The MENagerie: Animal Rites

IN WHICH THIS PLAYA UPDATES THE PLAYDATE.

Time was, happily single men on the prowl kept something called a Little Black Book, full of women’s phone numbers. As popularized in romantic comedies, this de rigeur dating resource was the province of studs like Tony Curtis, Dean Martin or Rock Hudson, whose bachelor days were numbered once a perky femme entered the frame, trained her conical brassiere nuclear warheads on him, and duly slayed him, turning him into suave — and now married — roadkill.

Meanwhile, no Little Black Book for us ladies. Though chased, chaste Sandra Dee, Natalie Wood and Doris Day were restricted to virginal necklines, dreamy expressions and a Little Black Dress — that was it.

These days, frisky bachelors still maintain that book, but now it’s morphed into a booty call list of numbers in their cellphone. I, Mrs. Hot, see no reason this valuable resource should belong to men alone. So, as a vibrant Goddess living Life à la Hot, I’ve decided to maintain a Little Black Book in my phone, and I call it my MENagerie.

First, let me be clear: I have nothing against monogamous relationships, and I’ve enjoyed some myself (“enjoyed” being the operative word for part of the time — the remainder, not so much … “The End” of that movie usually drags on far too long).

And though, tragically “The One” with whom I could’ve stayed forever, passed away young, I’m always open to meeting my next soulmate. Because, as much as I like adventure, I know that thrilling experience will simply be a different and profound one, exciting from its spiritual intensity and depth.

In the meantime, I’m always dating a fluid group of suitors — at any given time, some arriving, others departing. Meanwhile, my trusty, and thrusty, MENagerie, always has my back … and my front, and all parts in between.

Nowadays known as Friends With Benefits or Fuck Buddies, these are not strangers, but guys I’ve dated who, like me, don’t want to be tied down. But, let’s face it, there are millions of this itinerant male species running rampant on the planet — I have certain standards.

So, my MENagerie is strictly curated, and the adorable beasts I collect must meet my requirements: they must be nice, they must be respectful, they must be fun. And, it goes without saying, they must be good in bed.

But this is not just a booty call, it is, mos def, a cutie call. Physically, those in my MENagerie must be, at a minimum, hot. Smokin’ hot is preferable, of course. Because if the sight of them doesn’t give me a lady boner, what’s the point? I’m better off solo, with my dexterous digits and marvelously dirty mind.

I’ve written about the importance of kissing, and how it predicts a man’s passion, sensitivity and skills in bed. Barring other barriers, a sublime kisser is pretty much guaranteed entrance to my Holy of Holies. The sweet animals in my MENagerie have passed this kissing event and moved on to the bedroom challenge.

The MENagerie is nice because it’s not an awkward grope between strangers, it’s warm and comfortable because we’re connected, and with time, it only becomes more so, which is lovely. After sex, there’s conversation, or maybe cuddling or napping. We might order Chinese. It’s natural, with familiarity, to become closer.

In fact, here and there one of them starts to fall in love with me, but then they have to leave the fold. Because they are, after all, MENagerie — not relationship — material. I’ve got standards for relationships, too — Olympian ones.

Till those are met, it’s all good. As a sexually liberated Goddess, with a career as a writer, cheerleader and paradigm buster, I’ve found my booty calling.

Yours truly,