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“Whore”, From the Germanic “Horaz”. . . “One Who Desires”??

November 1, 2009

Okay, so. . . there are some inherent negatives to living in a place like New York. One of the most complicated to deal with is homelessness. It’s a problem I don’t have an answer to. . . . and can also inadvertently become a source of comedy.

When I hang with J in Queens, he generally walks me back to the train. Last night, I tried to tell him that he really didn’t need to–I am more than fine negotiating the four well-lit blocks between his door and his station solo. He gestured over to the gentlemen camped under the tracks and explained that they were part of the reason why he did; they’d tried to bother him before. I scoffed a little and smiled and decided that he was just being a gentleman, and besides, I always kind of enjoy walking back to the station with him. In short, I decided, I would indulge this chivalrous quirk.

Folks, this is a little thing I like to call “hubris.” Keep it in mind.

Yesterday was Halloween, and I was even less worried about getting back to Brooklyn than usual. I usually switch trains at 34th Street–a station I HATE; the platforms there just have a creepy vibe to them. However, I knew that this time I would have half of Manhattan waiting with me. New York takes any opportunity for dressing outlandishly and drinking heavily seriously, and I knew I’d have plenty of company as I waited for the F train to arrive.

Was I preoccupied in the station? Perhaps; a long delay on the N train had led to a 30 minute conversation with JJ about the total meltdown at the Georgia-Florida game. Little Brother and I broke down the offense, the “defense”, the coaching, the recruiting, and sissy uniforms. Distracted after that, I settled into a long session of Bubble Breaker and pondered the future of the Bulldog Nation.

34th Street arrived, I put the phone away, tossed my scarf across my chest (it was chilly, and my blouse had a sheer collar), skirted the beach umbrella that languished forlornly on the stairwell, and hit the platform just in time to see my train pulling away.

Rats.

Oh, well. The night was young, and I had blue glitter in my hair. I couldn’t complain.

I began my trek to the other end, weaving around drunken anime chicks in platform heels and drunken “sexy” bumblebees in stilettos, grateful for my jeans and flip-flops–and yes, for the blue glitter. I have my vanity, thank goodness, because smug satisfaction was pretty much all that was keeping me from shoving the idiot people onto the tracks. I hate it when fun is used as an excuse for bad behavior.

There was a homeless guy shambling towards me, muttering, but he was moving like an old-school zombie and I had plenty of room to skirt him. I didn’t pay a great deal of attention until he maneuvered himself in front of me and made a general proclamation to the bystanders.

He informed them, folks, in a word, that I am not at all selective in my choice of sexual partners, and am also generally paid for my services.

I stopped, surprised, because given the people surrounding us, I would not have identified *myself* as the whore in the crowd, and looked more closely at the elderly gentleman in his dirty grey sweat suit. I wondered what his criteria for licentiousness was, and then I wondered WTF he was doing.

What he was doing was raising his arm to take a swipe at me.

I mean, seriously? SERIOUSLY?

The only person who has EVER raised a hand to me *in* *my* *life* is JJ; and I think I was nine years old, making him five, and I’m pretty sure I had instigated that fight by demanding Gummi Bears over Care Bears on a Saturday morning. That would have driven anyone to violence.

I wasn’t in any actual danger; there was no way he could have moved fast enough to get to me, so I dodged, gave him an incredulous look, and continued on my way.

For the record, I *hate* it when J’s right.

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