a wobbly, two is unquestionably a downer. Thank goodness, Paige teaching me pool is a lot of fun, especially as she keeps showing me how guys put their arms around girls from behind to do what I call copping a feel and she calls doing a booty rub. We laugh, a lot. We laugh so much that Paige’s mobile rings four times before we hear it, and she only just answers it before it goes to voice mail. “Hey, Ev! No, I wasn’t ignoring you--Violet and I were playing pool. She calls it snooker! Isn’t that such a great word?

Charismatic authority is best described by a series of negatives—by what it is not.161 The staff of a charismatic leader is not made up of technically-trained officials. Appointment and dismissal, career and promotion have no place here, only the call of the leader himself. There is no hierarchical organization, no defined sphere of competence, and no salary scale. There is “no system of formal rules, of abstract legal principles,” no systematic judicial process, and no recognition of the normative status of precedent. Each judicial decision is arrived at de novo, as if by a fresh oracle of the divine. Charismatic authority repudiates the past and allows no place for tradition. Ordinary economic considerations have no place either, while “‘booty’ and extortion” are “the typical form of charismatic provision for needs.

She got a big booty so I call her Big Booty

Later that day at the hospital, I chose to wear my boots with my scrubs. I assisted on an angioplasty and when Abbie, the scrub nurse, looked down at the booties over my boots, she laughed. “What?” Smiling, she said, “I like your boots. I didn’t take you for a cowboy.” “It’s a state of mind, Abbie, plain and simple.” “We’ve all been calling you Hollywood.” I laughed loudly. “I will spare you my John Wayne impression.

The comfortable weight of the books in the canvas bag that Daniel had lent him made Jerry feel like a pirate coming ashore with his booty. No, more like a dragon heading back to his hoard. The urge to clutch his book bag to his chest, pet it, and call it “Precious” was strong.

I’m going to be completely honest, Sabrina—this is a booty call and nothing else. You have every right to slap me and walk back out there. But I hope you don’t. I’m sensing you need a release right now too.

Modern culture treats sex outside of marriagea as being no big deal. It’s considered completely normal and not something to be ashamed of; if anything, people brag about it and argue that it’s a positive good. It’s described as being a “casual” activity; something you can do with “no strings attached.” You can supposedly have meaningless “hookups,” “one-night stands,” or text your “friends with benefits” to set up a “booty call,” which is probably the most unromantic thing I can even think of. This idea that sex outside of marriage is OK is probably the biggest lie we are told, and the biggest source of our problems—not just in dating, but in all of life. I know that is a bold statement, but consider the evidence: after the so-called “sexual revolution” of the 1960s, divorce rates doubled, followed by an ongoing decline in marriage rates.1 Currently, 40 percent of children in the United States are born out of wedlock, without a stable, married, two-parent family; in the 1960s, at the start of the sexual revolution, that number was just 7 percent.2 Besides those births, there have been 60 million US children killed before birth via abortion since 1973.3 Sexually transmitted diseases (STDs), which would be almost nonexistent if all people were monogamous,b are instead at record highs,4 with something like 20 million new infections in the country each year.5 Pornography use has become so common that it’s just kind of assumed for men but is also regularly consumed by at least a third of all women.6 And then you have all the ways people use and abuse sex as a way to use and abuse other people through either harassment or assault, which is a huge problem: it’s estimated that one in five women are raped at some point in their lives,7 while the majority are either harassed or assaulted in some form.8 Go beyond the statistics and think about how all these things would affect the actual people involved, and all the various costs associated with each one. Add it all up, and the impact both on society and on individual relationships is ridiculously massive.

I realized, looking at her, that as much as it fucking sucked that all I was to her at the moment was a booty call, I’d take whatever she was willing to give me. If she wanted nothing but a friend with benefits right now, that’s what I’d be for her, because the way I felt about her wouldn’t let me refuse any chance at getting closer to her.

Having a consistent booty call was easier than wading into the sewage of online dating or waiting for lightning to strike in real life.

