nutty hooker mixups!

Tuesday, dec. 3, 2002   |   0 comments

I was walking up Mission Street this weekend and this sleazy, shiny guy got up close to me and matched his pace with mine. He said something-something in a low voice and I was all, “what?” And he said, a fraction louder, “are you looking for a date?” And I just drew back, look of total disgust on my face, and said, “ohmygod, no!” (I actually said, “ohmygod”, like he’d just pissed on my legwarmers.)

Now. Isn’t that what prostitutes ask Johns when they slow their cars? Was he trying to gigolo me up? Or was I just walking like someone in need of action? Did he know something I didn’t? Or maybe since prostitutes are the only women he talks to, he just thinks that’s the general Aloha that you exchange with ladies of the evening? I don’t know. It was confusing!

Back when I lived in Hooker HQ, I was walking to meet a friend for brunch one sunny Saturday morning when a man asked me if I was working. “No,” I said, totally confused, “it’s Saturday. I don’t work on Saturdays.” He kind of stopped mid-smile, also totally confused, and I shot him a “whatever” look and kept walking. I’d gone a full block before I realized what he really had been asking for. But … on a Saturday morning? I wasn’t exactly dressed like I was looking for a date, and I wasn’t idling on a corner, either. And since wearing the right clothes and hanging around are the two best methods of advertisement for a prostitute, I’d be a pretty bad at my job if you actually have to ask me to clarify my intentions.

But the worst was a few months ago, when I was at my mechanic’s garage in the Tenderloin. I was waiting out front for him to pull the car out and this lurching, sequined woman came along and started putting on lipstick in the reflection of the office window. Out of the corner of her stretched lips, she said something like, “watch it, this is my corner.” Like I was trying to horn in on her territory! It’s one thing if a man mixes me up with a hooker — some men are just optimistic that way. But someone who’s actually in the business? Are my aging co-ed 501s and pumas and whatever cardigan code for some particular, marketable fetish? What’s going on?

You know what? I think I just figured it out. I bet asking civilians if they’re in the business is just a little inside joke that street ladies like to play. You know, just to pass the time. Haha!