The other evening I was walking with my friend Sally through leicester square, on our way out to cause some mischief at a crappy bar (again).
We had just passed maccas, and the fifth angus steakhouse on coventry st, when a boy (could have been 18, could have been 23 – it’s had to tell) sidles up to us, and timidly asks me, “Um, excuse me, are you, uh, I mean, ummm…. Are you working tonight?” To which I replied – in a confused tone, because I thought it was pretty clear that I wasn’t at work, I was on my way to drink wine – “What? What are you talking about?”
He repeated, “Are you working tonight?” with a meaningful look in his eyes.
“OH MY GOD, WE’RE NOT PROSTITUTES!” I yelled at him. He looked startled, and, mumbling apologies, scampered away.
Well, we were both shocked. Look, I’m not going to say I’ve never worn outfits that may prompt gentlemen to mistake my profession for something entirely different – I’d be lying if I did. The thing was, this evening my friend and I were both dressed relatively conservatively – we were wearing scarves, mittens, tights and big winter coats. This was covering up more party-friendly attire, obviously (haven’t turned into a complete nana yet), but as far as he knew, we could have been wearing tweed and pearls under our coats. Which is why his inquiry was so bizarre. And let’s be realistic, it’s leicester square, there were about a thousand girls dressed more tartily than we were. He was a tourist, so maybe where he comes from there is just a higher class of prostitute. I don’t know, and I now kind of wish I’d asked him what prompted him to approach us, out of everyone else (or maybe he already had, bless him).
Sally and I laughed it off, because what else can you do, and didn’t really thing any more of it. But the next day I found myself wondering, again, is it something about the way we look? Or dress? Or act? Are guys just ridiculously desperate to pay for sex that they’ll approach any woman on the street, and hope for the best?
A few days after Sally and I found ourselves in leicester square again. A homeless guy was walking behind us, mumbling something. Sally turned to me in horror, grabbed my arm, and picked up the pace considerably. “Oh my god, did you hear that? He was telling us to drop our panties!” she exclaimed. We dual-shuddered, and carried on.
So my conclusion is this: maybe the problem is not us, what we wear, or what we look like. Perhaps it’s nothing to do with men, their expectations, or ability to sacrifice themselves to humiliation over and over again. I think the problem is something completely removed from any of those things, always has been, always will be.
The problem is leicester square.
We had just passed maccas, and the fifth angus steakhouse on coventry st, when a boy (could have been 18, could have been 23 – it’s had to tell) sidles up to us, and timidly asks me, “Um, excuse me, are you, uh, I mean, ummm…. Are you working tonight?” To which I replied – in a confused tone, because I thought it was pretty clear that I wasn’t at work, I was on my way to drink wine – “What? What are you talking about?”
He repeated, “Are you working tonight?” with a meaningful look in his eyes.
“OH MY GOD, WE’RE NOT PROSTITUTES!” I yelled at him. He looked startled, and, mumbling apologies, scampered away.
Well, we were both shocked. Look, I’m not going to say I’ve never worn outfits that may prompt gentlemen to mistake my profession for something entirely different – I’d be lying if I did. The thing was, this evening my friend and I were both dressed relatively conservatively – we were wearing scarves, mittens, tights and big winter coats. This was covering up more party-friendly attire, obviously (haven’t turned into a complete nana yet), but as far as he knew, we could have been wearing tweed and pearls under our coats. Which is why his inquiry was so bizarre. And let’s be realistic, it’s leicester square, there were about a thousand girls dressed more tartily than we were. He was a tourist, so maybe where he comes from there is just a higher class of prostitute. I don’t know, and I now kind of wish I’d asked him what prompted him to approach us, out of everyone else (or maybe he already had, bless him).
Sally and I laughed it off, because what else can you do, and didn’t really thing any more of it. But the next day I found myself wondering, again, is it something about the way we look? Or dress? Or act? Are guys just ridiculously desperate to pay for sex that they’ll approach any woman on the street, and hope for the best?
A few days after Sally and I found ourselves in leicester square again. A homeless guy was walking behind us, mumbling something. Sally turned to me in horror, grabbed my arm, and picked up the pace considerably. “Oh my god, did you hear that? He was telling us to drop our panties!” she exclaimed. We dual-shuddered, and carried on.
So my conclusion is this: maybe the problem is not us, what we wear, or what we look like. Perhaps it’s nothing to do with men, their expectations, or ability to sacrifice themselves to humiliation over and over again. I think the problem is something completely removed from any of those things, always has been, always will be.
The problem is leicester square.
No comments:
Post a Comment