In the Alpine valleys of Piedmont there had been for centuries congregations of believers calling themselves brethren, who came later to be widely known as Waldenses, or Vaudois. . . . In the South of France. . . the congregations of believers who met apart from the Catholic Church were numerous and increasing. They are often called Albigenses [and] had intimate connections with the brethren—whether called Waldenses, Poor Men of Lyons, Bogomils, or otherwise—in the surrounding countries, where churches spread among the various peoples.       In 1209 [Pope Innocent III] proclaimed a crusade against [them]. Indulgences, such as had been given to the [Holy Land] Crusaders. . . were now offered to all who would take part in the easier work of destroying the most fruitful provinces of France. This, and the prospect of booty and license of every kind, attracted hundreds of thousands of men. Under the presidence of high clerical dignitaries and led by Simon de Montfort, a military leader of great ability. . . the most beautiful and cultivated part of Europe at that time was ravaged. . . .33

That’s fine until Ethan’s sitting in his room waiting for his nightly booty call. When you’re a no-show, and he thinks that we’re out on the town, he’s going to think something happened to us and get everyone all freaked out.

You ever need somebody to come and rub on your booty, you know my number, just give me a call.

Long before I ever saw him coming into Connie Sue’s salon, a friend of mine in high school was always talking about a guy named Jeptha. She was very sweet. She went to the Pentecostal church and dressed very conservatively--hair down to her booty, skirts, little makeup. We had history class together, and she used to let me put mascara on her. “He’s a dream,” she used to say. I could tell she had a crush on this guy, and I’d just roll my eyes and shake my head. I doubt it, I’d say to myself, after the thousandth time she’d talked about Jeptha and called him dreamy again. I was familiar with the name but not the actual guy, and it wasn’t until the glide-by at Connie Sue’s that I came face-to-face with the dream. Whoops! I mean, with Jeptha. I didn’t think a whole lot more about him until I saw him again a couple of weeks later at a music club called Edge of Madness. There was no drinking, just music, and lots of kids hanging out. The Jeptha came up to me during a break in the music and introduced himself. “Hi. I’m Jeptha Robertson. Are you Jessica?” Connie Sue had told him my name and a little bit about me, but I guess he wanted to make sure. “Hi,” I said, and smiled back. “My dad is the Duck Commander,” he offered. Who? I didn’t answer because I didn’t know what to say. I had no idea who or what the Duck Commander was. “You don’t know who the Duck Commander is?” I shook my head no. I’m sure I looked as confused as I felt. Obviously, I am missing something, and I should know who the Duck Commander is. “You don’t know who Phil Robertson is?” No, again. We chatted a little, and I could see he was trying to connect with me. Then he pulled out his best line: “Do you like my plaid pants?” I looked at the familiar logo on his shirt and pants and thought to myself, Wow, you must really like Abercrombie and Fitch. Surprised, I looked down and beheld his brown, green, and white plaid pants. You couldn’t miss them. They definitely stood out in the crowd. “Yeah,” I said, my voice trailing off. I wasn’t quite sure what else to say. Now at least I know who the dream is, I thought. And he is pretty cute.

What if you were a booty call?” “A what?” He frowned. “You know. A good time,” she waggled her brows. “Maybe she only, um…wanted sex. Have you considered that?

There’s literally a chick in my Facebook feed right now who just posted a booty shot of herself—and all it says is ‘blessed.’ Now wait. Is that really a blessing?” “There’s nothing quite like invoking holiness as a way to brag about your life. But calling something ‘blessed’ has become the go-to term for those who want to boast about an accomplishment while pretending to be humble,” observes writer Jessica Bennett.[12]

David?” she whispered. “Yeah?” “Sing me a song.” “What kind of song, baby?” “A love song.” “Millie, Millie, You’re so silly. I’m so glad your name’s not Willy,” I sang in my best country twang. “Willy?” “Let me rephrase.” I cleared my throat and began again. “Millie, Millie, you’re so silly, I’m sure glad you don’t have a willy.” “That’s not a love song,” she giggled. “Okay. How about this? I love your legs. I love your chest, but this spot here, I love the best.” I tickled her smooth stomach and she squirmed against me. “Keep singing!” she demanded, swatting my hand away. “I love your chin and your funny grin, I love your hair and that spot there.” I tickled her beneath her right rib and she grabbed my fingers, laughing. “I love it! Second verse, please.” “I love the way you shake your booty, I love the way you smell so fruity! I love the way you call me David, and . . . . la la la nothing rhymes with David.” “That was beautiful,” she giggled. “What’s it called?” “It’s called ‘Nothing Rhymes with David.’” “Nothing rhymes with David?” Her voice was disbelieving, and she was quiet for several seconds, as if trying to find a word that rhymed to prove me wrong

