I live in Hells Kitchen, between Eighth and Ninth Avenues in New York City. I love the neighborhood – that is, the
The “Girls-Girls-Girls” guys are the gentlemen who have been hired by the adult entertainment establishments to stand on the street and pass out cards to lure in potential customers. Apparently years of market research and extensive training has discovered that the most successful approach is to couple the cards with the carefully honed dialogue “Girls-Girls-Girls” muttered under the breath.
Usually, it’s easy enough to ignore these guys, and blow right by them. But every once in a while, maybe the street is particularly empty, one will aggressively single me out, shoving the card at me mumbling “Girls-Girls-Girls”. It always amazes me. How can they be so bad at their job? How can they not recognize a clearly gay New Yorker? Ok, I admit, nothing about me screams “Gay” on an average day. I don’t wear bedazzled cravats, or feather boas, or skinny jeans with leg warmers. So usually I just roll my eyes and move on. But one day last week, walking home after having a few cocktails, something snapped.
“Hello! LOOK at me. I’m wearing a pink shirt, a pink paisley tie, and pinstripe pants. I’m carrying one shopping bag from Diesel, and one from SEPHORA. Have you EVER seen anyone who looks like me walk into your club?”
He looked at me. “Boys-Boys-Boys?”
“You got it, sister.”