booty call

Suz and I are out in Hollywood checking out the clubs and watching the scene. It's a bunch of 20 somethings, platforms, skimpy shirts, fake tits, drunken breath. We sat outside Beauty Bar and watched the crowds. 2am darkstreetlightness, slick streets, the smell of frying hot dogs and bacon and cigarette smoke. It reminds me of something, a life I used to lead in another country. The hike from one club to another, looking for friends, maybe the one I haven't found yet. I'm not on the hunt. I find the scene amusing and I do enjoy being out in it. Finding grandmaster flash and prince playing in the sushi joint. A little old skool to shake the booty at. I like seeing the young girls, all dressed up, with their black eyeliner and blonde highlighted hair, low-rise jeans and little bit of the flab poking out between the funky belt and their flouncy chemise top. I like seeing them enjoy themselves and be a little unsure at the same time. Dancing for their man. I like listening to the ebb and flow of the DJ, listening to the small glinter of sound that I recognize and categorize as delight to my ears. Dancing as the music moves me.

<LA interlude>
My first funky dance experience in LA was years ago. A youngin I was, and in LA for a very swanky slick tech graphic conference at the LA Convention Center. I was the youngest on the team and I had coordinated our participation in the event. Later we found ourselves at a party at a nearby hotel. Some colleagues and I got the frat crowd all amped up with our funky SF moves. The party was held around the pool and a climax ensued to be broken only by yours truly jumping into the pool completely clothed in my business casual. Several of my colleagues joined me. We got a standing ovation - I'm not sure if they closed any business deals the next day, but I doubt those frat boy observers forgot us.

Ahh, the good old days of the Internet - when we thought anything was possible regardless of the bad management, lack of direction but plenty of money.
</LA interlude>

So we're out in the streets, watching the girls and boys. And we start talking of booty call. The concept of booty call is a new one to me. Being married through the majority of my 20's I never experienced this.

Eventually we find ourselves at the magazine stand where I'm much more excited at a late-night call with a purring machine. It's the Honda CB4 I'm drooling over at full spread - centerfold. A nice picture. It's nothing special - no twisty road, no city scape, no knee dragging on the track - just her, side profile. I'm not a fan of farings - I like the bikes naked. That's why I like the 919. But the CB4 looks beautiful and I start considering her for my next purchase.

A bike goes by on the street and our heads turn - it's like the sound of a baby crying to a momma. For Suz and I, it's the sound of two wheels of exhaust. And I think to myself, if I'm going to get any kind of booty call it better be the sound of exhaust, a slightly purring engine, the pat of my booty settling down onto the seat, my leather gloves gripping the clutch and twisting open the throttle.

Comments

[anonovescent]

From an IM earlier tonight ... ""booty call" is such a cute phrase -- it sounds like "bunny rabbit" or something."

[Old Prospector]

Line em up an pat em down