For all the Clintons’ repeated scandals, they blamed everybody except themselves. Every time I heard the Clintons blame the “vast right-wing conspiracy,” the Uniformed Division, the agents on their personal details, their staff persons, the media, and others, I realized how glad I was to have gotten out of their White House when I did. I got out too late, but still mostly unscathed. I could still provide for my family, and by God’s graces and a few men of real character, I remained on the job and became an instructor. That semen-stained blue dress saved our lives, one way or the other, in the media or from the Clinton Machine’s ire. I watched as the president continued to bash the Secret Service and the Uniformed Division on how “inappropriate” it was to reveal whom the president met with. Yes, we had, but he was so wildly beyond protocol and sowing discord among us for so long that he had no business judging an officer’s character when his own mistress showed up to the White House for her booty call. The machine pushed me out, it pissed off Tripp, it pissed off the Fox, and it jeopardized the character and integrity of the presidency in so many ways. The Clintons never had our backs; they were on it. He demeaningly referred to us as “these uniform people.

Francis Drake slowly surveyed the crew surrounding his men as he calculated the slim chances of success. Then he motioned for his men to keep their swords up. “Parley it is.” Grace grinned. “Yer not as dumb as ya look, Francis. Come aboard. Alone.” His men muttered loudly, and Drake held up his hand. “Fine. I’ll come alone... on one condition.” “And that is?” “That you stop calling me Francis.” ***

Ah, the boo. The boo is the most maligned, gossiped about, ridiculed figure in the pantheon of prison characters. Boo, which is short for the street term "booty call," is the casual girlfriend, the cheap feel in the sally port, the temporary object of someone's affections (although most boos don't realize the impermanence of their positions).

April 7 MORNING “O ye sons of men, how long will ye turn my glory into shame?” — Psalm 4:2 AN instructive writer has made a mournful list of the honours which the blinded people of Israel awarded to their long-expected King. (1.) They gave Him a procession of honour, in which Roman legionaries, Jewish priests, men and women, took a part, He Himself bearing His cross. This is the triumph which the world awards to Him who comes to overthrow man’s direst foes. Derisive shouts are His only acclamations, and cruel taunts His only paeans of praise. (2.) They presented Him with the wine of honour. Instead of a golden cup of generous wine they offered Him the criminal’s stupifying death-draught, which He refused because He would preserve an uninjured taste wherewith to taste of death; and afterwards when He cried, “I thirst,” they gave Him vinegar mixed with gall, thrust to His mouth upon a sponge. Oh! wretched, detestable inhospitality to the King’s Son. (3.) He was provided with a guard of honour, who showed their esteem of Him by gambling over His garments, which they had seized as their booty. Such was the body-guard of the adored of heaven; a quaternion of brutal gamblers. (4.) A throne of honour was found for Him upon the bloody tree; no easier place of rest would rebel men yield to their liege Lord. The cross was, in fact, the full expression of the world’s feeling towards Him; “There,” they seemed to say, “Thou Son of God, this is the manner in which God Himself should be treated, could we reach Him.” (5.) The title of honour was nominally “King of the Jews,” but that the blinded nation distinctly repudiated, and really called Him “King of thieves,” by preferring Barabbas, and by placing Jesus in the place of highest shame between two thieves. His glory was thus in all things turned into shame by the sons of men, but it shall yet gladden the eyes of saints and angels, world without end.

