I think I discovered what it feels like to be a hooker.
Not the whole, money-for-sex thing, but the whole I'm-working-the-corner concept. That's the feeling that washed over me last week as I walked to dinner.
I set out in a short, black, linen skirt and black top, with silver-sequined, kitten heeled shoes, and a little, black handbag. My hair was perfectly coiffed and warpaint covered my face. I was ready for a good time.
But not that kind of good time.
A block away from my home in Over-the-Rhine, I encountered a gentleman named David. Riding on his bicycle, he sidled up next to me and asked me where I was going. A loose t-shirt hung on David's chest; his pants were grubby and his face, his chin and his head were covered in curly, black and gray hairs.
David pursed his lips when I told him I was going to dinner to meet a gentleman. His bike slowly rolled beside me, crossing streets and waiting with me as I watched for blinking crosswalk signs.
Along the way, he shared with me that he's a bricklayer. He cocked a smile and asked what I was doing in such a neighborhood - I told him I lived here. Pace by pace, David followed me. We looked like quite a pair.
I think we were crossing Central Parkway when it dawned on me - we probably look like a pimp and a hooker.
We paced a few more blocks until I arrived at my destination, and David flung out his flip phone and asked me if he could have my phone number.
I politely declined, falsely implying the gentleman was more than a friend. It's a defense mechanism I learned a long time ago - pretending to have a boyfriend when it's convenient.
He wheeled away, his head hanging.
I told him I looked forward to meeting him on the street another time.
Hopefully a time when I'm not dressed to the nines.
Kate's Random Musings by Kate the Great is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.