I'm no Elle Macpherson, but I do get hit on, and in what seem to be increasingly humorous and revolting ways- attracting an unsavory crowd sometimes. Where I live I could step out in a hospital gown with no make-up on and I end up looking pretty damn good in comparison to some of the perplexing beasts roaming around. That sounds mean, and it is.
I've inspired impromptu rap songs from 18 year-old thugs ("Fresh from the shower, shorty got power!"), offers of free motel-room-tattoos from ex cons, and tender promises like "If I wasn't 65 and basically impotent, I'd do you so good." I once had a Jamaican guy buy the six pack of Red Stripe I was holding in line at the liquor store, follow me to my car, and ask me "to party". In retrospect, it's possible he thought I was a prostitute. Developmentally disabled men leave cupcakes on my desk. The recently sober, recently divorced, recently released- they shuffle over if I unintentionally make eye contact and state their crazy business. The elderly. People who don't speak English. Alcoholic bosses. Potential stalkers. Subscribers to porn channels.
Once, years ago, a well dressed man resembling LL Cool J (and who really seemed very nice) asked for my phone number. I was so shocked, I gave it to him. About an hour later he started sending me dirty text messages. I asked him politely to stop, then told him to fuck off when they continued. Although I didn't hear from him again, all week I thought of the Forensic Files episode on which I would appear- after he inevitably murdered me in some grocery store parking lot. I prayed they could find at least one flattering picture of me to feature.
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