SpottieOttieDopaliscious [Hook] Damn damn damn James [Verse 1: Sleepy Brown] Dickie shorts and Lincoln's clean Leanin', checking out the scene Gangsta boys, blizzes lit Ridin' out, talkin' shit Nigga where you wanna go? You know the club don't close 'til four Let's party 'til we can't no more Watch out here come the folks (Damn - oh lord) [Verse 2: André 3000] As the plot thickens it gives me the dickens Reminiscent of Charles a lil' discotheque Nestled in the ghettos of Niggaville, USA Via Atlanta, Georgia a lil' spot where Young men and young women go to experience They first li'l taste of the night life Me? Well I've never been there; well perhaps once But I was so engulfed in the Olde E I never made it to the door you speak of, hardcore While the DJ sweatin' out all the problems And the troubles of the day While this fine bow-legged girl fine as all outdoors Lulls lukewarm lullabies in your left ear Competing with "Set it Off," in the right But it all blends perfectly let the liquor tell it "Hey hey look baby they playin' our song" And the crowd goes wild as if Holyfield has just won the fight But in actuality it's only about 3 A.M And three niggas just don' got hauled Off in the ambulance (sliced up) Two niggas don' start bustin' (wham wham) And one nigga don' took his shirt off talkin' 'bout "Now who else wanna fuck with Hollywood Courts?" It's just my interpretation of the situation [Hook] [Verse 3: Big Boi] Yes, when I first met my SpottieOttieDopalicious Angel I can remember that damn thing like yesterday The way she moved reminded me of a Brown Stallion Horse with skates on, ya know Smooth like a hot comb on nappy ass hair I walked up on her and was almost paralyzed Her neck was smelling sweeter Than a plate of yams with extra syrup Eyes beaming like four karats apiece just blindin' a nigga Felt like I chiefed a whole O of that Presidential My heart was beating so damn fast Never knowing this moment would bring another Life into this world Funny how shit come together sometimes (ya dig) One moment you frequent the booty clubs and The next four years you & somebody's daughter Raisin' y'all own young'n now that's a beautiful thang That's if you're on top of your game And man enough to handle real life situations (that is) Can't gamble feeding baby on that dope money Might not always be sufficient but the United Parcel Service & the people at the Post Office Didn't call you back because you had cloudy piss So now you back in the trap just that, trapped Go on and marinate on that for a minute

Well, look at it this way,” Robin reasoned as I sat with him and Geoff at their kitchen table that night, half-plastered from the pitcher of margarita they’d blended up. Was I going to have a tequila hangover in the morning? Oh, honey, you bet your sweet ass I was. And how many fucks did I give? Not a one. “Even if you were overreacting to read what you read into this guy’s offer—which I don’t think you were, though I doubt he actually thought it through enough to intend it to be read that way—you still have to ask yourself: What’s in it for you, hanging around some motel room waiting for a married man to make a booty call? What benefit would you get out of that situation, or out of prolonging your relationship with him? He might not have meant it to be an insulting offer, but it was absolutely a one hundred percent selfish offer. There was no upside for you whatsoever, unless the sex really was just that amazing.

When you want them, they don’t know that you exist. But when you treat them like booty calls, they wanna marry you. I

And now, sitting across the massive dining table from her father hours later, having showered and changed into a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and a skintight navy blue athletic jacket that he’d given her—she really fucking hoped they weren’t left over from a booty call

The thought hit him that this was it. This was going to be his sex life now. No more meaningless—but undeniably hot—one-night stands. No more booty calls while he was on the road. He was going to give it all up for this chance

His eyes moved back and forth between mine. “Don’t marry him, Kristen.” My heart cracked in half. “Don’t marry him,” he whispered. “Please.” There was something desperate about the way he said it. I studied the look in his eyes. Distress. Longing. Pleading. This wasn’t the look of a man who just didn’t want to give up his booty call. This was feelings. Josh has feelings for me. The realization hit me like a deep, cancerous, soul-reaching sadness. These emotions I could see he had for me—they should have made me happy.

What was I thinking? Hadley made me leave earlier. Why the late night fuck text? I should be fucking pissed and demand she let me take her out on a date. I wasn’t a booty call. She needed to know this shit between us was the real deal. She wasn’t getting away from me. Hadley: Come up, if you want. Who was I fucking kidding?

Your ‘girlfriend’ is fine as fuck and I’ve been uncomfortable in my pants since brunch. I need a booty call and for you not to judge me.

That night, I sit in my bed and think about God and who I can invite over. I think it’s desperate of me to want to booty-call someone at eight on a Sunday night, but I want to forget. I don’t necessarily know what I’m looking to forget, but I know there is something inside me that needs to disappear, at least for the moment. It’s probably that I’m lonely. To be honest, I likely need a therapist a lot more than I need religion.

Satan, apparently, was also everywhere in hiding, waiting for the right time to jump your ass with booty calls, loud music, and marijuana.

Constant booty call invasions and bizarre dietary restrictions aside, he was not the worst roommate I’d ever had.

Robby taught me to call myself a cute booty because he thought my booty was goddamn cute. He also taught me The Art of Reverse Psychologing Yourself, which catapulted me high into an upward trajectory. An hour before the date, I reverse-psychologied myself by desiring my fear—trading I fear with I hope. By focusing on the bad, you let fear inside your mind. By focusing on the good, you desire and let hope inside your dome. But if you desire your fear, why worry about rain?

