“Wat’s going on?”

I couldn’t help but laugh at the text message from the Young One – the one that came, as usual, at about 10:30 on a Saturday night after each of us had had our chances at a night out.

I had called him on it once, a few weeks back, and insisted to him that I was not, in any way, his little booty call.  Feigning offense, he did his best to argue that his intentions were purely the opposite.  And yet, still – he persists.

The weekend before I had the luxury of being predisposed – albeit, having a reasonably mediocre time downtown – and was able to quell his poorly-masked request instantly.  On this particular weekend, however, he had caught me in the middle of a tremendously exciting solo screening of Sleepaway Camp.

There came an unsettling moment of indecision which caused my skin to crawl, as I chastised myself for even entertaining the notion of accepting his offer of a healthy round of string-less physical activity.  I certainly could have done with the entertainment (musing to myself about the last time I was so engrossed), but the aftermath was not something I was in the mood to suffer through.

The issue with the little boys was that, even though they moonlighted as these wanna-be-big-time-players, they were still quite sophomoric when it came to their concepts’ of women’s expectations, post-romp.  The Young One would linger – at times well into my Sundays, putting me in a foul state of mind for the remainder of the day.  He’d want to monopolize the last, few precious moments of my weekend with superficial embraces and teenage makeout sessions, while I desperately wished for the power to will him away with my mind.

I no longer had the desire nor the patience to take the Young One under my wing and school him on the ways of the wiser world.  The necessary time spent in his company certainly did not warrant that kind of effort on my part.  If he hadn’t already learned the rules of the booty call (even in its simplest tenets – never, ever, ever spend the night) by now, I was under no obligation to waste my time attempting to educate the wayward little soul.

I ultimately left it alone, deciding that no comment would be the safest route to take.  I spent the remainder of the evening, instead, pondering Cute Neighbor Boy and his cryptic, ambiguous behaviors over the chilled bottle of pinot that he did not stop by to share.

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