city living
Despite the still beautiful weather, I’m finding city living a little dispiriting of late. First there’s all the gross shit you see (and smell) on a daily basis: normal, business-suited men masturbating on park benches in full view of small children; dead rats on subway platforms, lying in neat red pools of blood, like they were shot by rival rat gangs or bitten by vampyres; used condoms; birds smashed beyond recognition.
Then there’s men. Men everywhere in the city! Can’t escape them. Today one, who I had just spent about 30 minutes treating very considerately, remarked, “sweetie, I’ve been checking out that leather skirt, and I just wanna say, nice.” I would have liked to throw him through the plate glass door but since I’m basically a six year old, I said thanks. THANKS. Oh, for the days when male relatives would avenge such a slight, and I mean avenge with a flame-thrower — or the 19th century equivalent of one.
Why do men say anything to me at all? That’s what I want to know. I chalk it up to the babyface. That, I assume, is also why, when men do speak to me (and they speak to me frequently) they call me Sweetie or Honey or Darlin. Maybe, come to think of it, THAT’S why I feel six years old. (But there is, still, undeniably, the babyface.)
And then there’s work. Work. The entertainment industry has its own variation of Misery Poker. It’s like Seven Card “I had to work over Labor Day weekend for no extra pay so what exactly are YOU complaining about?” Stud.
Which is to say, work has been brutal and no one has any sympathy to spare. I’ve been reading a lot to take the edge off. When will I graduate to tequila and cocaine, you ask? Any day now, my brother. One more used condom ought to do the trick.
I relate on all counts, which is probably why I have been staying inside a lot lately. The creepiness factor appears to be excessively high here in dear Manhattan.
And? I can’t figure out how to say this without sounding preachy and annoying, but it has to be said regardless…
It’s not your lovely babyface or anything about YOU that’s bringing on all of this unwanted male attention. Sexually aggressive men will behave that way no matter what–it’s about control and the fact that they’re ASSHOLES. They say this crap with the intention of MAKING you feel weak–it’s not that YOU are exhibiting some kind of inherent weakness that draws them to you in the first place.
You are not to blame in any way, the end.
You are not to blame, Claire is right, but you are super-pretty, I think, and kind to everyone you meet. For that reason, I think you’re attractive to all types of people–even little gay ones like me! But I suppose ‘all types’ includes the Assholes about whom Claire writes.
And yes, New York is disgusting at this time of year. It actually is one giant toilet from mid-August to mid-September. Why do you think fashionable society (rich and old) vacates? Yes, think Edith Wharton.
But Ester, if you continue to work as hard as you’re working, you can put us all up in some country salon where we’ll drink champagne from teacups and wonder what, in fact, goes on in town between July and October–we certainly wouldn’t know!
you guys are totally the ying and yang of making me feel better.
I agree with both Claire and Adam, especially from the POV that you are lovely and friendly and hey, not really babyfaced, but petite nonetheless. I know that I get less of this stuff because I can stare ’em in the eyes (or over the head) and plus I look mean.
However, Claire is right, there are assholes. There are also men whom you might call ‘assholes’ but are just ignorant, never having been taught that women aren’t there for their viewing pleasure (no matter how pleasurable) and that these kinds of comments are in fact sleazy and not an ego boost!