The record is called Just As I Am. It reminds me—I am me—the best I can be. It took a while to not care what anybody thinks of me. I constantly remind myself, I hope I look like a fool—a way to think that helps me take action toward the unknown and be more uncomfortable. Fear is another way to say the unknown, man. Once you get yourself to travel into the unknown, you become less afraid because the unknown isn’t the unknown—anymore—but it becomes a pocket full of booty, man!

drive. He settled back in the passenger seat and pulled out his phone to text Emmaline. You up? God, that sounded like a booty call. Is this a booty call? She texted back. Called that one. No. Just a weird night. Darn. I was hoping for my first booty call to go with my first fling. Already a smile was hovering at

They desecrated and defiled churches and country houses, in which they could find little worth taking (the universal calling card of a visit by Red soldiers was shit - on furniture, on paintings, on beds, on carpets, in books, in drawers, on plates). They also looted shops, often leaving most of the booty, which was of no use to them, outside in the dirt. As well as killing obvious ‘enemies of the people’ such as priests and landowners, they also raped and murdered civilians at random. Their

Outside Caracas patriots hardly fared better. The “Legions of Hell”—hordes of wild and truculent plainsmen—rode out of the barren llanos to punish anyone who dared call himself a rebel. Leading these colored troops was the fearsome José Tomás Boves. A Spanish sailor from Asturias, Boves had been arested at sea for smuggling, sent to the dungeons of Puerto Cabello, then exiled to the Venezuelan prairie, where he fell in with marauding cowboys. He was fair-haired, strong-shouldered, with an enormous head, piercing blue eyes, and a pronounced sadistic streak. Loved by his feral cohort with a passion verging on worship, he led them to unimaginable violence. As Bolívar’s aide Daniel O’Leary later wrote, “Of all the monsters produced by the revolution . . . Boves was the worst.” He was a barbarian of epic proportions, an Attila for the Americas. Recruited by Monteverde but beholden to no one, Boves raised a formidable army of black, pardo, and mestizo llaneros by promising them open plunder, rich booty, and a chance to exterminate the Creole class. The llaneros were accomplished horsemen, well trained in the art of warfare. They needed few worldly goods, rode bareback, covered their nakedness with loincloths. They consumed only meat, which they strapped to their horses’ flanks and cured by the sweat of the racing animals. They made tents from hides, slept on earth, reveled in hardship. They lived on the open prairie, which was parched by heat, impassable in the rains. Their weapon of choice was a long lance of alvarico palm, hardened to a sharp point in the campfire. They were accustomed to making rapid raids, swimming on horseback through rampant floods, the sum of their earthly possessions in leather pouches balanced on their heads or clenched between their teeth. They could ride at a gallop, like the armies of Genghis Khan, dangling from the side of a horse, so that their bodies were rendered invisible, untouchable, their killing lances straight and sure against a baffled enemy. In war, they had little to lose or gain, no allegiance to politics. They were rustlers and hated the ruling class, which to them meant the Creoles; they fought for the abolition of laws against their kind, which the Spaniards had promised; and they believed in the principles of harsh justice, in which a calculus of bloodshed prevailed.

Yo mama is so stupid… she thought Dunkin’ Donuts was a basketball team! Yo mama is so stupid… she tripped over a wireless phone! Yo mama is so stupid… she failed a survey! Yo mama is so stupid… she got locked in a grocery store and starved to death! Yo mama is so stupid… when they said that it is chilly outside, she went outside with a bowl and a spoon. Yo mama is so stupid… she tried to drown a fish! Yo mama is so stupid… she tried to throw a bird off a cliff! Yo mama is so stupid… she took a knife to a drive-by! Yo mama is so stupid… she thought Boyz II Men was a daycare center! Yo mama is so stupid… she bought a ticket to Xbox Live! Yo mama is so stupid… she thought she couldn’t buy a Gameboy because she is a girl! Yo mama is so stupid… she thought a scholarship was a ship full of students! Yo mama is so stupid… she threw a clock out the window to see time fly! Yo mama is so stupid… she went to the ocean to surf the Internet! Yo mama is so stupid… you can hear the ocean in her head! Yo mama is so stupid… she thought Hamburger Helper came with a friend! Yo mama is so stupid… she got locked in Furniture World and slept on the floor. Yo mama is so stupid… she sits on the floor and watches the couch. Yo mama is so stupid… she stayed up all night trying to catch up on her sleep! Yo mama is so stupid… she got her hand stuck in a website! Yo mama is so stupid… she thought Christmas wrap was Snoop Dogg’s new song! Yo mama is so stupid… she can't pass a blood test. Yo mama is so stupid… she thought the Harlem Shake was a drink! Yo mama is so stupid… she ordered a cheeseburger without the cheese. Yo mama is so stupid… she tried to climb Mountain Dew! Yo mama is so stupid… that she burned down the house with a CD burner. Yo mama is so stupid… she went to PetSmart to take an IQ test! Yo mama is so stupid… she went to the library to find Facebook! Yo mama is so stupid… she stole free bread. Yo mama is so stupid… she sold her car for gas money. Yo mama is so stupid… she stopped at a stop sign and waited for it to turn green. Yo mama is so stupid… when she asked me what kind of jeans I am wearing I said, “Guess”, and she said, “Levis”. Yo mama is so stupid… she called me to ask me for my phone number! Yo mama is so stupid… she worked at an M&M factory and threw out all the W's. Yo mama is so stupid… she tried to commit suicide by jumping out the basement window. Yo mama is so stupid… she got lost in a telephone booth. Yo mama is so stupid… she stuck a phone in her butt to make a booty call! Yo mama is so stupid… I said that drinks were on the house and she went to get a ladder! Yo mama is so stupid… she went to a dentist to fix her Bluetooth! Yo mama is so stupid… she put lipstick on her forehead to make up her mind. Yo mama is so stupid… it took her two hours to watch 60 seconds.

There is nothing so skilful in its own defence as imperious pride. It has an ingenious system of its own, of reprisals, -- a system so ingenious that the defeat must be sore indeed, after which it cannot still find some booty to bring off! And even greater than this ingenuity at reprisals is its capacity for self-deception. In this regard, it outdoes vanity a thousandfold. Wounded vanity knows when it is mortally hurt; and limps off the field, piteous, all disguises thrown away...Such pride as this has led many a forlorn hope, on the earth, when all other motives have died out of men's breasts; has won many a crown, which has not been called by its true name.

Massacring men, women, and children does not raise an eyebrow, but keeping a little war booty is “evil.” Notice that throughout the Old Testament, “evil” and “wicked” are not moral judgments. Saul is called “evil” because he disobeyed orders.

Sloan hates him.” “Why?” “Because she thinks I’ve settled.” He furrowed his brow. “Settled? How? Is something wrong with him? Is he a dick?” I let out a long breath. “No. He doesn’t want kids.” He scoffed. “Well, there you go. The kid thing is too important. Can’t be with him.” It felt like a punch right to my uterus. A hard lump bolted to my throat, and I had to look away from him because I was going to cry. There it was, straight from his own lips. The kid thing is too important. Can’t be with him. He stopped turning us, and he put my face in his hands. Once I was looking at him again, I lost it. My chin quivered and tears spilled over my cheeks. His eyes moved back and forth between mine. “Don’t marry him, Kristen.” My heart cracked in half. “Don’t marry him,” he whispered. “Please.” There was something desperate about the way he said it. I studied the look in his eyes. Distress. Longing. Pleading. This wasn’t the look of a man who just didn’t want to give up his booty call. This was feelings. Josh has feelings for me. The realization hit me like a deep, cancerous, soul-reaching sadness. These emotions I could see he had for me—they should have made me happy. I should have been ecstatic to know that what I felt maybe wasn’t so one-sided. But instead, a bitter disappointment descended on my body making me so weak I worried my knees would give out. I had to cut him loose. This thing between us had gone as far as I could allow it to go. I wasn’t going to marry Tyler. I think I’d known that the whole time. After I’d said no, he’d begged me to think about it. So I did. But I wasn’t going to be with either of them. I couldn’t. The kid thing is too important. Can’t be with him. I couldn’t love Tyler the way he deserved, and I couldn’t give Josh a family. I could never give either man what he really wanted.

Well,” I said, crossing my arms too. “You and I are going to be spending a lot of time together in the next few weeks with the wedding and everything. I think we should talk about the elephant in the room—you following me over here.” I got her. Her lips twisted into a reluctant smile. Her eyes were puffy. Red. She looked sad and beaten. I wanted to pull her into my chest and hold her, tell her Tyler was a fucking dick for leaving her. The urge was so intense I had to clench my fists to keep myself from reaching out. But I sensed she wouldn’t let me if I tried. I didn’t like the helpless feeling it gave me. I realized, looking at her, that as much as it fucking sucked that all I was to her at the moment was a booty call, I’d take whatever she was willing to give me. If she wanted nothing but a friend with benefits right now, that’s what I’d be for her, because the way I felt about her wouldn’t let me refuse any chance at getting closer to her.

I’ve had to rearrange my plans due to the delay.” Levi stepped into the open elevator. “Poor baby. You pushed a booty call? I’m happy to cancel my training so you can go have your regularly scheduled sex. I am a giver, after all.

I'd cut a bitch for a steamy booty call right about now. Do him, Blaire. Do him for the both of us. I hear twins sometimes have a physical connection that allows them to feel the pain and pleasure of their sibling. Have a chain orgasm and teleport it to me, okay?

Chapter Six: Mistress of Red From underneath from hellish bowels, She lives the torment she shrieks and howls. A damned flame of volcanic intent, Seeks a city where her hatred may vent. Underneath the bow of vaulted earth, This spirit breaks from infernoed perch. Circles the span of inward woe, From beneath the caverns does she go. She seeks the city she may destroy, To lie in ruins for her ploy. From lofty plume of sordid ash, She delights to see her cuts and gash. Vulcania Draconis, spirit of bitter ’ire, Rings the earth with her dredful fires. Horrendous demon from Vulcan’s forge, Lays waste to the earth, her inhabitants engorged. Mighty Pompeii knew her ways, Scoffed at her threats and would not pay. In vindiction’s rage hissed she their doom, Cast them alive within their tombs. And Krakatoa and Mycenae, They would not yield, she laid them waste. An extortioness, royal supreme, To conquer or destroy, her consummate dream. How this evil one sets her pace, Rings sweet earth in her death’s nec-lace. Far from below she blasts her smoke, To cover their eyes until they choke. At her command cities fall and swell, Earthquake, tidal wave, gives masses to hell. This spirit from the blackest pit, Broods deep on those she kiss. She comes to seek those to enslave, To fuel her bowels, her booty in trade. The pride and ruination of nations and men, Seeks souls and bodies to ambition her ends. Now this licking creature of red-hot glow, Sends her heat to make fumerals. Damns the many and damns the one, As empires burn when her rage is done. A vengeful spirit, Draconis is, Smiles so pleasant as victims drop in. Opens her shotted eyes in mirth, To hear the screams of their heated death lurch. This diabolic holds much potent sway, Seeks for victims as ground gives way. She holds the riddle to the land, And holds it she must for her time is at hand. Had learned she now that Kari had come, That timeless conflict again begun. “Never did I see one I could not coerce, But now a convolcation of power, a tour de force.” Suppressed regret ruminated throughout, Yet shreds of fear left no doubt. “I will finish what was started here in mmy land, Beyond records treatise once we did stand. Past all memories, hmm, even so, Before myth began and Rome’s trumpets blowed. I will shatter her like earthenware because I mmust, She tasks mme this creature, mmy hate it is just. Wounded mme she did, her preysence calls, If nothing else, ha I will hurt her if I faullt.” On Vulcania Draconis, Kari's Diabolical Enemy Cold Steel Eternity Vol. ii

Here, Lumpy!” Andy called, shaking a handful of booty. “Lumpy?” Alden queried.

However, on this day, things were already out of whack by 10 A.M., and it was all Peter Reynolds’s fault. For the first time in her life Nina had a family obligation, and she wasn’t entirely sure she liked it. Peter had texted her at nine, an hour he said was the earliest acceptable time to contact someone on a Sunday. Nina had still been asleep. Somewhat acerbically, she suggested he recalibrate and set her earliest acceptable time to eleven. “No,” said her nephew, “if I make an exception for you, I’ll need to customize my entire system, and that won’t work at all.” “You have a system?” “Of course. There is a standard weekday wake-up time, and a different weekend time. There is a time in the evening after which one cannot call anyone except good friends or lovers, and a time after which one can only call if there is an emergency.” Nina’s phone was lying on her pillow, on speaker. “I assume there’s a booty call exception to that rule.

Our generation lost its way to real love. We’re obsessed with sex for starters, and we want everything to be perfect and easy, and if it’s not, see ya later. We’ve got easy access to porn whenever we want it. Pretty girls and handsome guys I know have booty calls that are just a text away at all times. We’re all about indulging in instant gratification. But are we happy? No. We’re always just on the lookout for the next best thing. Never fulfilled, always hungry. What happened to fighting for a love you believe in, even when it’s not easy?